disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: you're just gonna have to let me have this, okay.
notes: this story is happy as hell and no one can take that away from me, i will have my otp or so help me god
notes2: wren really, really, really, really likes alistair/bethany. like a lot.

chapter title: how dare you speak of grace
summary: Solving the problem of Ferelden, one civil disagreement at a time. — Elissa/Cailan, Alistair/Bethany.

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Iona looks over the ragtag group of travellers, mouth curling up in distaste. They don't look much like a King and his companions—they are dirty and tired and they're half-deceased already—and if Iona didn't know her daughter so well, she'd say that Amethyne was playing pretend.

But playing pretend about her magic has never been in her daughter's repertoire; this is the King, and that is his half-brother, and those are a set of siblings more dangerous than anyone else Iona's ever met. And because this is her life now, she's already got rooms for them all, baths drawn, fresh clothing laying out on the beds.

Lady Elissa had wanted barracks for the lot of them.

Iona, on the other hand, has no desire to offend the King.

(Not yet, at least.)

"Hello," she says, pulling a sweet smile up for them. Soris gives her a flat look, Amethyne hanging around his neck; she will deal with the both of them later. "Welcome to Castle Cousland, Your Majesty. I am Iona, Lady Elissa's maid, and I am sorry about my daughter. She does know better."

Amethyne has the audacity to stick her nose in the air. Andraste, she has been spending far too much time with Kallian.

"Sorry about that," Soris says, blush hidden by the helmet. "If I'd known she would go beyond the gates, I would have brought her back to you instead."

(Maid is putting it lightly. In the two months or so that Iona has been employed here, Soris is pretty sure that maid never covered her real role. Chamberlain, maybe. Seneschal, even. Somewhere in between, probably. But maid? Maid is the understatement of the Age. That she can say it and not betray the truth is more than slightly terrifying.)

Iona doesn't bother telling him off—Amethyne would do precisely what she pleased, regardless of what anyone said—because her daughter is a terror in miniature, and that's not Soris' fault. He's tried to be the best father he can be, but a girl who can see the future is always going to be five steps ahead.

She returns her attention to the King. He's looking a little stunned; they all are, in fact. Well, she's not surprised. Amethyne probably walked right up to the King and invited him in to see Lady Elissa without even introducing herself, because she has no tact at all. Iona quietly despairs of the girl's future, what on earth is she going to do with her, but outwardly only shakes her head. "If you would come with me, I'm sure you'd like to speak to Lady Elissa."

Cailan has no idea what's going on. Literally none. He glances at Alistair out of the corner of his eye, but that's no help because Alistair looks just as baffled as Cailan himself is. Hawke's not much better; she's staring around skeptically, eyes narrowing rapidly, and it's a little frightening. He chooses to look at her siblings instead (if only because they're both a little less manic than the eldest Hawke is prone to being), but they're no help, either.

Maker, what has he gotten himself into this time?

"I—thank you, Lady Iona," he says, cautiously, has to make a concerted effort not to rub his hands over his face the way he does when he wakes up in the morning to ensure he's not actually dreaming.

The woman—elf woman, actually, she's slight and pale and pointy-eared, definitely an elf; if this the Mama that the little girl had been referencing, before, Cailan suddenly understands the attitude. No one with a parent like this expects to be anything other than right all the time—inclines her head.

"Ser Soris," she says, with barely a flicker of discomfort, "will you please take Amethyne back to her rooms? Or find Dane, he'll keep an eye on her, it doesn't matter which. We'll wait for you in Lady Elissa's drawing room."

"I think Dane is with Lady Elissa," Soris says, adjusts his hold on Amethyne. "Come on, little sparrow, let's get you settled in."

"Why can't I stay?" the little girl asks imperiously. "I'm the only one who'll be able to tell—!"

"Amethyne," comes Iona's voice, sudden and sharp and oddly, a little panicked. "Please."

"Sparrow, hush," Soris smiles, softly, when Amethyne puffs up with fight before shrinking and tucking her face against his neck. "If Dane's with Lady Elissa, he'll keep everyone in line."

There's something going on here that Cailan's missing, but he can't put his finger on what it is. It has to do with how this odd little elf girl had known precisely who they all were, and how now she's grumbling into the soldier's neck about her apparent worth. She can't be older than ten, and given her size, she's probably much younger than that—seven or eight, perhaps. What kind of eight year old worries about their worth?

(He remembers, suddenly, that that's the kind of eight year old he had been. Likely, this girl's got reasons that are far different from his own, but. Well. Still. The point stands, and it's not his place to wonder.)

Cailan decides not to pry. Instead, he looks at Lady Elissa's maid. "We're ready to see Lady Elissa. I don't want—she shouldn't have to wait on us, any longer."

A strange little smile lights the maid's face, like she'd not expected the pleasantry. "Believe me, Your Majesty," she says, and the smile doesn't slip, "Lady Elissa will be fine no matter what you do. This way, please."

"Anybody else thinking this is a bad idea?" Alistair mutters, looks around at the others. They all have trepidation written across their bodies. Good to know he's not the only one. "And who is this Dane?"

"They didn't ask us to turn over our weapons," Carver says, very quiet. This is all very weird. Not magic weird, but still weird enough he'd much rather take Bethany away and let Mar deal with this on her own. "They wouldn't be planning to attack us if we're fully armed."

The maid leads them through a castle that has clearly seen battle recently. There are walls where stones broke, shattered in some traumatic event, sending portions of the castle into ruin. Scorch marks paint the entire place with sickly black designs across the grey stone. In places, the roof has fallen in.

Carver's surprised there aren't bodies still lying about, though he's fairly certain some of the darker scorch marks on the floor are really bloodstains. He's not going to ask. Someone has tried to clean up the damage, and maybe they still are. For what seems to be such a small staff, that's a lot of work.

Still, despite the damage, Castle Cousland is lovely in a way. It's not cold and bitter the way he's heard castles often are. It feels more like a home. Little things mostly, the way the castle has lights to keep the shadows at bay, the soft colours still barely visible through the ash showing a hint of the life that once thrived. Doors have been knocked off their hinges, revealing barracks rooms left suddenly. In one, he can see a game of Wicked Grace still spread across the table, tankards of ale untouched.

There's a bitterness on his tongue, thinking of what it would be like if that little cottage in Lothering saw tragedy like this. Losing everyone he loved, everything he's known, the places that should be familiar suddenly ruined and marked by death.

No wonder this Lady Elissa is angry.

Maker, what could have done this? Cailan catches himself thinking. The castle's nearly been razed; this kind of damage isn't just a night's work, this is siege damage, but there's so little damage to the city and there's no army large enough for a siege that isn't already at Ostagar—

Except Amaranthine's troops.

The colour drains out of Cailan's face. Oh, Maker, no. Arl Howe and Teryn Cousland were friends, this can't be what I think it is, it can't be

"Who did this?" he asks, when he's finally able to find his voice. The words come out a croak, and he sounds like he's dying, but Maker, dying would be easier than this. "Who—how did—?"

Iona looks at the King in the face. There's such horror in his eyes. He has no idea what's happened, does he? Poor lad, and Lady Elissa so angry…

They're going to tear each other apart, Iona thinks, and it's so sad she almost laughs. But, no; the night of the invasion is still too fresh, and everything that happened still too raw. Valora's loss still aches. And even that is nothing compared to the grievance Highever has experienced; the Teryn was so well-loved.

"I think I'll leave the explanation to Lady Elissa," Iona says, gentle. "My lady is… well, you'll see. I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but this is something you ought to hear from the source."

Something crunches beneath Alistair's foot. Lifting his boot slowly, he finds a sunburst amulet cracked against the floor. Chantry—of course, Chantry. This is a castle. There would be a chapel here and a Mother assigned to it with maybe a couple of Sisters and the thought makes his stomach churn, a rolling sea climbing up his throat.

"How did they reach the castle?" he asks. "This whole city is built like a fortress. The only way to even get here…" he trails off, already thinking it through. Highever is built like a fortress and the only easy way to get here is the same way they did it: by being invited.

Alistair glances over at the King, sees an ashen pallor that makes him looking like the walking dead, an emptiness consuming from the inside already starting to gnaw at his outsides.

He's made the same conclusion, hasn't he, Alistair realizes.

Iona's gaze lasers in on the man speaking. For a moment, she thinks she's seeing double; but then rationale kicks in, and no, there cannot be two of King Cailan. That is not the way reality works. But the man—boy, she amends, he's barely out of childhood—looks so like the king that it nearly knocks her off her feet. He's not dressed as a prince ought to be, and Iona grew up in Denerim. If there had been a prince of the realm, even a bastard prince, everyone would have known about it.

But the likeness is impossible to ignore: here is the Prince of Ferelden.

"I would love to know, myself," she says, quietly. He certainly doesn't act like a prince, and neither does he move like a prince. Likely he was hidden away somewhere far from Denerim, perhaps at King Maric's insistence, perhaps not. Either way, he likely didn't have a very happy childhood.

For a moment, Iona feels the boy's plight keenly. Her heart goes tight. She can't imagine—the thought of leaving Amethyne is—it's just—

She shakes the sudden need to find her daughter and wrap her arms around her away. Bursting into tears is undignified, especially when they're completely inexplicable tears. Especially, especially when when they're completely inexplicable and also in front of the King of Ferelden. No, that won't do at all; Soris will never let her live it down, because even though he loves her, he is also terrible.

And so Iona leads them through the wide-open courtyard and into the family wing. It's all going to have to be rebuilt, and her heart clenches again, this time for an entirely different reason. The King's companions have all fallen silent; the destruction has rendered them speechless again.

At least the bodies are gone, Iona thinks, only a little bit bitter.

There are three doors. Carver is fairly certain the door straight ahead is forbidden, given the way the maid places herself right in front of it like the world's most fragile sentinel, which leaves the other two doors. "Five people, two rooms," he says. "Who goes where?"

The words family ties almost slip past Iona's lips.

Almost.

(And thank the Maker for that; she doesn't think the King's younger brother would appreciate it much, no matter how clearly they are related. There is something deep and dark between them, old resentment maybe, or fear. Or perhaps some combination of both. She can't quite tell, but it is something, and that make it all the worse.)

Of course, she thinks it may end up that way, regardless. The dark-haired boy hovers protectively in front of the girl with the staff in the way of either lovers or siblings, and shares a jaw with the ice-eyed woman. Iona has no doubt that the three of them will not wish to be parted, especially not if it means having to bunk with the King.

"I can share with Mar," Beth says. It's almost the first thing she's said since Lake Calenhad, and certainly the first that that hasn't had a tremble to it. "A bed, we can share the bed, we're both small and we've done it before. And then, Carver, you can take the other bed, and, um—" she pauses to glance between Alistair and the King, mouth pulling into a worried little frown, "—do you mind? Sharing a room, I mean. Do you mind?"

"If it's an actual bed for the night, I don't care," Alistair lies. Well, not entirely. An actual bed? Warm and soft and with a solid roof over it? He'll take that even if it means sharing a room with Teryn Loghain. But, well, the King is different. It's a small room with only the King for company and… the courtyard isn't far, and really, how much time could the King really be spending in the room? There's a civil war to stop, not whatever this is to settle. Civil war. Right.

Beth almost has to giggle at the way his back goes up. He's a terrible liar, but she'll take it anyway. It's been a long trip, and Andraste knows they could all use some rest. And she knows the King won't have any objection—the poor man's got more on his mind than she ever wants to have to think about.

Instead, she tips her head at the maid. "Will that do? My sister and I will share one bed, my brother will take the other, and then His Majesty and Alistair in the other room?"

Iona's impressed. The girl defused that situation before it could escalate into something truly horrible, and without even breaking a sweat.

Frankly, it's precisely what Iona herself would have done.

"I think that will do very well, my lady," Iona says, smiling a smile that warms her eyes. "If you'd all like to leave your bags in your rooms, Lady Elissa will be waiting."

"Thank you," Carver says, and follows Mar into the room on the right. He doesn't bother to look if the King and the Warden go to their room.

It's tiny.

But, two beds, disturbingly three sets of clothes that all look to be sized properly, and a warm bath drawn. It'll do. He shrugs off the sword on his back, shoulders flexing. "Anybody else creeped out by this?"

Little girls who seem to know too much. Rooms waiting perfectly arranged. Serenely smiling maids. All inside a castle standing on its last legs. There's nothing normal about this.

Andraste's tits, he thinks, what have we gotten ourselves into?

It's a very pretty dress, Hawke muses, blinking down at the neatly-folded clothing on the bed. Yes, a very pretty dress.

On Bethany, maybe.

But it's the dress or this dreadful splintmail she hasn't yet taken off. At least in the dress, she'll be able to move without everyone in a three-mile radius being able to hear every single move she makes. It's no good for carrying weapons, which is a pity, but Hawke has a feeling that that maid sees everything, and if that's not a little bit terrifying, Hawke's not sure what is.

So she picks up the dress, looks at it for one more second, goes ehh, and cheerfully begins to strip off the armour.

"Maria, really?" Carver sighs heavily. "You could at least close the door first."

"I could," Hawke says, dropping the armour with a satisfying clank, "but I didn't."

"How are we related," he mutters, takes the two steps required to be within kicking distance of the door. It slams shut. "Let's just change and get this over with. Sleep is calling."

Meanwhile, across the hall, there is silence.

Alistair pulls off his gauntlets, runs a hand across his face. Maker, they've all gone a bit hairy, haven't they? He glances over to the King and prays this Lady Elissa will not mind if the group that greets her looks like they've been dragged by their hair across Ferelden.

There are clothes folded neatly on each bed. The fabric is fine beneath his fingers, far nicer than anything he's ever been given before. It's just that he hasn't the faintest idea how it's supposed to work. Nobleman's clothes always seemed too complicated.

"Are you going to change?" he asks, looking over at the still still King.

"I suppose I should," Cailan murmurs. "And a bath probably couldn't hurt, either, but we've not the time. Finery, Maker, who ever thought this up?"

"I'm pretty sure that maid had something to do with this," Alistair picks up the clothes, gingerly turning the fabric around. "This is your area of expertise, isn't it?"

"She reminds me of my chamberlain," Cailan says under his breath. This has all of Chamberlain's signature marks; the bath, the clean sheets, the clean clothes. There's even a razor by the mirror, which, from Chamberlain, would be the most passive-aggressive insult there ever was.

From Lady Elissa's maid… it is probably also a passive-aggressive insult, but at least it's not aimed at just Cailan in particular. All three of them are beginning to look a little scruffy, and when Cailan looks in the mirror, he tries very hard to ignore the dark circles beneath his eyes.

He cannot, however, ignore the sight of Alistair valiantly struggling with the hose.

Well, Cailan thinks wryly, Alistair wasn't wrong. It is his area of expertise.

"Buttons," Cailan says, "they're a demon's work."

"What's wrong with simple breeches and a shirt?"

"Nobles," the King shrugs, deftly undoes the buttons. The shirt is maroon brocade, and for a moment Cailan frowns down at it. Why doesn't he get maroon? He gets dark blue, what is this nonsense. "It's a power thing. You'd think the longer it takes you to get dressed, the more likely you are not to show up at all, but…"

Alistair scowls, lets the King help him into the completely illogical shirt. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. What happens if you don't have anyone to help you get dressed? Do you just face the public in your smallclothes?"

"Mostly I just flail around and wait for someone to come save me," Cailan says. This is the usual course of action: stare at the clothes Chamberlain's left out, try very hard to get into the pants, be useless at buttons, give up entirely, wait half an hour for Chamberlain to come scold about being late to things he ought not be late to.

"That seems very ineffective," Alistair says, straightening the shirt. He can't help but wonder what happens if there is no one around to save whatever poor nobleman has to do this on his own. That's just cruel.

Glancing over at where the King is changing into his own clothes, something strikes him as odd. "Why am I in maroon? I thought that was a royal thing. Maroon and gold, right? The Wardens are the ones who use dark blue."

"I was just thinking that," Cailan says, shakes his head. "But maybe it doesn't matter. We could trade, but then we'd both look like fools."

"Probably," he sighs. These clothes fit him almost perfectly, like they were made for him. Which, given the way things have gone, he wouldn't put it past that maid to have done exactly that. And, well, the King is… tall. Much taller and broader across the shoulders; the fabric would likely fall apart before the first button could be fixed. "Is she trying to insult you?"

"She probably knows I like maroon, and Lady Elissa probably wanted to needle me a little," Cailan sort of grins out of the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't blame her, though."

"Are you sure you didn't offend her in any way?" Alistair asks. This is all very, very strange. Maker, there are days he is so happy he didn't grow up dealing with politics.

"I exist, so who knows. I just can't see how I'd have offended her without meeting her, but—" the King breaks off, shrugs again. "With my luck, probably."

And here is where Alistair's throat closes up with nerves rattling all through his blood. The King has been odd about some things. Little things, and he thinks back to that first real conversation on the ferry. "Well, is it possible—" he starts, tries to find a delicate way of putting this "do you know if—is there anyway that Lady Elissa maybe—do you know if the Queen has ever been here?"

"She came often, when we were children," Cailan says, quietly, but something's gone tight and sharp in his stomach. Maker, if only he'd gone with her, even if it had only been once, even if it had been after his father's death—if he'd come, maybe this could all have been prevented. "She loved it, here. She and Lady Eleanor are—were—good friends."

"Did she have any contact with Lady Elissa?" he asks, but that's not the right question is it. There's just not a good way to ask the right question.

"Not for a long time," Cailan replies. No, not for a very long time, not since Anora came back from Highever that last time, her trip interrupted by the news of his father's death. Not since they'd been married. Not since Anora had met Fergus Cousland's wife and son, had smiled like a heartbreak and then turned away to hide her face in Cailan's shoulder, the hot wet splash of a single tear on his collarbone the only indication that everything wasn't alright.

No, Cailan thinks to himself, not for a very, very long time.

"Did something happen?" Alistair asks, carefully, quietly. Maker, this is difficult. "Something that could have soured relations? There have been rumours for years now about the Mac Tirs and the Couslands, loud enough that even Duncan's aware of them."

"After five years?" Cailan tips his head back, runs his hand through his hair. "No, I don't think so. And besides, 'Nora was always better at, well, all of this, than I ever was. She wouldn't have… put it in jeopardy. She's too smart for that."

And he doesn't talk about the letter in her handwriting that's still tucked into the pocket of his breeches, burning a hole in his thigh. Anora would never be as blatant as this attack on Highever; it's far too obvious, and has no elegance at all.

No elegance, and casualties, to top it off.

Cailan doesn't need to ask her to know that this is not Anora's doing. She would never have planned something that could go so badly.

"But is her father?" and here is the crux of it. "Is her loyalty to him enough that she would have looked the other way?"

Alistair has heard the rumours about Gwaren and Highever, about Bryce Cousland and Loghain Mac Tir. The two Terynirs have caused Duncan to change their plans more than once. Even with the Templars, there was always a careful dance around the two regions and the two families in power. Never show too much loyalty to one, lest you offend the other. That's what Duncan's always said about it.

(It's what Arl Eamon used to say about them too. Like walking on glass, trying to keep the balance of power enough that the King will not have to act on it. All the same, Alistair remembers well enough that if it came down to war, Redcliffe would stand with Highever, blood be damned. He won't say that, though. It's just cruel and Alistair is many things, but cruel is not one of them.)

Cailan looks at the other man sharply. The problem is that Alistair doesn't know Anora—and here, that awful black rage rises again in Cailan's chest, that this is his brother and he knows so little of her when he should know everything—because he hasn't ever had the chance. He doesn't know the way she sits, nor the way she can laugh across a room without ever making a sound. He doesn't know about the long nights they've spent talking, the pair of them missing Cailan's mother so intensely it's a hole inside them both. He doesn't know about growing up with her, bossy and domineering and always there, careful and quiet. He doesn't know the way she held Cailan's hands at the funeral, whispered I will always protect you, no matter what. How they'd cut their palms open and spat on it, and how disgusted she'd been because even when they were both too young to know any better, Anora hated getting dirty more than she'd ever hated anything else.

"Alistair," Cailan says, so quietly, "I said no."

There's a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Alistair keeps it to himself. There's an old hurt here, one he knows nothing about. If it does have anything to with current events, then Lady Elissa can drag it up and use it to stab the King. She doesn't have to look at him and see a pained expression so similar to his own that everything dark and ugly threatens to swallow him whole.

"We should get going," he says instead, "before that maid comes looking for you."

There is an hour or so before sunset in which the Waking Sea glitters like the finest jewels beneath a gold-soaked sky. It makes everything soft and beautiful. If she keeps her back to the castle, then she can imagine that Oren is about to run out and join her, laughing and rolling around with Dane while Oriana panics about the flower beds being ruined. Fergus will be laughing, Mother and Father strolling along behind him. She'd smile and ruffle the boy's hair, maybe pick him up and swing him around while Mother asks the servants to bring dinner out here.

But the evening remains still around her, only the occasional shuffle of Dane's sleeping form overriding the sound of the wind and waves. The belvedere is heavy with climbing blooms, the scent twinning with the salt of the sea. Only Dane is with her now. Mother is in Storm Coast, Fergus is at Ostagar. Father, Oriana, Oren—all of them nought but dust on the wind.

She'd go down to the docks, only to check to make sure that Howe's severed head is still there, that vengeance has at least partially been sated, but Iona will give her that look. Shianni's already been through to warn her that the King has arrived. At least the elf brought fresh tea with her.

"Well, boy," she says to Dane. The Mabari doesn't even flinch, "any ideas on how to tell the Bannorn that we can't afford any soldiers to help them?"

It's all a mess. Everything. The papers surrounding her detail requests from aid that she shouldn't even be dealing with. And, well, that's just the requests for aid. The other pile comes from other places, precious trade deals that she cannot lose. Trade deals that kept Highever safe during the occupations. Trade deals that will rebuild the castle, will keep Highever safe from whatever shit Ferelden decides to throw at them this time.

Only now she's got the bloody King in residence.

Elissa can think of many things she'd rather be doing than talking to a man so inept at the role he was raised to play that he put a peasant in charge. That's what the third pile of letters are, the one in the basket by her feet because of how many of them there are. Really, how anyone thought that Highever would suffer injustice after injustice and not return to being a Free City is beyond her. There's only so much a place can take, especially when they've got an economy to keep themselves strong.

She'd just never thought that the final straw would be the destruction of everything precious.

"At least the city was spared," she murmurs.

The notebook's pages are soft gold in the light. She'll have to ask for a light soon, if she's to stay out here for much longer. Iona gets so upset when she tries to work in the dark. The pen's quill is scritch-scratch against the pages, slowly drawing up a list of demands, requests, and subtle suggestions and from whom the missives came.

The Merchants Guild is in a froth about the recent happenings in Highever, about the supposed Blight in the south and Andraste in a sea squall who told them about Gwaren?!

There's Gwaren's letters, which she's fairly certain were originally nothing more than an attempt to anger their Teryn into doing something, but when that failed it's been very serious, occasionally pleading requests for aid. She's done what she can, sending ships so far into the Amaranthine Ocean just to pick up salt shipments from Gwaren's ports. It's just the things that would require Highever soldiers to travel across Ferelden that's the issue.

And, also, the fact that she doesn't have the soldiers to do that. They're all at Ostagar with Fergus and, amusingly, Teryn Loghain.

The Bannorn's still sending requests for soldiers to help protect their farms, and that one hurts to reject. She just doesn't have the men to do it. The dwarves are going to be furious. Kirkwall is going to be furious; grain harvests elsewhere have been poor the last couple of seasons.

Seneschal Bran's more-than-slightly insulting letters in increasingly aggressive passive-aggressive tones regarding the sudden influx of refugees from—Gwaren, of course. That's how the Guild knows. And Maker, even Viscount Dumar is getting in on this. If Kirkwall gets into trouble, then the Guild is going to be a nightmare.

Which brings her to the one imperious letter from Orzammar, politely asking about the state of things and is anything going to be happening to their supply of grain and salt? Really, this is about the salt. Of course it is about the salt.

(Someday, she is going to have Loghain Mac Tir and the rest of his family strung up and force-fed salt while the Guild liaison lectures them about how important Gwaren's salt mines are to everyone because this is ridiculous. Salt is worth more than gold. Who leaves salt mines completely unprotected?)

Then there's the condolences, many of them politely inquiring about Highever's future and whether or not their existing trade deals are in any danger. Which, shit, includes more than a few offering their sons for marriage, and in a couple of rather brazen letters, suggestions of new brides for Fergus, should he yet live.

And of course, the missives from the city guard and various important people in Highever. So far, only the Revered Mother has dared visit her in person. It's mostly predictable things, condolences and inquiries about what might be done to help. Only a handful have asked after her marriage plans and whether anything will be decided soon.

Which, frankly, is something she would rather deal with after she's handed as much of this as she possibly can off to the King. This is his job, after all. Not hers.

Except, drown it all, there's that pile of letters from other nations regarding the King and that damn Queen so many see as an insult to the throne. Like they think it's her duty to tell a man she's never met that if he doesn't remove that Mac Tir woman from power and soon, that a civil war is going to be the least of his worries, Blight notwithstanding.

Elissa sighs heavily, empties her teacup in one go, and pours another. It's going to be a long, long night.

Iona finds her lady sitting outside in the gardens, dying sunlight in her hair, with an empty cup of tea and a pensive look on her face. She sighs aloud; of course Lady Elissa is out here, still working through all the letters. They've come non-stop, and at this rate, Iona may take to burning them before her lady gets her devious little paws all over them, if only so that she'll go back to sleeping for more than two hours at a time.

"Lady Elissa," she says, "your guests are waiting."

"Do I have to?" she asks, runs a hand through her hair. Iona doesn't so much as glare so much as give her a look that clearly implies violence of the passive-aggressive variety if Elissa does not do as she's told. "Can't you send them out here?"

"I absolutely will not," Iona says, offended at the mere thought. No, she would absolutely not send them out here; it will ruin this place for her lady, and she will have none of it. There are not many places that Lady Elissa hasn't attached truly terrible things to, Iona knows. She's not about to let this last safe space become one of them. "It's not proper."

"Do we have anywhere that isn't still covered in bloodstains and scorch marks?" Elissa grins, no humour in the expression. Iona does not look amused. She puts the pen down and leans away from the table. "Where are they?"

"I've sent them to your drawing room," Iona says, reaches down to pick the teacup up.

"You mean the solarium?" Elissa sighs. Someday, she will break these newcomers of their Denerim speech. "I hope you told them not to touch the plants. The snaptrap has been a little sensitive lately."

Iona doesn't deign to grace that with an answer, merely raises her eyebrows at her Lady. Honestly. "Shall I bring you more tea?"

"I thought I was being dragged away," Elissa says, stands and carefully nudges the Mabari awake. "Can you take the letters to my room? No burning them, either. I don't need people turning up unannounced because I'm not responding to their letters."

"You are being dragged away," Iona tells her, shoos her lady and her lady's sleepy Mabari away from the little table where she'd been sitting to gather up all the letters. "I was, however, planning to bring you two cups. Tea will help when you and His Majesty end up yelling at each other. As for the burning—" Iona frowns, petulant. "—you ruin all my fun, Lady Elissa. All I want is that you get some rest, you're running yourself ragged."

"If you want to deal with the dwarves and that bastard Cavin, be my guest," she shrugs, steps away from the elf. "Go ahead and bring the tea, if you must. If it ends up on his head, know I am truly sorry and that he absolutely deserved it."

"I think he may surprise you, my lady," Iona says, voice gone gentle. There is something… off, about the King. She can't quite place it, and the feeling of not knowing precisely what is going on behind someone's face is a foreign one. But it's not a bad off, the kind of off Vaughan had been. It's a sad off, and Iona suspects that Lady Elissa will see it, too.

But she shakes her head, smiling a little. Her lady hasn't really been able to joke at all; that she's coming back, even in increments, is a good sign. "I'll not bring the good china, then. Please try to keep the rugs dry, they are a nightmare to clean."

"Thank you, and please bring one of the lesser teas, if you would. There's no need to waste one of the good ones."

Iona's mouth turns flat, because really, Lady Elissa, when are you going to learn? Free City or not, Highever remains on Ferelden land, and Iona is not about to put her home in more danger than it already is. "My lady, I ignore ridiculous orders, as you well know. Now, shoo. I have work to do, and so do you."

"I'm going, I'm going," Elissa tells her. "Come along, Dane. I'll be needing your help with this."

The Mabari pads along silently beside her, close enough she can reach down and scratch him behind his ear. It's a comfort, for him as much as for her. Elissa adjusts the swords at her hip all the same, the weapons even more of a comfort in the days since Ferelden's treachery.

The solarium is in the portion of the castle that has already been renovated in the same manner the rest of the city has been. Dwarven masonry, Serault glass she spent years trying to get; the whole thing is stronger than anything a man could ever build. It's better than that monstrosity Howe destroyed at the heart—the stones there had been crumbling for Ages.

Keep them in here, she remembers yelling. Keep the intruders in the central castle, usher them in. Let them not damage the outer castle and please, please don't let them harm the city

That's a bad thought there. Darkness all, clawing up her throat and choking all the air out of her lungs. Dane brushes up against her leg, enough that the knife tucked into her boot presses against her flesh. She's armed, safe; it would take magic or gaatlok to damage this section of the castle, she reminds herself. That's why it's built this way, why there are plans to rebuild the entire castle this way.

She runs both her hands through her hair, shakes the curls until it's a wild mess about her shoulders, and reaches for the double doors.

Bang.

It's an entrance, that's for sure. The drawing room looks more like a greenhouse, but fine, Hawke will bite. Elissa Cousland looks like the ocean if the ocean wore its sunken treasure on its surface and its danger in its depths instead of the other way around; she's a dark-haired little firecracker with her swords bare at her hip and a pirate's ink-black coat over a night-sky-coloured waistcoat. She's all lace cuffs, gold buttons, wild hair and wilder eyes, something a little unhinged in her gaze.

Ah, Hawke thinks, suddenly an intense kind of sad, that's the thousand-yard stare of someone whose entire world has crumbled out from underneath them.

And Andraste, she only knows it because she's seen that same look on her own face a hundred thousand times: in dingy bathroom mirrors, in the shine of sunlight off water, in the reflection of a window darkly. It's the look you get when you've been hollowed out a hundred times, when people have taken and taken and taken until there's nothing left of yourself except the skeleton-white gleam of your smile in the mirror, your tongue around bloody teeth, the taste of Crow poison in your mouth.

Yes, Hawke knows that feeling a little too well for her own liking. She casts her gaze around the room for want of something else to look at, but her eyes fall on King Cailan, and then she's biting down on a snicker.

Because he's staring at Lady Elissa like he's never seen a woman in his life before. It's a little bit undignified. A lot undignified. His mouth's halfway open, eyes wide, and—

Maker above, is he flushing? What kind of King is he?

Great.

(Hawke can't say she saw this coming. Well, not entirely. Maybe a little bit. It's just—King Cailan is such a puppy. Probably they'll laugh about this later; right now, it's just upsetting for everyone involved. She has to bite down on her cheek to stop another snicker from escaping.)

Lady Elissa is… well, scary. Alistair has known a lot of terrifying women in his time; the Chantry seems to attract them in droves. But none have been quite as wild as this one. She's armed, for one thing, and that Mabari at her heel is very much another weapon at her disposal.

He'd feel a lot better if she didn't have the look of someone who has absolutely no qualms with regicide.

She's beautiful, yes, in the same way a sword is beautiful. Deadly and stunning and he looks over to the King to see—they're all going to die, aren't they? He's close enough to nudge the dumbstruck man.

(Alistair does, however, understand now why the King was given blue instead of maroon. The red reaching up from his collar to the tips of his ears is in no way flattering.)

Maker's breath. What a disaster this is going to be. Alistair bites down on the inside of his cheek, so hard he's surprised there's no blood. At least there's no impatient sigh.

Hawke looks from the King to Lady Elissa and back, waits for one of them to make a move. But there's nothing, no sound at all, and that's terrible, isn't it, there's no salvaging this. Not that she'd want to, she thinks this may be the best, most awkward thing she's ever seen. On another day, she'd pay good money to see this!

But right now, it's probably not a good idea.

And so Hawke draws in a dramatic kind of breath. "Children, ought we leave His Majesty and Lady Elissa to—" she's not actually sure what's going to happen, but she doesn't think it's going to be anything pleasant "—talk? I don't think we're needed here."

"Thank the Maker," Carver says, reaches over to grab Alistair's collar, "leaving sounds like a very good idea. Let's go."

They all file out and Elissa does not turn to watch them go. There's a tension growing in her shoulders as the door clicks shut behind the King's company, leaving Dane and her alone with the man himself.

He's tall, she'll give him that, if a bit scruffy. Couldn't he have at least tried to look respectable? But no, he's staring at her slack-jawed like a bloody idiot who couldn't function without someone telling him what to do. She's seen raiders who look more like gentlemen than this man does. Elissa scowls. There are so many things she could rather be doing, like trying to keep the Guild from throwing too big of a fit.

"Well?" she finally says. "Are you going to tell me why you're here?"

Cailan snaps his mouth shut. He's been so—Maker's breath, he is an idiot.

He takes a slow breath, tries to will the flush away, very consciously does not run his hand through his hair. He still looks half-wild, and when she's standing looking like—like that—he can barely think as it is, he hasn't slept and she's terrifying and lovely and—

Breathe, Cailan, he reminds himself.

"To offer my condolences," he says, cautious, "and to offer aid. I'm—I'm sorry, Lady Elissa, for your loss."

One eyebrow arches. "You could have just sent a letter. It's what everyone else has done."

"What anyone else would have done is moot," he tells her, quietly. "I don't—I've been remiss, and I wanted to apologize in person," and his lips quirk up, a little, strange and sad, "and I'm hoping to avoid a war, but that's… that's less important."

"You've never seen fit to come to Highever before," she says, the scowl etching deeper into her features. "And if it's civil war you're concerned about, then I'm not the one you need to be talking to."

"That's why I'm apologizing," Cailan says. Maker, she's tiny, but she fills up the whole room. Her anger is a living thing. "There was never a good time."

"You mean your father was an arse and couldn't stand that my mother hated him," she grins, all teeth and no humour. Men and their stupid pride; never can think of anything beyond themselves. "Don't you have a Blight in the south that you should be dealing with?"

"Yes," he says, simply. "And yes."

"Then why are you here?" she asks, crosses her arms over her chest. If one hand is a bit close to the hilt of her sword, he wisely says nothing about it.

"Because this is more important," and it's a lie, but only a little bit; it's a lie in name only. The Blight is a good excuse as any to die, an honest reason to die, but Cailan can't leave Ferelden without a ruler. Not with Anora gone. Not with everything else that's happened. Not with Highever like this, with this furious-eyed woman its only support. "There's an army in the south. They're probably better off without me, and this—this I could do."

"Your army is going to be short a battalion or two," she tells him. "Rendon Howe is dead. I'd think Amaranthine needs aid more than we do. Highever's survived worse than this."

So he'd been right, then. Cailan exhales. "It has," he says, "but you haven't."

"No, unlike you, I have spent my life building alliances that strengthen this city and her people. They are more than enough to help us recover from this," and Elissa has to breathe deeply, remind herself that violence will garner her a look from Iona. Andraste, Iona's looks could stop a Qunari battalion in its tracks. "Highever has her allies. I fail to see what you could do for her."

Cailan looks at her for a very long time. It's funny, because she's not wrong—there's not much he can offer her. Highever operates on its own, has for a very long time; it's a port city that has little reason to—

"If you've got nothing," she says, "then perhaps you should consider returning to Ostagar. Iona can have your things ready in the morning."

"I would," he says, and he's so tired, all of a sudden, soul-tired, an exhaustion that's settled behind his eyes, "but I can't leave Ferelden without a ruler. I don't even know why I'm here, Maker, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, Lady Elissa—"

"No one in Thedas is going to argue with that," she says, then it registers what he said. Without a ruler, and that exhaustion in his eyes, in his whole too-tall body. Drown her if she doesn't know exactly what that feels like. That's the world gone watery beneath your feet, swallowing you up until there's nothing but the ink-dark depths filling screaming lungs and there's no sound, only the unending Void.

"Though," she tells him, gentle for the first time, "Thedas is going to be over the moon if that Mac Tir woman is no longer in power. Gwaren too, probably."

"Anora? No, Anora's left—what's happened to Gwaren?"

"They've been abandoned," she says, surprise in her voice because how does he not know this? "They started sending us requests for aid after Teryn Loghain left the region unprotected and without a clear leader. We think it was originally just supposed to anger him enough into acting, but when he did nothing, the requests turned serious. We've been trying to figure how to help them without starting a war for months."

It sticks in Cailan's throat, leaking acid into his veins. Loghain kept telling them that Gwaren was sorted, that the mines were fine, that the people were fine, that he and Anora didn't have to worry

Maker, what else has he missed?

"I—I didn't know," Cailan says quietly, closes his eyes and tips his head back to get his heart rate under control. He swallows hard. There's so much, and he can't—he can't

She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "I've been sending armed ships right by Denerim to pick up salt from Gwaren for a while now, and you really didn't know anything about it? More than one captain has reported resupplying in Denerim."

"You say that like they tell me anything," he murmurs.

"I have both Kirkwall's Merchants Guild and Orzammar breathing down my neck about the security of those salt mines," she tells him. "The miners themselves want protection that I cannot give them because I not only have no soldiers to give them, but can't send them any without starting a war. It's not going to be long before other nations realize that there's a problem. What do you think is going to happen when people realize the richest salt mines in Thedas are completely unguarded?"

Cailan looks at her, because of course he knows. Of course he knows.

"And a Blight on top of it all," Cailan says instead of answering her, nearly bemused with it. There's something weird and hysteric screaming in the far corners of his mind. He's gone and mucked it all up, all of it, what would his father say. "Might as well throw myself on the sword now, make it clean at least."

"Thedas might yet let Ferelden fall to a Blight," she says, tries to be gentle about it. "The Theirin line is the only royal family in the world without any kind of protection and you went and married a woman many consider to be nothing more than a peasant whore. A Blight and a lack of an heir creates the perfect opening for someone to conquer your kingdom."

"Do you think I don't know that?" he asks. "Though I would love to see someone call Anora a peasant whore to her face, I doubt they'd live to see the sunrise—" and he runs his hand through his hair again, trying to keep from shaking, a sharp tick to his mouth, "—though it doesn't matter, now."

"I wouldn't let anyone know if she's the one that did the walking out," she tells him, voice flat. "You've got enough of a reputation problem as it is."

"They'll expect it, honestly," he says, looks away. "I apologize, Lady Elissa. It seems I've made a mistake, coming here."

She should send him away. Should be happy about it. She can finally get back to work even if—even if half the work she's got isn't really hers. And Iona. The constant pleas to get more rest, to stop working herself into an early grave.

Andraste in a sea squall.

"Wait," she says, sighs heavily. She runs a hand over her face, through her hair. Her fingers catch on a tangle towards the end of the curls. "Half the letters I've been getting are really things meant for you. If you're willing to deal with that shit, you're welcome to stay."

He smiles at her, but it's not a happy smile. "I appreciate the offer, my lady, but your pity is only going to make me feel worse."

"It's not pity, you arse," and the scowl is back. How has this man survived for so long? The Crows should have been all over this years ago. "This is about my maid yelling at me for not sleeping. And if that Mac Tir woman is out of the picture, then you'll need to be a real king from now on. Which is going to be tricky, because you don't have much political sway in the world, so I guess that means we need to work out treaties between Highever and Ferelden. Soon, if at all possible. I don't think you want the Carta moving into Gwaren and killing off the Teryn's family."

"And here I was, thinking you might actually smile," Cailan says, which is both insulting and easier than letting her know that she's entirely right. The Carta in Gwaren is the last thing he wants.

Also, if she kills him, he can stop thinking for a while.

Elissa counts down from ten—nope, that's not going to work.

Was he really trying to flirt? Now? When she's armed and… she smiles, a vicious sharp thing, and steps close enough that her fist can slam into his stomach, forcing him to bend enough that one well-placed left hook can crack against the side of his face. He falls down almost gracefully, long limbs sprawled out. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she hopes he didn't hit his head too hard on the floor. She needs him to negotiate with that damn Seneschal, after all.

"Leave him, boy," she says when Dane moves closer, teeth bared. "He can sleep it off here."

"You hit him in the face and now he's passed out on the solarium floor," repeats Iona, voice flat. And again, because she can't can't believe what her lady has just told her. "You hit him. In the face. And now he's—Lady Elissa, have you taken leave of your senses?!"

"I was trying to knock some sense into him," Elissa says, sips her tea. It's the good bergamot blend from Starkhaven; Iona always does know what's best. "I'm fairly certain he was hoping I'd kill him. He might be disappointed I didn't."

"Yes, I'm sure that will help," Iona says. She looks down her nose at Lady Elissa. "You are going to apologize, aren't you? It's not kind, Lady Elissa, you know better than to hit people where anyone will be able to see it."

"Where else was I supposed to hit him?" Elissa leans back against the settee. The fire crackles, comfortable and not raging, roaring, devouring, not like— "I prefer men think with the head on their shoulders, so that's where the sense needs to go, isn't it?"

"You weren't supposed to hit him," Iona says. "That was the point of the tea."

"You didn't bring tea," Elissa says, smiles and takes another sip of the tea that Iona did bring.

"And you didn't think there was a reason for that?" Iona asks. It's a rhetorical question; she knows that Lady Elissa knows she's disappointed, and that her displeasure will manifest itself in tiny inconveniences for the next several months unless Lady Elissa decides to remedy it while she's got the chance. "I do give you more credit than that, my lady, please."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," Elissa tells her, then sighs heavily at the look. Andraste, she does not like those looks. And, well, it'd be better to not have to deal with the little cruelties Iona will undoubtedly think up if this is allowed to stand. "Fine, I'll go apologize. After breakfast?"

Iona very nearly smiles. She lets her voice go gentle. "Of course, my lady. After breakfast. Would you like toast, or not?"

"With honey, please," Elissa sighs, sets down the teacup to look at the stack of new letters. She hasn't opened them yet, been too busy sorting through the old. There's the cold lines of the Kirkwall Dragon on one, another from the Guild, and she can see the thick paper common to Orzammar beneath all of it. Andraste, please tell her that fine vellum letter isn't from Orlais. Please don't be from Orlais. The letter on top of it all has the delicate swirling script of a certain Antivan she should probably invite to Highever. Josephine has always been better at this diplomacy thing than her.

Of course, none of this matters, really, not until the King decides to stop being so melancholy and be an actual monarch. The letters with the dark blue griffon crest are the ones that matter most right now. They're hidden in her room, tucked into the shadows of a bookcase. She should probably tell the King about them, about the warriors who will soon arrive in the harbour.

But, well, there's a lot that he probably needs to know, and very little that she knows how to explain.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asks the elf, runs a hand through her hair, a fist forming in the curls. "Even if I apologize, it gets us nowhere."

"It will be a start," Iona says, softly. She tucks pale blonde hair behind her ear, considering. Her lady must have seen it—the way the King flinched away, unused to basic kindness, like he'd never experienced an actual apology his whole life. "And it will make everything that comes afterwards easier."

Lady Elissa looks up at her, and Iona has to smile at the bitter little twist to her lips. She looks so very young; Iona forgets that she is only twenty, that until half a season ago, her lady had put very little thought to ever ruling Highever. She forgets that they're all young, in the big scheme of things—she forgets that she herself was barely out of childhood when she became a mother in the first place, forgets that Shianni and Kallian aren't even adults, forgets that though Amethyne sometimes says things that no child should know, she is still a child.

But the letters from other nations are piling up.

It is going to be such a long, long year.

"I know, my lady," Iona says, gently, drops her hand to Lady Elissa's shoulder. "I know."

"Thank you, Iona."

And this is how Elissa Cousland finds herself in the castle infirmary with a pot of fresh tea and thick slices of toasted cake, whipped honey and the last of the year's strawberries. Whatever reservations she had about apologizing, about starting over with the King, just vanished.

(Whatever guilt remained about rushing the renovations on the new kitchen instead of repairing the inner castle also disappear. Having a good kitchen means things like this are possible more often. It's about morale.)

The infirmary is a narrow hall, vaulted ceilings arching up and over the rows of cots really meant for guards injured on the job. Not that there's a healer on staff here, only the herbalist who stops in to check on any patients. Elissa bites down on a slice of cake, honey melting on her tongue, and thinks that's going to have to change quickly if His Majesty is going to be staying any longer.

He's almost too big for the cot. Stretched out all the way with his head not at the very top of the bed, and his feet would hang off the end. It's obscene, much like the shimmer-gold of his hair, spread out in a splash of sunshine across the pillow. It makes the exhaustion in his features all the clearer. Andraste, he looks so young when he's sleeping.

Really though, a man this size shouldn't be light enough that Soris and one of the younger guardsmen can not only pick him up, but carry him all the way to the infirmary. The sleep is also an issue; Elissa can sympathize very hard with it but the sun was still a golden blur on the horizon when she hit him and now it is blazing full strength through the glittering glass up above, sending white light and rainbows everywhere.

The candle beside his bed starts burning through a new ring. What did the herbalist say? Apply the salve every two hours and then proceed to not be here for the next application.

Elissa sighs and reaches for another letter.

Cailan opens his eyes to three things.

One, a headache pounding between his temples, which is unpleasant. Two, something that looks like cake, which is pleasant. Three, a dark-haired woman who isn't looking at him and is so lovely that for a moment, he's stunned into brief speechlessness.

He also has no idea where he is, but that's far less important. The last thing he remembers—

"So you didn't kill me," he croaks. Damn, how long has he been out? "Too bad."

"Sorry for being a disappointment," she says, not bothering to look up from the letter. She takes another bite of her cake. "Sorry for the rest of it, too. If you'd been dealing with half of this," she holds up the letter, gestures to the others, "you'd be a bit testy too."

"Probably deserved it, anyway," Cailan mutters. Sitting up is like dying, and he groans when he tries it, has to relax back into the pillows. "Where am I?"

"Infirmary. Still in Highever Castle," she tells him, washes down the last of her cake with the tea, bitter-sweetness sinking into her bones with a relaxation finer than any alcohol. The way the King looks at the tray of food out of the corner of his eye is almost pathetic in its pleading. "If you can sit up, you can have some."

Cailan tries sitting up again. The world spins in lazy circles for a moment, but then it stops and he feels less like he's going to die and more like he's going to throw up if he doesn't get something in his stomach to settle its churning.

"Ow," he says, almost surprised. The skin around his right eye is tight. "Did you break my nose? It feels like someone blacked my eye."

"Black eye, yes," she says, picks up a strawberry before pushing the tray towards him, "but if your nose is broken, then that's your own doing."

"How is that my doing? You knocked me out," he says, runs a hand over his face. "And—gave me a shave?"

"I didn't hit your nose," she tells him, deadpan. "That mess you were calling a beard was in the way. It had to go."

"How was it in the way? I—" Cailan cuts himself off. He has no idea why he's complaining, he hates having a beard. It makes him look far too much like his father, obscures the little of his mother he has in his face. The only reason he left it in the first place was because he'd been far too preoccupied wondering just what he was going to do about this woman in front of him.

And now he's in a tiny cot in her infirmary, because she had the guts to put him there. It's kind of funny, if waking up with the sun in his eyes to a beautiful girl and a headache the size of his whole body is funny.

Cailan picks up a strawberry, bites into it despite the fact that he hates strawberries, all squinting suspiciously at the cake. "Doesn't matter, I guess. What is that?"

Elissa stops reading the letter, looks at him like he's just asked her if Dane likes vegetables. "Pound cake? Have you never had it before?"

"No?" he says. "Why is it toasted?"

The words you poor deprived boy are on the tip of her tongue. She can almost taste them on her lips, but she's not going to say that. That would give away too much.

"It makes it better," she says instead, leans over to take another piece, honey smearing white-gold across the cake. "The fluffy stuff is honey. Just shut up and eat it."

"I wasn't going to ask," Cailan manages to grin without it hurting too much, and reaches to take the cake from her. It's good, sweet and soft beneath the toasted exterior and the sticky-whip of honey.

He blinks at her. "More, please."

"Can't you reach the tray?" she says, swipes another piece for herself. "I'm not a maid."

"It's polite to ask," Cailan says, voice mild. "I don't want to ruin your breakfast."

"This isn't breakfast," she sighs. "Do you not see that there are two teacups?"

"You hit me in the face," Cailan reminds her, can't help but needle a bit because a little guilt can't hurt. His head hurts. "I wasn't going to presume."

"I hit you because you were being an arse at the worst time possible," Elissa points out, fills his teacup and refills hers. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't try being cheeky with an angry woman?"

"I'm always an arse at the worst time possible, you'd be surprised how rarely I get hit for it," he almost laughs, but it's too much, and his head throbs. "Alright, ow, the Maker's got me back for that, I apologize."

Elissa huffs, takes a bite of cake. "I'm the one that should be apologizing. At least according to Iona, so I guess I'm sorry I hit you."

It's not a real apology, not like what Iona probably wants, but well, she's not sorry. Elissa scowls, looks back at the letter in her hand. There's a whole new stack of them waiting in her room. Of course there is. But that candle…

"There's a salve on the table next to you. You're due for another application of it," she says, doesn't look at him and does not show any sign of remorse, "to help with the bruising."

"And you going to do it, or am I going to have to accidentally get it in my hair?" Cailan asks. He has to fight not to smile at her, again. She looks so annoyed. "I can't see my own face."

"I can get you a mirror if you promise to not get lost in your own reflection," Elissa answers. She should probably help. Iona will be over-steeping her tea for months if she catches wind of this. But, well, he's so irritating.

"Can't promise that," Cailan tells her, cheerful, pops another piece of cake and another strawberry into his mouth at the same time. "I'll probably spend an hour just poking at the bruise. I'm a bit sick, like that."

The letter flutters onto the other cot, landing peacefully on top of the others. Elissa stands up. Her back pops, spine straightening for the first time in too long. If Iona is still giving her looks after this, she's quitting and moving to the wilds of Rivain. She finds the jar of salve easily enough, spins the top off and pinches his leg hard. "Make some room, will you? This thing wasn't built for giants."

"I'm not a giant," Cailan says, frowning, but he's already moving, scooting to the edge of the cot so that she'll have room to sit. He doesn't even know why he's doing it—she's mean, and sharp, and he doesn't think about why he just wants to push and push and push until she explodes. It's not that she's straight-laced, or too proper, or the kind of person that simply invites teasing. It's something else, an awareness that he can't quite explain even to himself. "You're just very small. Do I even need to move? Will it make any difference?"

"I shouldn't have a problem because I'm small," Elissa says, dips the third finger of her right hand into the salve. It's cool, much better than the heat radiating off him like he has the sun beneath his skin. She doesn't want to touch him, lest she burn herself. "Hold still, will you? You'll be in for a world of pain if this gets in your eye."

"I'm already in a world of pain," Cailan says, but obediently holds still. "Maker, be gentle."

"Think I don't know how to be?" Elissa mutters, slowly works on applying the salve to the blooming darkness around his eye. In another world, she thinks people would have been proud of her for giving the King of Ferelden a black eye. Her mother, at least, though she'd rather her mother not know who is in residence right now. Maybe someday later, when the wounds have healed and Storm Coast isn't a more comfortable home than Highever.

"More like I'm not sure you're inclined to be gentle," he says. The first touch of the salve is a shock of ice to his system, blessed coolness against the throb of blood beneath his skin. He has to fight not to crumple into her hands, because that would be embarrassing. "I haven't given you much reason to be."

She makes a grumpy little sound, and again he goes still. Best not to antagonize her. It's just that it's so easy, and also, she's quite pretty when she's angry. See, there it is again, he's always going to get in trouble, Cailan could just kick himself—

"You'll need this every two hours," she says, voice gone soft. There's a hush in the infirmary she's not inclined to break, isn't entirely sure why she doesn't want to break it. It might just be him. A quiet intensity that follows him everywhere. Is this what it's like for someone made of cracked gold?

Elissa draws away from him, just a little, puts away the rest of the salve. Andraste in a sea squall, that is not normal. But she can see him out the corner of her eye, can feel the warmth still surrounding him and thinks that maybe broken gold isn't too far off as far a descriptions go. He's beautiful, yes; she's heard Theirin men almost always are. There's just a shadow to it, jagged lines throughout him that betray the pressure of being the center of attention for so long.

(See, this is why she doesn't want his job. She's quite happy as she is, without everyone looking at her every time something goes tits up.)

"Thanks," he says, quiet. Her face has gone porcelain-blank, and he almost reaches out to catch her arm to keep her where she is, anchor her down to the cot next to him until she comes back from wherever she's gone inside her head. The sunshine is white, turns her pale and ghost-like, and for a moment, Cailan can't help but think she's going to disappear entirely, lose herself into the ether, slide backwards into the Fade and away from him.

And so he lets a little grin cross his mouth, nudges her a little in the side. "Am I going to have your help for that? Or do I have to let someone else put their hands on my face?"

"If you promise to help me sort through all the letters," she sighs, tries not to second-guess herself on this because there is no way she can deal with all the Letters. Yes. Letters. They deserve to be capitalized there are so damn many of them. "You'll be stuck with me all day, so I'll be the only one around to help. Assuming I haven't decided defenestration is a better idea."

"Who'd be defenestrated?" Cailan asks, lips twitching. What kind of person uses defenestration in a serious sentence? Who does that? "Can you even defenestrate yourself?"

She snorts, completely undignified but who cares. "I'd be tossing you out. I love these windows too much to risk anyone else damaging them. Do you have any idea what I had to do to get these?"

"So you'd risk damaging me?" he says, voice stricken with the strain of not bursting into laughter. "I don't know how I feel about that, Lady Elissa."

"You're not made of Serault glass," she says, evenly. "If it comes down to it, the windows are more precious."

"I could be made of Serault glass," Cailan tells her. "You don't know I'm not."

"You're too squishy to be made of glass," Elissa responds, pokes him in the arm to prove it. "And you would've shattered when I hit you if you were."

"You might have shattered my brain," he says, considering the way his skull still seems to ring with the feel of her fist against his temple. It's been hours, hours and hours, and he's still a little muzzy. "We just don't know."

Her lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile. "I was taught to fight by former raiders. Not my fault you were trained by weaker men."

The opinion of him that she'd initially formed is slowly, very slowly rewriting itself. Charming, but there's an undercurrent of intelligence hidden behind it all. Andraste, what it would be like to see a bit of life in him, bright and ugly and bursting with energy. Glorious, she thinks.

"And not a word about the fact that I've got Serault glass," she says, hops up to grab the Letters before dumping them unceremoniously on top of him. "You might actually prove useful in this."

"Only might?" Cailan asks, stares down in dismay at the pile of letters. There are so many of them. "Maker, is half of Thedas writing to you? How long has this been going on? This isn't—"

"It's always been like this," she responds, shrugs, picks up the last letter she had been reading. "It got worse once news of what happened hit Kirkwall. Spread like wildfire from there. These are what remain of yesterday's letters. I've got the new ones waiting. There's been more and more of them as the weeks roll by."

Cailan slumps backwards into the pillows with a groan. He doesn't want to ask why they haven't been writing to him—he's got a very good idea of why it is. He brought this on himself, really, he should have known better. "Maker. Alright, fine, get back over here, you might as well be comfortable while we do this, and I don't think I have the balance to walk anywhere right now."

She stares at him over the top of the letter, but decides not to argue it. He's offering something to lean against, even if these cots are damn uncomfortable. "Start with this," she says, reaching for the notebook on the table before settling in beside him. The glass pen glitters in the sunlight as it rolls safely off the book and onto the table. "I've been keeping track of everything. First column is who sent the letter and on what date it was received, second is what they want, third is what they're offering."

"Organized," Cailan murmurs, focuses on the scrawl on the page instead of the heat of her beside him. That way lies madness.

As he reads, his eyebrows rise.

She's been managing this all alone? Maker's breath, she's got Orzammar on here, Chateau Haine, three cities in Nevarra, two in Antiva, one in the Anderfels—Cailan reaches around her to find some more cake, eyes glued to the notebook. This would have sent Anora into salivation.

"Have to be," she mumbles, eyes glued to yet another dizzying letter with suggestions of suitable young men for her to marry. She's fairly certain about half of them are more interested in each other than in her. Another notebook just for this nonsense would be helpful. She'll have to look into that. "You'll know when you hit the point at which news started to spread."

"Oh," says Cailan, eyebrows so high they're about to disappear right into his hairline. "I see what you mean."

"I should probably rewrite it to sort by country of origin," she says, leaning over to look at where he is in the notebook. Poor man, not even to the absolute worst of it. "It would at least help you sort out Ferelden's issues from everyone else's."

"Why is everyone else writing to you?" he asks, flips the page. Holy Maker, there are still another ten pages of this nonsense. Her writing spiders through the notebook, inks out a story or merchants and trade and sorrow.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Elissa tosses the letter towards the foot of the bed, reaches for another couple. One of them she skims over quickly before handing to him. Josephine's letters always reference what people are saying about the King and Queen of Ferelden. "Highever has been more powerful than Denerim for the last couple of Ages. We've been trading with most of Thedas for a very long time, and we have enough family connections across the world to give us the kind of influence needed to manage something like this."

He makes a quiet sound, takes the letter from her without really looking at it. There's so much here. But out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a name he knows, and then he's scrabbling at her, trying to be a little less obvious, because that was Anora's name, that said Queen Anora

Cailan reads through it, throat going tight.

Oh.

He's gone still as stone beside her, and Elissa gently tries to take Josephine's letter back. "She's always more polite about it than others, but do you see now why people prefer to talk to me and mine?"

Except, he's not responding. Andraste in a sea squall, she did not sign up for this. Elissa pushes the Letters back and moves to straddle his hips, if only because he's too bloody tall for her to find a better position. She grabs his chin in her hand and when that doesn't respond, she sighs heavily. She so did not sign up for this.

So she does what usually works when people stop paying attention.

She slaps him.

"Was that really necessary?" Cailan mutters, shakes his head a little. Anora—she probably knows… "I don't need two black eyes."

"I gave you Josephine's letter because she's always kind about it," she says, arms crossed imperiously over her chest. "You're going to need a thicker skin about this if you're going to be helping me. It's not going to be long before people notice she's not in Denerim anymore, if she's really left. I can't go through every letter to make sure there's no mention of her just to keep you from being useless."

"Thanks," he says, looking down. Queen Anora isn't— stares up at him. Maker, he can't stand to look at it. "It's fine. I just wasn't expecting it."

Again, she tilts his face up to hers. "You asked me why people weren't writing you. I'm not going to lie to you about something like this. I need you to be a real king, which means you need to know what people have been saying, what they think of your reign. You're not going to fix anything by being dependent on someone most people won't acknowledge. Now, do I need to slap you again or are you going to be an adult?"

"Please don't," he says, very quiet. Something inside of him has turned to ice, and he gently dislodges her from where she's sitting. He needs to think, and he can't do that when she's—when she's sitting where she is, his brain doesn't work like that, and Anora, Maker, Anora

"Fine then," she says, gathers up the Letters, her notebook, her pen, everything that isn't the tray. "There's a mirror at the other end of the infirmary if you don't want any help. Two hours, don't forget that." She turns and starts to walk towards the door, Iona's wrath be damned. "When you're ready to be a king, you're welcome to come find me."

When she passes the guard at the door, she gives a quiet order to keep the King on castle grounds. It'll do her no good if he wanders out and gets himself killed. Or, worse, hears one of the many, many treasonous things that Highever whispers about Denerim and its ghouls.

Things have been quiet since they arrived in Highever and met Lady Elissa. Alistair hasn't asked any questions, just knows that if the King hasn't come back to their room in two nights, that there has to be some reason. Hawke won't talk about it; he's already tried. He gets the impression that Carver Hawke couldn't care less.

And Bethany… the mage has mostly stayed with her siblings. Which has given him a lot of time to wander around the castle. There's the guard from their first day—Soris, an elf from Denerim, of all things—who has been remarkably helpful with directions.

Information is just something else. No one seems to be willing to tell him anything about Lady Elissa, nor about what she and the King might be discussing and where those discussions might be happening.

The sun is bright, in Highever. Sunshine is bright and white, glinting off a city built to shine in its light. It's so different than other places he's been. Amaranthine is always raining. Denerim is always covered in a haze. Redcliffe is brown. The rest of Ferelden seems to still be weighed down beneath the gloom of the occupation, despite being thirty years out.

Breakfast is taken in a small courtyard near their rooms. It's been cleaned more than the rest of the ruins, or perhaps was spared the worst of the damage. The maid brings them a spread of food so rich and fresh, yet Alistair has the feeling that this is simple. That's fine with him. Simple is good. Simple is calm and quiet and not at all one very angry acting Teryna strolling up to them with a storm brewing behind her eyes.

"Have you seen that idiot?" Lady Elissa stops just short of the table, arms crossed over her chest.

Silence reigns.

Alistair swallows the last of the food still in his mouth. "Do you mean His Majesty?"

"His Idiocy, yes." Lady Elissa's scowl is a frightening thing. Maker, if that is what the King is dealing with, Alistair isn't going to blame him for hiding. "The salve for his eye hasn't been touched since yesterday morning, and I'd rather not have the herbalist yelling at me because her patient is too stupid to get help when he needs it and according to Iona the only thing he's eaten since arriving is a bit of cake at breakfast yesterday."

Beth's knuckles are white around her teacup. The entire table has gone very quiet—Carver's eyes have narrowed, and Mari has turned that kind of still that usually precedes her trying to kill someone—as they've all turned to look at Lady Elissa. The lady is fair steaming, and oh, Beth should have looked in on the King, he was such a mess, but she's been… well, busy.

(Keeping Mari and Carver out of trouble is a full-time job, honestly.)

"No, my lady," Beth says, soft, "I haven't seen him, and I don't think anyone else has, either. I didn't hear him come in, last night or the night before."

"He didn't come back," Alistair adds. "Hasn't slept in the room at all since we arrived."

Elissa sighs. She's going to have the headache to end all headaches before lunchtime. Brilliant. "Is he always like this?"

"More often than he should be," Hawke says. She stands, one long line of movement, the coiled spring of her muscles a smooth shift beneath her skin. "Shall I go find him, then?"

"No, finish your meal," Elissa frowns. She'd been hoping to leave little Amethyne out of this. "I'm sorry for interrupting. Just thought I'd check here first."

A grin quirks Hawke's lips up. For all that Lady Elissa is a hurricane wrapped in skin, she thinks that the girl will be good for the King. She won't let him get away with anything.

(Of course, that's probably treason. Forgive me, Maker, for I have sinned, Hawke thinks, and isn't sorry at all. She doesn't know much, but she knows that Lady Anora and King Cailan are messy, and not in the fun way.)

"If you're sure, my lady," she says, shrugs as carelessly as she can. "If you need anything, we'll likely go down to the water. My sister has never seen the ocean."

"You should be able to find the marketplace easily enough," Elissa says, smiling slightly. "From there, the docks should be easy to find. There's a road that cuts between the docks and the rest of the city; follow that to the right and you'll find a beach. It should be fairly empty this time of year."

Sweet Andraste, a life without the sea. She can't imagine that. Doesn't want to think about it. That's like life without sunshine. "I'll leave you to your meal. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

(There is a beach on the castle grounds. A lovely little cove hidden away, but that space is hers and Elissa is selfish. She's never debated that.)

The Hawke family and their Warden watch as Lady Elissa spins on her heel and heads for the door. There's such determination in her step; Hawke almost feels bad for King Cailan. Of course, he's likely done something to deserve the lady's ire. He seems like the type to put his foot in his mouth every few moments, despite both his very best efforts and some very good intentions.

She looks at their Warden, and thinks it must be a Theirin thing.

Beth's perked up, though, eyes gone wide and shining. "Are we really going down to the water? Really? You mean it?"

"Apparently," Carver grumbles. Of course they would. Of course. He's still thankful that Mar didn't decide swimming in Lake Calenhad was a good idea.

"Are you sure we should leave the castle?" Alistair asks. "We are technically still responsible for His Majesty—" but he falls silent at Hawke's stare.

"I think Lady Elissa is going to be far more patient with us if we stay out of her way. She's not best pleased with His Majesty," Hawke says, smiling a little. She tips her head to direct Alistair's attention to Beth, who's begun to hum as she swirls raspberry jam into her porridge. "And I think some of us might be very disappointed, if we don't."

"To the beach then," he says, choking a little on a piece of toast. Bethany is positively glowing, happiness and sunlight and since when is his throat this dry. Do not look, he tells himself. She's pretty. Nothing special about that. Just a pretty girl who is very happy. Nothing special at all.

Hawke has to turn away and stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing. She shouldn't be so cruel, it's not nice. But Andraste's arse, that is hilarious. She knew it, she called it! The little Warden has a crush. It is precious.

Oh, Carver's going to have a fit.

… Who cares, Hawke's just going to have to dunk him in the Waking Sea. That'll start a war not easily stopped, not since that time with the cat. Poor Carver, he still hasn't forgiven her for that. It hadn't been a kind thing, tricking him like that, but it was very funny.

"Everyone finished?" she asks, idly, leans her face against her hand. She grins around at them all, the perfect picture of innocence. "Daylight's wasting, children."

"I'm done," Alistair says. He's really not, but he's not about to put it past Hawke to steal the last of his food, just as she does her brother's.

"I was still eating that!"

"And now I'm eating it," Hawke says, chewing on a bite of Carver's toast without remorse. "Funny how that works, isn't it?"

Carver snarls, but doesn't try to take his food back. He's not an idiot. "Fine, we'll go to the beach. Would you just give me my breakfast back?"

Hawke hands it back, smiling like an angel.

Armed with directions from a little girl, Elissa stalks through the silent halls, still new and unvarnished. If she weren't so focused on her destination, she might stop and wonder at how the utter destruction in the inner castle is so at odds with the untouched quiet of these sky-high portions of the renovated outer castle.

Like the garden that isn't.

That dumb plantless garden on the roof, Amethyne had said and Elissa knew exactly where the King had wandered off to. How he found it, she'd like to know. No one's been up here since before the battle, since she brought in Elegant all the way from Kirkwall to consult on what plants would grow best in these conditions, about what would make for a pleasant garden from which to watch the entire city without ever leaving the castle grounds.

This had been one of the designs Mother had added in, really as a way to watch the docks from the castle. Her old bones are getting too weary to make the treck to the cave meadow, she'd said. So this had been added at the last moment.

And now Mother is in Storm Coast with Gracie and one kicked puppy of a king is occupying what should have been her sanctuary.

"I was wondering when you'd come find me."

Elissa blinks away the image of her family gathered further out by the edge, little Oren vanishing mid-laugh. She reaches for the small jar in her pocket, holds it up. "You forgot something."

"Did I?" Cailan asks. He's slumped down on the edge of a parapet, legs hanging over the edge, half windswept, half wild. "What?"

"If you want to keep walking around with a black eye, be my guest," she snaps, pockets the salve and comes very, very close to grabbing him by the collar to drag him away from the edge. "Would you come over here? There's perfectly good benches further out."

Cailan raises his head to blink back at her. She's staring at the way he's sitting and—oh. She must think—

Horror washes over him, and he scrambles backwards. It's not like that, it's not, he just likes the wind against his face, the clean clear bite of salt on the breeze. It's not like that, he's not about to throw himself off the edge, Maker, if he was going to do that, he just would have stayed at Ostagar.

(It's a little like that. He doesn't want to admit it, but it's a little too much like that for comfort.)

Cailan pulls himself into standing. He hasn't actually looked at himself, yet, but the bruise around his eye has probably gone mottled green and yellow. Feels like it, anyway, and he hasn't really been able to leave off prodding at it because he's not much for thinking things through. But she must have brought the salve, else she'd still be elsewhere, and he'd still be on his own.

"I didn't know there were benches," he says, soft. "I'd have sat there, if I'd had known."

"They're a little hard to miss," she says, eyebrows raising. She points out to the almost-garden and the scattering of small stone benches, grey in the shadows of the castle. "If you pick one, I might be willing to help with that eye of yours."

He doesn't say anything, just trudges off to the bench furthest out. That one, of course. The same one she'd seen her nephew jumping over not two minutes ago. She follows along behind and once he's seated, gets the salve ready. The bruise has started to turn a mottled storm green around the edges, purple-black further in.

"What the hell were you thinking, disappearing like that?" Elissa asks, gently dabs the cool salve against his skin.

"Needed to think," Cailan says.

"So you came to an uninhabited portion of the castle?" she frowns. "You need to eat something soon, before Iona hunts you down and force feeds you."

"Nah," he says, tilts his head down so she can reach more easily. "I'm not hungry, and I just… needed to think. I'm sorry I ran off."

"Tell that to Iona." Elissa finishes up applying the salve and puts it away. Looking out over the edge, she can see the white sails billowing like clouds across the impossible blue of the harbour. The new Letters arrived on a ship like them, with one from an old friend and she thinks of what Delilah told her, turns the information over in her mind.

It wouldn't be kind, she doesn't think, but Elissa has never been kind.

"She's at Vigil's Keep," she tells him, very quiet. "Anora, I mean."

Cailan looks at her out of the corner of his eye. The sweep of her neck in a long thing, the lines of her blending down into her shoulders, her spine, the soft swell of her chest. She really is beautiful, but it's a different kind of beauty than any other he's ever seen. There are hard edges to Elissa—her jaw, the sharp line of her nose, the bones in her hands—that aren't lovely. She's stunning, vivacious, but it's a vicious thing. There's nothing soft about her, and this is not meant to be a kindness.

He exhales. Just because it's not meant to be a kindness, doesn't mean it isn't one.

"She'll be happy there. I'm glad she's safe," he says. "Thank you for letting me know."

"You'll need to talk to the Chantry soon," she says, doesn't look away from the blur of blue on blue that is the horizon. "The last thing you need is someone catching wind of this before you can ask for annulment. Vigil's Keep is isolated, but it's not that isolated."

"I know," he says, grins a little unhappy. It's been a long process, getting to where they are. And Anora… Anora just deserves better than what will come afterwards. "We should have done it a long time ago. But I guess—scared, maybe, the both of us. No, never mind, I'm scared. I don't think she knows what it means to be afraid."

"You should be afraid," Elissa shifts on the bench, kicks her feet over the far side so she's facing the horizon straight-on, "but not for the reasons you are. Your kingdom has to take precedence over your feelings and what your kingdom needs is a king who isn't thought of as a puppet for a thief-turned-Teryn, married off to a barren woman who should have never even been considered for the position of queen because he was too weak to do right by his kingdom."

Cailan shrugs. "You're probably right."

He can say that, now, after a very long day and night of thinking about it. It had always been there, at the back of his mind—the knowing that he and Anora had made a mistake. But she'd been there to set him back to rights when his whole universe had fallen to pieces, and it had made sense at the time.

He pulls the letter out of his pocket. Not the one she'd showed him yesterday, and not the one that had sent him careening out of Ostagar and running across the country. No, he pulls out the letter Anora had sent him, her hand unmistakable. The paper's creased from folding and unfolding, already too fragile from being read over and over and over. Cailan's gentle with it, maybe too gentle, and very carefully hands it to her.

"Read that," he says. "I'll—go talk to the Revered Mother."

"Theodora is a good woman," Elissa tells him. "It would probably do you some good to talk to her, and not just about this."

The letter almost makes her feel bad for the Mac Tir woman. Almost. Despite all her intelligence, Anora Mac Tir knew next to nothing about what was being said outside of Ferelden's borders, and yet she still couldn't take it.

Denerim seems to foster thin skin in its nobles.

What does stand out, though, is the concern for the man beside her. "So she did know some of what was going on. Not surprising. It would have been better if she'd done this sooner, or if, you know, she'd never been queen to begin with."

Cailan very nearly snorts. "She didn't want to be."

"You should have listened to her." Elissa hands the letter back to him, careful with it. It's been creased so many times she thinks it might fall apart from being read over and over again. She'll have to see if it can be taken away from him at some point; it's not healthy for him to keep it on hand and she needs him focused. "Andraste in a sea squall, I never thought I'd say that."

"She's smarter than you and smarter than me," he shrugs. "She's the smartest person I've ever met."

Elissa coughs to cover the snort. "If she were that smart, she wouldn't have tried using political capital she didn't have. That's what started a lot of the talk in other countries and as her husband, it reflected back on you."

"No, you don't understand," Cailan says, quiet. He doesn't know how to explain it, because it's not something she'll understand; she's never been to Denerim, hasn't spent any time in that cesspool of a court. She's never watched Anora manipulate a room. "It wasn't her idea. Neither of us wanted it, but I thought—"

He breaks off, shakes his head. "I should have died at Ostagar. But it wouldn't have fixed anything. So now I'm here, and I don't have a queen, and I don't have a brother, and it's just… I don't know what to do."

Elissa is quiet for a long moment. There are a lot of things she wants to say, but none of them seem quite right. Not for him. Twenty-five years worth of damage and she's got maybe a day to fix it. She remembers the things her parents said about Denerim, about the way it is a cesspit, worse than anything in the back-alleys of Kirkwall. Andraste, the way her Mother would go on and on about Maric and Loghain, the way her father would be silent with a grim frown on his face when some disgruntled Fereldan nobleman came to vent their complaints far from the prying eyes of that darkness.

But, well, this isn't Denerim and he's not going to be in Denerim for a long time as far as she can tell. Between the Blight and everything else, Denerim is probably not the place to be.

"Are you or are you not Cailan Theirin?" she asks instead. "You are the son of Rowan Guerrin, aren't you? The woman who never gave up, who put a backwater country on the path to success, who would stand up for what she believed in, regardless of the opposition. So please, tell me why you're so hell-bent on being like that sorry excuse for a man you unfortunately have to call a father."

"Because he raised me," he says, looks away, "and I'm nothing like her."

"That's a self-fulfilling prophecy if I've ever heard one," Elissa turns a little, reaches to turn his face back to her. "You are not an idiot. He was. So stop acting like you are. Just because you look like him, doesn't mean you have to be him. If Theirin blood bred that true, I'm fairly certain that Warden would be a very different man than he is."

Cailan smiles at her. "If it bred any truer, I'd have stayed at Ostagar. Alistair… I don't know."

"I think you just made my point," Elissa says, does her best to not gloat about it. "You're not all Maric, so find the pieces of her that you do have and be King of Ferelden. You're the man who at my age, managed to get most of the nobles in the world to put money into Ferelden while at the same time embarrassing them all with those awful velvet things."

"They were so terrible," Cailan has to laugh. Maker, he still can't believe it worked, the Mabari kennels needed the revamping so badly, and it doesn't even begin to cover how long Anora had snickered about it. But he falls quiet, because he doesn't know where to start. "Has anyone ever told you you're mad?"

"Many," she smiles, impish to the last. "Usually men and sometimes while trying to remove a jellyfish from their heads."

"Do I even want to know?" he asks.

"Are you a drunken womanizer who never learnt the art of restraint?" she asks, thinks of that stupid boy's screams. Really, what had he been expecting, following her down to her beach? "Because if you are, then you might be finding out firsthand."

"Neither, at last count," Cailan says. There's something inside of him collapsing, but Maker, she really is lovely. Lovely and awful, and maybe he's just asking for another black eye, but at least he'll have earned this one. "Will you hit me again if I try to kiss you?"

"I don't know," she murmurs, traces the line of his face down from the healing bruise to his lower lip. "You're pretty, I'll give you that."

Cailan raises an eyebrow at her. "How am I pretty?"

"All gold and soft," Elissa says. "Is it strange to say a man is pretty?"

"No," Cailan says, shifts so that she's very nearly curled up in his lap. He has no idea how he got here. "I just don't generally associate it with myself."

"Strange, despite what most people say, they usually acknowledge that you're like other men in your family," she says, shifts a little to straddle him once more. "I'd always wondered what they meant when they said Theirin men are beautiful. It was usually the only nice thing ever said about the Kings of Ferelden."

"I'll take it as a compliment, then," Cailan says, his mouth against the corner of hers, and they're breathing the same air. "Are you sure you're not going to hit me if I kiss you?"

"If you promise me you'll come back to work, I shan't hit you ever again," she tells him, lips brushing against his skin with every word.

"Somehow, I doubt that," he chuckles, soft and low in the throat. He tilts his head just enough to put their lips in line, and kisses the words there. "I'll come back if you let me kiss you."

Elissa smiles. "Then I guess I have no choice."

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tbc.