disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: arizona green tea, honestly.
notes: LOOK AT OUR WARDEN BABIES AREN'T THEY MAGNIFICENT we made graphics

chapter title: numb from the neck down
summary: In which Lady Elissa Cousland marries King Cailan Theirin, and history as we know it is nothing but dust. — full cast, AU.

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"Thank you for bringing her here, Warden," says Marethari, mouth set in a line of malcontent. None of his news is good. One hunter gravely ill, the other missing, dangerous magic near their camp, and now—now he says Lyna must join his order or die. "But are you certain there is no other way?"

Duncan shakes his head. It is a sad thing, to have to recruit someone out of this kind of necessity. Saving Kallian is one thing. Saving this hunter, though, has two paths should the Keeper not agree.

She will die.

Or she will kill them all.

He prefers she join the Wardens, stall the taint and add one more to their number. He has heard enough about this one from conversations overheard. She is a skilled hunter; one of their best. She is young and hale, smart and gracious. A good recruit, all things considered. It would be such a shame to have to kill her to ensure the taint does not corrupt her.

"I am sorry, Keeper. Though I came here seeking new Wardens, I do so wish it had not been like this," he says, sincere to the last. "I cannot promise you her safety, but this is the only chance she has."

This, Marethari knows, is true. She may not know the truth of the taint, nor what it bodes for one untreated, but she can sense the darkness coursing through little Mahariel's veins.

And without Tamlen—

Creators, bless them, bless this child and keep her safe, Marethari thinks fervently. "I do not know if she will even wish to live, Warden," she says, quiet, eyes trained on the pale body draped with furs not far from them. "The hunter who is still missing is very precious to her, and I suspect it is a situation in which one means none."

So much pain. She should have listened, should have taken the clan closer to Zathrian's, but dark magic follows that clan with every footstep, creeping ever closer with each passing year. It seems they were never meant to escape Ferelden unscathed.

Duncan knows this aching in her expression, has felt it many times before. There is nothing he can say to make this better, he knows. No one will ever make this better. He sighs deeply, an age much older than his own echoing in the sound. "Take your clan north, Keeper. Fate willing, we will stop this Blight at Ostagar and you will be able to return soon."

"And you would have me leave Lyna?" she asks. "Should I tell my people that we will not even attempt to find Tamlen?"

Your hunter is dead, he wishes to say, or will be very soon. This is the taint. Why can she not understand that? Do the Dalish truly have such little experience with darkspawn corruption to know what becomes of it?

He should introduce them to the dwarves, perhaps. Orzammar would not be so forgiving of such ignorance.

"The Wardens are her only chance of surviving."

"And Tamlen?"

Duncan's frown deepens. "If he yet lives, we shall do our best to find him. That is the best I can offer you in times such as these."

It is not the best, but it shall have to do. Marethari takes one last look at Lyna and nods, solemn to the last. "I just ask that you let it be her choice."

"Of course," he says. "I can give her that."

Kally fidgets in the background.

She doesn't know what she was expecting.

It certainly wasn't this. It certainly wasn't—any of this, actually. The Dalish stare without saying anything, their faces solemn and their hands always hovering close to their bows. And they don't speak, it's the strangest thing, none of them have said a word. She could feel their gazes on the back of her neck, boring holes into her skull like they could see into her brain if they looked hard enough.

So yes, maybe she is hiding. Who is anyone to comment?

And besides, the Dalish girl lying on the cot beside her is going to be coming with them. Kally's sure of it, though she doesn't know how she's so sure of it. It's a settling in her bones, maybe.

But still, she fidgets.

(Maker, she wants to get out of here.)

Lyna comes to slowly, painfully. It feels like she's had Fen'Harel's teeth everywhere, digging in so deep even her bones ache. She has everything, all her bits, right? Arms, legs, head, fingers, toes; it all seems to be there, so what is it that's gone?

Her bow—where is her bow?

She blinks, darkness still fading, to find no bow and an—intruder?

Intruder, yes, it clicks, instinct rolling in like the tide. Elven, female, small, no vallaslin but not a child.

Where is her bow? She needs her bow, needs it so badly, there's a swell of panic rising in her chest because where is her bow and why did Tamlen let this thing in?

oh.

"Oh, hi," Kally says, blinking away the melancholy. It's no help to anyone, right now, and she knows better than to dwell on things she can't change. "You're awake!"

It's loud. What is this thing? Why is it here. Lyna opens her mouth to say something, hand searching for her bow; where is her bow? What, why—it should be here? "Bow?" she manages, not finding the sylvanwood anywhere.

"Here," Kally scrambles for it, tucked as it is beneath the other girl's cot. "Here, it's here."

Lyna's hands find the weapon quickly, turning it to aim at the thing's head—no arrows. Andruil, why did she not ask for an arrow?

Never mind that, a bow will work. Lyna pushes forward, sending the strange elf to the floor, bow pressed against its throat. "Where is Tamlen?"

Old instinct kicks in, and Kally bends back her wrist to flick the dagger in her sleeve out. She holds it cooly against the girl's stomach. "Get off me, stupid, or I gut you."

"A flat-ear, killing me?" Lyna jumps up, kicking the thing's hand to step on it, firm and determined, the tip of the bow dangerous against the softest portion of the neck. "No."

"Rude," Kally tells her, snaps her head backwards, knocks her knees up to kick the girl's legs out from under her. She gets the wall at her back, her daggers up and curved around her forearms; defense and not offense. Kally's not in the mood to kill anyone, today. "Andraste's ass, don't you have any social graces? I'm trying to help, and you call me a name? So rude!"

Duncan sighs. Of course the hunter would wake up before they returned. Of course. Beside him, he would wager the Keeper looks almost amused at this turn of events.

And oh, how Marethari is. That's her girl, strong and brave. Be it the Beyond or the Wardens, Lyna will do much. She forces down the smile and enters the aravel. "I see you have awakened, da'len. Please calm yourself."

The Keeper—the tension in Lyna's shoulders fades, just a little. "Where is Tamlen?"

Kally suddenly, desperately wants her father, so much that she thinks she might start crying. She doesn't even know why. Already the urge is receding, but she can't deny it was there. Tears never help anything.

She relaxes, breathes in and out.

The daggers stay unsheathed, though.

Marethari crosses the aravel in two steps, pushes Lyna back down to the furs. "You should rest, da'len. It has been a long journey for you."

"But Tamlen—"

"Hush," Marethari orders. "Tell us what you remember."

Lyna blinks. What does she remember? Creators, it hurts. Everything still hurts, especially her head are there sylvans jumping around on top of it? "A mirror, Keeper. There was a mirror. Tamlen touched it."

"A mirror caused all this?" the Keeper asks, looking back at the Warden, but Duncan shakes his head as if to say I have no knowledge of this. "Do you remember nothing else?"

Lyna shakes her head and Marethari bites back all the questions burning on her tongue. This is no magic she has ever heard of. So, so many questions about what was found out there, the creatures, the magic—Lyna is a Keeper's child, after all, magic should be easy for her to spot—she needs to know what is out there before she can…

Oh, Mythal give them strength.

Marethari takes a deep breath and says, softly. "Child, these two saved you and brought you back to us."

"So thanks for attacking me," Kally says, smiling with her teeth. "Just tryna help."

Duncan frowns, lines set deep in his face. "Kallian, not now,' he says, turns back to the hunter. She is such a small little thing, and yet not. The Joining—

"Whatever, old man," Kally says, throat tight, in the most dismissive voice she can manage. She tosses her hair because it makes her look like she doesn't care. "I'm out, come find me when we all decide to behave like adults."

And then she leaves the aravel without another word.

"Forgive her," Duncan says. "She is young, and still new to the outside world. Your Keeper gives us more credit than we deserve. We found you outside the cave. We simply carried you back to your camp."

Outside? Lyna—no, it couldn't be, it has to be. "Tamlen?"

It had to be Tamlen. No one else was there, it had to be Beetle. He's still alive, he's still alive, and she will find him, will bring him home and it will all be—

"You were alone," Duncan says, sees the hope dashed. This one will be difficult, perhaps, in a different way than Kallian, but still worth the attempt, mayhaps. "And you are not out of the woods just yet. There is a corruption in your blood. The Keeper's magic is keeping it at bay, but it will eventually be too strong to contain."

Marethari closes her eyes for a long moment, her spindly hands finding Lyna's strong ones and holding tightly. "The Wardens know how to keep this from killing you, da'len, but you will have to leave the clan."

"I will leave you to discuss it," Duncan says, politely but still quickly because this is not a conversation for outsiders, he thinks. And Kallian still needs to be found.

Maker, he thinks, this is always so difficult.

Cailan's drawing circles on Elissa's bare shoulders, listening to nothing but the sound of quiet breathing.

"Let's go somewhere," he says.

Elissa breathes deeply. This is a special kind of lazy, she thinks. What Mother used to call overfed cat and it has been so long since she last felt like this. When was it, truly? Highever was always so busy, so much to do, so many people to see. There was never really time to just be. "Go where?" she asks, because really, she's quite comfortable where she is.

"Not right now," he snickers. "I'm good where I am, right now. But there's… on the coast, the summer palace. I'd like to go, if you'd come."

"On the coast?" That catches her attention, memories of the Waking Sea and salt in the air, on her tongue crashing into her heart. The wilderness of the sea is like nothing else and she needs it again; needs it the same way a plant needs sunshine. "And it's away from Denerim?"

"A couple of days easy ride," Cailan says. She's turned into him. The summer palace and its long winding hallways leave his thoughts entirely.

"Cailan," she starts, fingers finding the ends of his hair. He'd make a terrible sailor, she thinks. "Why are you only just mentioning this?"

"I was going to tell you earlier," he mumbles, and there's almost something grumpy in his voice. "You're rather—distracting, I hope you know."

She drops the strands of hair in her fingers, puts her arms behind her head. "I am a distraction?"

"A very nice one," he tells her, and levers himself up on an elbow to look down at her. Her hair's a snarled mess of curls across the pillow, like ink across a blank piece of parchment, and he gets caught up in staring at them.

A very nice distraction, indeed.

He's doing it again. This is slowly becoming normal, seeing him look at her like she's the only real thing left in the world. She's not even sure he knows he does it, and does not feel inclined to mention it. For all that he's a quick learner, there's still this odd, almost tangible, sense of innocent wonder to him.

And Elissa, well, she'd rather not destroy that.

"You're not too bad yourself," says Elissa, lips turning up in a small smile. No, he's not such a bad distraction at all but he has promised her the sea and she must know. "Tell me about the summer palace?"

"It was my favourite place, growing up," he says. "It's… small."

He doesn't know how to describe the summer palace, really. It is very small, much more like a very large house than a palace. It hangs off a cliff, white-washed and red-roofed, with a hundred steps cut into the rock down to the sea. There's nothing around for miles, as well, no towns, no cities, no people at all. In some ways it is lonely; Cailan knows his mother spent her time there, when she could. But in the same ways it is lonely, it is beautiful. The Amaranthine Ocean, empty forever until far in the distance where it meets the sky in a hazy blue line; he always felt like there was nowhere so safe as that endless blue cocoon.

"There isn't anyone around," Cailan starts with that, because he thinks she might like that the most. "It's wild land, feels like the rest of the world's forgotten it. And there's a beach, with sand, but you wouldn't know it unless you look down from the balcony on the east side. The sun comes in the morning, and the whole ocean, it looks like it's nothing but a carpet of glitterdust on fire. Most amazing sunrises I've ever seen, and—"

He stops to look down at her, grinning guiltily. "I'm telling it all wrong, aren't I."

Elissa can't breathe, not quite. He forgot to mention this? Andraste in a sea squall, for all he now knows about her body he knows absolutely nothing about her does he? "If that's telling it wrong, I'd like to know what telling it right is. This place sounds perfect. How could anyone not love it?"

"My father didn't like it, much," he says, trying not to be awkward about it. No, his father hadn't liked it at all: built during the Orlesian occupation, entirely ostentatious, paid for with Fereldan blood and Orlesian gold, it was everything his father and Loghain had hated most about the occupation. Cailan would never have known it existed, had his mother not taken him there.

Maker, he's glad she did.

"Did your father just hate everything beautiful about life?" Lissy asks, regrets it as soon as she does because she can feel Fergus's disappointment even though her brother will likely never know about this conversation.

(And probably will never want to know about it. Fergus has the same desire to know about life beyond her bedroom door as she does about his life. Such is the way of siblings.)

Cailan snorts. "That's a good way to put it, actually—" he blinks at her, "—and you've gone red. Why are you red?"

"My family—" she can feel the blush intensifying, "—I was not raised to speak like that. Everyone used to get on to me, most times. I suppose I haven't quite outgrown the disapproval."

She's explaining this all wrong, probably. Cailan grew up in the royal family; he wouldn't have had to deal with the expectancy of certain decorums regarding himself or his parents. There is likely no Nan telling him to behave and treat the Theirins with respect lurking in his memory. There is no Mother and Father, constantly exasperated but perhaps, maybe, secretly proud of their child's defiant streak because Couslands are proud and independent but still very, very loyal to the Theirin line. There is no older brother, always proud of the insistence that Highever was better off free but always cautioning him against speaking in such a way that might damage the family's standing in Ferelden.

"It doesn't mean it's not true," Cailan says. He's trying to crack the crick in his neck without looking away from her, because she needs to understand this. "My father was a good king, but he wasn't a very good father. They say he loved my mother, but I never saw it."

Well, he thinks, a tad bitterly, this is hitting a little too close to home.

Melancholy does not suit him. Not one bit, she's finding. It drags the corner of his mouth down, darkens the eyes, puts a shadowed expression on his face that ages him far too much. She reaches up, fingers tracing the line from temple to jaw. "You would have liked Highever, I think."

Yes, he would have done quite well in Highever. Strange that he never came, actually. Maric, as far as she knew, only visited once, despite being on good terms with her parents. It was Fergus's twentieth birthday, just before the late king vanished. Maybe there were visits earlier, but not once did Cailan join him.

How very strange, she thinks, brow furrowing, fingers still tracing his features, that the crown prince would never visit such an important city.

"I think so, too," he says, brushes his fingers along the sharp jut of her hip. He doesn't say that he had asked about it, many times. Anora had gone, his mother had gone, everyone had gone to Highever but Cailan had been forced to stay in Denerim. He still doesn't know why; it had been one of his father's never-ending eccentricities.

"It's a city," she says, tries hard to keep her voice steady when he begins drawing circles on her hip, "and it's nothing like Denerim. Our streets are wider and actually look different as you move from one to the other. There's salt in the air so strong you can taste it, even far from the docks because Highever is built alongside a harbour, the Waking Sea coming right up to the cliffs below the castle. You can see the vhenadahl from most everywhere, but especially from the Chantry. It's the second tallest building in the city, after the castle, and you can see for miles from the front door. We have merchants from all over. There's very little you can't find in the marketplace, and you can always see the sails of passing ships. And so many places to hide; to just get away and enjoy the sound of waves crashing on the cliffs."

"You love it," he says, quietly, torn between wanting her to go on and just being amazed that she said so many words at once.

"So much," she agrees. If she closes her eyes, she can see it so vividly it's like she's still there, like Howe didn't reveal himself to be a viper, like the past month has just been a bad dream. "Have you ever been to Kirkwall?"

"Twice," he lights up. "It's amazing, isn't it."

Oh Maker, he's… cute when he talks about something he likes. "Of course it is," she manages, staring at his collarbone. "Highever and Kirkwall are sisters. We're so close together that they've always been our primary source of trade. The two are quite alike in appearance because of it."

"We can go someday, diplomatic visits are never scarce," Cailan says. His mouth twists, after a moment. "But Maker, I hated sailing through the Twins."

"They have their use," her nose wrinkles at the thought of them, "but they could have been something more pleasant to look at for sure." Then his offer sinks in, and she looks up to find sincerity in his eyes. "I would like that very much, I think. And you shall see Highever when Fergus becomes Teyrn. She's survived worse than Howe. I doubt he can do much damage to the city."

"Not without Qunari explosives," he says, mouth quirking up.

Lissy giggles. Andraste in a sea squall she's giggling, Maker help her. "It's been tried. Our navy learned very quickly to sink any dreadnought that comes within a certain range."

"Was that a giggle?" Cailan asks, pokes her in the side. "Did you just giggle?"

"Sorry," she says, takes a deep breath to calm herself, "just thinking of the only time gaatlok was ever successfully detonated in Highever. The dreadnought somehow got soldiers in past the navy, but they only destroyed an abandoned section of the docks that a group of slavers we'd been trying to eradicate for months had set up shop."

"Slavers," he says, a bite in his voice. "Much as I dislike the templars, if Tevinter burned I wouldn't mourn."

"They're a constant problem along the Waking Sea." She shrugs, thinking of all the guards' reports she's seen over the years. "It's worse when they start working with the raiders, but at least conflict with the Qunari means the two are usually too preoccupied with each other to be of too much trouble for us. And, of course, the fact that between us, Highever and Kirkwall can effectively cut off all access between the eastern and western sides of the Waking Sea, we can put a stop all sea-travel completely if need be. It likely won't be done, but the threat certainly helps."

"So you want to go, then?" he asks, walks his fingers up her spine. The cup of her ribs is so small beneath his hand. "To the summer palace?"

"I think I would like that very much," she answers.

Cailan grins, and dips his head to mouth along her collarbones. She has very nice collarbones. In fact, she has very nice everything, and now that the summer palace is settled—Maker, if it weren't for the Blight he'd like to stay out there until the snow comes, and that's months away—he thinks he's quite content to spend the rest of the day right here.

Which is, of course, when someone knocks.

Cailan drops his head into the crook of Elissa's neck. "Can we ignore it," he says, and it's not a question.

"Your Majesties!" comes muffled through the door. "It's Ammy! Please listen!"

Elissa sighs, heavy. "No, we can't," she says, then calls out. "What is it, Amethyne?"

"Mama and Ser Gilmore are coming up the stairs," says the little girl, voice panicky-high. "You've got—ten minutes, I think? If you don't put some clothes on, they'll make fun, and they'll never stop!"

"Thank you!" Elissa frowns. This was just starting to get good, and he's starting to press little kisses along her neck and it is very, very distracting. "Cailan, stop doing that."

"Must I?"

"Unless you want Iona to look even more smug when she talks to you, then yes."

"I hate it when she does that, it's frightening," Cailan grumbles, but leaves off showering her throat with attention. "That woman is a terror."

"But she's the kind of terror you want on your side." Elissa slowly removes herself from him, sadly, almost. His clothes are scattered about; she gathers them up quickly, tossing each piece back to him. The shirt lands on his head, sliding off to crumple on the sheets beside him. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Probably," Cailan says, "but I'd much rather be here."

And Chamberlain hasn't come in croaking his rage at the sky, so it's not like the castle is about to come down round their ears just yet. Cailan's not too worried; the nobles expect lackadaisical behaviour out of him, don't they, he can't disappoint them. And now he's actually got a reason to be lackadaisical! Anora would be so proud.

He's really rather attractive like this, deep in thought with his hair loose around his shoulders and on her bed, but well, Amethyne said Iona and Gil are on their way and it's really rather bad enough that they're going to know, because they will. At this point there is no way to get him out here without them seeing him.

And, well, that leads to conversations she's not quite sure she's ready to have.

Iona will tease, for sure, but Gil—Gil is something she's going to have to deal with, very soon, but just… not now, okay? Just not now.

"Go be king, Cailan," she says, soft, leaning over to press a light kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Yeah, alright," he smiles at her, and stands up to pull on his shirt.

The Dalish are camped a little ways from a pond, and Kally's already halfway there without thinking about it. She can't be around people, right now, around anyone at all, because she'll say something awful that she'll end up regretting. That's the way it always goes.

Kally forgets, you see, that she can wound with words as easily as with daggers.

The Brecillian Forest is verdant around her, and the bank of the pond is soft with moss and sand. She sits down right there, and without further ado, wraps her arms around her knees and glares out across the water. It's very quiet, and that's good.

Maker, she wants Ahni and Soris.

Kally hides her face, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Duncan can see her, close to the water. She looks so small amid the tall trees and proud Dalish. He will have to be careful with them both, it seems. Lyna for her grief and Kallian for her age. This is why he had wanted the other Tabris. The recruits with the most trouble adjusting are always the youngest, and given that Kallian's experience with the outside world is limited—

This will be interesting, once the recruiting from the Circle and Orzammar is completed.

The aravel behind him is still sealed up; the hunter and the Keeper will be talking for a long while yet, more than likely. Which leaves little Kallian, small fragile thing that she is.

He sits down beside the water, a ways off from her, and waits.

Everyone is always so noisy, Kally thinks. Even Duncan, and he's the quietest human she's ever met. He's going to want her to talk, but she's got… nothing to say, really, except the mean things, and she doesn't want to go there today. Instead, she tucks her face more securely into her arms, and counts down backwards from ten. Nine, eight, seven

She gets to four, and then the urge to—no, there's not really a word for what this urge is. It's yearning to prove she's alright, that she doesn't need anyone or anything. That there are jobs to do, lives to ruin, darkspawn to kill. That she's got a million other places to be, and all of them are more important than here—becomes impossible to ignore.

"I'm fine," she says out loud. "You don't have to worry about me."

"I am well aware," he responds, attention never leaving the pond. A leaf falls from a tree, ripples casting out from where it meets the water. "You are a very capable young woman."

"Yeah, well," Kally says, shrugging a little. Whatever, she wants to say, whatever, whatever, whatever!

"I mean it, Kallian," he still focuses on the water, watching the push and pull on the shoreline. "Life as a Warden is not easy. Your fellow Wardens are your family, regardless of whether or not you are still in contact with the family of your birth. This requires being able to connect with people from all backgrounds and of all temperaments. The world is much bigger than Denerim, and the culture is quite different once you pass through the city gates."

"Tried that," Kally says, and oh, there it is, there's the meanness, Maker, she knew this was going to happen, "and that fellow Warden tried to hit me in the face with a bow. So I'm good, old man, thanks, but no thanks."

"That hunter back there has just woken up, unsure of how she got to be where she is and with a stranger in the room with her. Her weapon was nowhere to be found, and her companion is still missing," Duncan speaks bluntly, finally looking at her. "What would you have done in her place?"

"Not that," she says.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "Did the same thing not occur when you woke up at the Arl of Denerim's estate? What did you do in that situation?"

"I didn't attack the person leaning over me who was trying to help," and okay, she might have gone and stabbed some other guy, but not right after she'd woken up!

"Was that not someone you knew? What if it had been a stranger you had never met before?"

"Still wouldn't have," Kally says, shoving her face back in her crossed arms. "Normal people don't wake up and attack a person!"

Duncan breathes deeply, slowly, thinks of the dwarven berserkers. Kallian would be brilliant at it, he thinks, if only her fighting style were amenable to such techniques. "She is not a normal person, though, at least not what you would consider. She is a Dalish hunter. Her weapon is a part of her, and outsiders are to be regarded with suspicion, if not killed on sight."

"That doesn't make it okay," she mutters, trying valiantly not to see the sense in his words. It's annoying. Everything is annoying. She wants to go home.

But she doesn't have a home, anymore, not really. The old man's right, in a way: the Wardens are her family, now, though she hasn't taken the vows or—or whatever it is that Wardens do to become Wardens. Ada and Uncle Valendrian are still in Denerim, and Soris is away at the palace, and Ahni… Ahni is somewhere else, entirely.

Maker's breath, she's homesick.

"Grief rarely makes for sensible behavior," he says, "and that is perfectly alright. Such things are what let us know that we are still alive, regardless of what happens around us."

"She still tried to hit me in the face with her bow," Kally says, but the fury's drained away, now, and all she's left with is an aching hole in her chest. She doesn't need to tell him that she's scared, here, that all she wants is someone in her corner, that she's young and dumb and going it alone; he knows that.

And yes, grief does skew a person's reactions. She knows that better than anyone.

Still.

"All I ask is that you try to find common ground with her." The corners of his mouth quirk up in the ghost of a maybe-smile. "Even if it is nothing more than killing darkspawn."

There's a crack behind them, and Lyna grimaces at how loud it seems. Both the little elf and the Warden turn to face her and a very large part of her just wants to turn and run back, to tear apart the forest searching for Tamlen because this cannot be their fate.

Creators, this should not be this difficult, but Marethari's words still ring in her ears and there's a sinking feeling somewhere in her spine that this is the end.

So she stands up straight and simply asks, "When do we leave?"

Iona is giggling.

Iona is giggling, and she is mortified that she is giggling, but dear Andraste, the look on Ser Gilmore's face. King Cailan had left Lady Elissa's room with the ruffled look of a man who'd much rather still be in bed with his lady fair, but also of a small boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

And Ser Gilmore's face is twitching.

And, Andraste help her, it is very funny.

"Ser Gilmore," she says, trying to be gentle but failing, probably, because the poor man's temple is throbbing, and she can't help how amusing she finds it, "perhaps I should speak to Lady Elissa first?"

There's a tension growing behind his eyes. It isn't that this is happening—no, he knew that. It's just that… well, he's still not entirely sure about this, but if Lissy is happy then that's good right?

Yes, it is.

Lissy happy and safe is all that matters.

"I think that would be best," he says, pained, because yes, as much as he wants to speak to her, to make sure she's okay and nothing is wrong, he also knows Lissy better than he knows himself, or used to, at least.

And right now, he knows, he is probably the last person Lissy wants to see.

Iona sombers, a little. She asks, very quietly, "Are you alright?"

"I will be," he answers, looking down at the stones of the floor. Iona is easy to talk to. Her presence is calming, tranquil. But this? This is something he's not sure how to explain. What defines 'alright'?

This was always going to happen. He knew that. He just has to keep reminding himself.

It's just that, well, he never thought it would be quite like this. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he knew everything about what was going on in her life. This distance was always coming, the inevitable end they preferred to ignore.

He just didn't think it would happen so quickly.

Or so quietly.

"You go talk to Lissy," he says. "There's something I need to do."

Iona almost wants to tease, but there's something so miserable behind his eyes that she doesn't think she can. He'd not been prepared, of course he wasn't, and for all that Iona thinks that King Cailan and Lady Elissa will be good for each other, she doesn't think Ser Gilmore really knew what this marriage entailed. There is a difference between knowing and knowing, between the knowledge that one day Lady Elissa's room will no longer just be Lady Elissa's room and actually seeing King Cailan walk out the door, too mussed for propriety by far.

And so Iona ducks her head in acknowledgement, touches his wrist very softly, and goes to knock on Lady Elissa's door.

"Who is it?" Elissa asks, checking her appearance in the mirror. A stray curl sticks straight up from her temple. She's fairly certain she needs a bath. Andraste in a sea squall, she's fairly certain this shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is. "Iona?"

"Yes, my lady," Iona says through the door. "May I come in?"

The bed is a mess, she's a mess, and Maker if Iona is here this soon after Cailan left, she's fairly certain the two likely ran into each other.

Which means Gil and Cailan saw each other.

There's not really any way for this to be worse, is there? "The door is unlocked. Go ahead and come in."

Iona pushes the door open, and there's her lady, slumped at her vanity like the whole world is out to get her. It's funny, funnier even than Ser Gilmore, somehow, because Lady Elissa can be so dramatic, especially when she doesn't mean to be.

And Iona does so love to tease. "Did you have a good day, my lady?"

"Wonderful, up until being interrupted," Elissa says. Two can play this game. "And it was about to get much nicer."

"I'm sure it was," Iona says, lightly. "I hope my daughter didn't bother you and His Majesty, I'll remind her it's not kind to barge in uninvited."

Elissa grins, wide and toothy like a fox. "She's really quite delightful. Knocked on the door politely and warned us you were coming. Had she not done that, you would have interrupted something far more compromising."

"Then I suppose I have taught her well," Iona says, chuckling softly.

"You love this, don't you?" It's a bit more accusatory than she means it, but Elissa can feel the amusement rolling off the elf even from here.

"Oh, my lady!" Iona pretends to gasp. It takes everything she has not to burst into horrible cackling. "Why on earth would you think that?"

Elissa does her best to mimic Mother's are you kidding me face. "Is there something you wish to know?"

And now, now Iona can't help herself, because Lady Elissa walked right into that. She lets the innocent smile that's been hiding in the corners of her lips since she opened the door cross her face, and she blinks innocuously enough. "Only to let you know that your breastband is still on the floor, my lady. And also, King Cailan doesn't know how to do his own hair."

"I was thinking of taking a bath," Elissa answer diplomatically. Sneaky little—one of these days, something will happen and she will get her revenge. "The breastband was bothering me. As for the king's hair, do I even want to know how you came across that information?"

"I passed him coming out of your rooms, my lady," Iona says, fluttering her eyelashes. "His breeches were on backwards, as well. I think he might be ill."

"He seemed well enough to me," Elissa says before she can stop herself. Oh no. Oh no. Iona is going to—someday, someday Iona will do something that levels the playing field.

"Oh, I'm sure he did," Iona says, oh Andraste, she's not going to last, she's not going to be able to stop the laughter. "How did he seem, my lady?"

"Very focused," Elissa smiles, thinks quickly of the fastest way to make Iona blush because she will do it. "And really rather energetic, I suppose?"

"The way he eats, I'm not surprised," she tells her. "Although, I don't know—did either of you eat anything today?" Iona pauses for effect because she is terrible, and she will not pretend anything else. "Oh, wait, of course he did."

Did she just—

Andraste she did.

Elissa can feel the heat rising up her neck, across her cheeks, and the bite mark on her hip aches in reminder. "You're a terror, you know that right?"

"My lady, you don't know the half of it," Iona giggles. Lady Elissa's gone bright red, and that's adorable, that is, there's no other word for it. Iona nudges her with an elbow in passing, because she doesn't mean any of it as an insult, and the touch will lessen the sting. "You wanted a bath, I think?"

"Please," she says, "I'd like to retain some dignity and I'm finding it rather difficult when I smell like the king."

Iona chokes, because Maker. "Lady Elissa," she says, very seriously, lips twitching, "you can't say things like that to me right now, I won't be able to treat it with the respect it deserves."

Elissa looks at her, sees the twitching smile trying to break the surface and waits. "You can laugh, you know."

"No, my lady, it wouldn't be right to laugh at the queen, even if she does look a bit rumpled."

Elissa glares.

And Iona bursts into laughter. Real laughter, the belly-aching kind, and she's laughing and laughing and laughing, because of all things, Lady Elissa even glares like the world is an affront to her sensibilities. She laughs so hard she has to wipe away tears.

"I'm sorry," Iona says, kindly as she can around a mouthful of mirth. She means it when she says, "I'm not treating this with the gravity it deserves. I apologize, my lady."

"Think nothing of it," Elissa says, fondly. "Just promise you won't laugh when you see the marks he left."

"Marks? You'd think he'd be gentle," Iona says. The tub is already full, and steaming. Chamberlain is a frightening creature. There's even a bottle of lavender oil, and Iona pours enough of it into the tub that it soaks the air, twining through rosewater and soap alike.

Elissa follows Iona towards the bath, the smell of rosewater present long before she crosses the threshold. Someday, she will figure out how Chamberlain does it. Lavender joins it, calming and so very pleasant. "You should see what I did to him, then," she mutters.

"That is not surprising, my lady," Iona says absently.

Fabric hits the floor with barely a whisper, and Lissy reaches up to try to detangle her hair. Andraste in a sea squall, she should never have tried that once the pearls were out, she should have known inviting him into her room would end in even more tangles. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing about your pent-up aggression, my lady, I assure you," Iona says. Andraste, she needs to learn to curb her tongue, she'd thought she'd had a handle on it, but apparently not. Lady Elissa has bruises? There's the sass, Iona waves as it goes past.

Some of the bruises, though, look a little older than a few hours, mottled yellow-green and oddly straight-edged. "Did you have a fight with a door, Lady Elissa?"

Elissa pauses, the water of the bath lapping at one leg. "If you ever remarry, try to avoid having your wedding night in a library," she says, stepping fully into the water. "There are no comfortable places for such activities."

"I'll see if I can't find some salve," Iona murmurs, still smiling. "Your hair is going to be an hours' work on its own. I'll be back, so please try not to find His Majesty while I'm gone, it will make my life far more difficult than it needs to be, yes?"

"I rather think that would be quite enjoyable, considering where I am," she says, but sees Iona's face and reconsiders. "But I'll just stay here and try to get started on working the tangles out of the hair."

"I'm sure it would be, my lady, but then there'd be water everywhere, and it would take forever to clean up," Iona says, voice dry. "You'll need a bigger tub."

"Yes, I suppose we would," Elissa muses, then smiles wickedly. "I wonder what Chamberlain would say to that."

"Probably that you've got him running around enough as it, and you can find your own tub if the one you have isn't good enough," Iona smirks.

Elissa raises one leg out of the water, foot pointed to form a straight line. "You're likely right. I'll just have to wait until I can get him to the sea, then. There's water everywhere, there. No mess involved." Her nose wrinkles at the memory of the last time she'd tried this at the sea. "Except sand. Andraste in a sea squall the sand gets in places you didn't even know you 'll have to be a rocky beach, then."

"That sounds worse, honestly," Iona says, wrinkling her nose. "Stones would leave bruises, and not even the fun kind."

"Not if you pick the right one. Little rocks are bad. Big rocks, though, can do just fine if you have a blanket," Elissa says, shrugging. "The real problem is with the tide, and if you get in the wrong spot, fish. But perhaps this is all just wistful thinking. I doubt I'll ever get him to the beach in Highever."

No, that likely never will happen. One, because she sincerely doubts Cailan has the climbing abilities required to reach that particular beach and two, because, well, there are memories and she's not entirely certain Gil would be okay with sharing that place so soon after.

Sad, actually, because that was really rather enjoyable.

And worse, really, because now she's thinking of Gil and her and Gil and then Cailan and well, none of that is particularly nice to think about.

Lady Elissa goes very quiet, then, and Iona looks around with a towel over her arm. The steam from the bath has fogged up the windows, and the sunlight filters in strange and white. "Lady Elissa?"

The lavender oil glistens across the water when she moves, shimmering in shades of white and pale gold. Oriana had come with a bottle of rose as a gift, when she and Fergus first married. Nothing quite like Antivan roses, she'd said as if her new sister-law had any interest in such ladylike things, and Elissa had avoided using it until Gil said he liked the scent. "Just thinking."

"Maybe you should not," Iona says, softly. "It's making you sad, my lady. This is not the time for sadness."

Lady Elissa sinks down deeper into the water, until she's submerged near entirely. Her hair floats around her in long dark snakes, and Iona shakes her head to herself. No, her lady's not gone to a good place: somewhere far away, entrenched in Highever, and the bad memories are like a cloud.

If she doesn't come back, soon, Iona may have to do something drastic.

"What are you thinking about, my lady?" Iona asks.

"Something I shouldn't be," she says. "I'm going to have to talk to Gil at some point, aren't I?"

And Maker that will be a conversation. They should have done this earlier, just accepted what was to come and been done with it. How exactly is she supposed to explain this? Elissa leans her head back against the tub and finds she misses the more decorative architecture of the Waking Sea with a sharp feeling deep behind her heart.

"Yes," Iona says. She sits on the lip of the tub, sets the towel down, brushes off her knees for something to do. Lady Elissa is—delicate, in some ways. Especially when she gets like this, the melancholy drenching her down to her bones. It takes care and patience to bring her out of it.

It's a good thing Iona has a large helping of both.

"But perhaps you should talk to me, first."

"I'm not entirely sure what to say," she admits. "How are you supposed to talk about something you can't even explain to yourself?"

"How would you explain it to Amethyne?" Iona thinks of explaining the world to her eight-year-old, how big scary things can become so small. Denerim, and the Alienage, and even Iona's near death in Highever: all of those things were big scary things that her daughter had understood in only the most base kind of way, and explaining them to her had helped Iona work through it on her own.

"I wouldn't, because no eight-year-needs to hear this," Elissa says, smiling wryly and no, those are not tears gathering an army behind her eyes. Then she sees Iona's expression, the almost disappointment. Well, that won't do. "Once upon a time, a girl met a boy and they fell in love in the way children do. Then they grew up, and the girl was married off, and the only reason she likes to keep her new husband around is that it keeps her from thinking of the boy."

It is easier, she thinks. Cailan is pretty and fun, almost, and he's a nice solid distraction from thinking of everything that happened before. Gil, though, is still Gil. The thing between them has been the only source of strength she's had at times, and the loss of the seashells still cuts deeper than anything Howe could have thrown at her.

That's what it is, isn't it? All she and Gil ever really had were seashells; delicate little things that crumble to dust when treated too harshly.

Well, that's a sad thought.

"Eight-year-olds are better off knowing," Iona tells her. "The world isn't a kind place, Lady Elissa. Better to be prepared, Amethyne more than most."

She stops for a minute, thinking, even as she absently begins to work the knots out of her lady's hair. There's something in the way her lady said only, something lurking a little deeper than perhaps even Lady Elissa knows.

"Ser Gilmore understands, you know," she says, instead, because bringing this whole mess to a head is going to take some careful handling; Lady Elissa is still so raw, an angry thrashing thing deep inside of her screaming to get out. "He's not a child, either. You needn't coddle him."

Elissa knows what Iona says is true, but there's still a hesitance. "I don't know what to say. Everything just sounds like it's not enough."

"It may not be," Iona acknowledges. "But even then, something is better than nothing. And you wouldn't be this torn if His Majesty meant nothing to you, my lady."

Ah, there's the bluntness. That's what's best about Iona, in a way. When all else fails, she can trust Iona to give her the truth with no frills. "He's offered to take me to the summer palace," she says, quiet. Iona's hands are steady in her her hair, gentle as each tangle is unbound. "And I said yes."

"And now you're worried that Ser Gilmore will be hurt," Iona finishes for her.

"No." Andraste in a sea quall that's the truth. Elissa knows Gil; knows him better than she knows Fergus. If he's hurting, it's for the same reason she is, not because of anything either one of them did. "I'm just not sure how to tell him that I think he needs to stay here. Since he came to Highever, we've never really been apart. It might be time to put some real distance between us, is all."

Ah, Iona thinks, so that's what this is about. Lady Elissa is moving on, and she's scared, because it's a change and the end of the last piece of Highever she has a hold on. But she's brave, of course she's brave; she just needs a little help working through it. And it would be good for Ser Gilmore, as well, the space. In fact…

"Growing up is scary, isn't it," Iona says, a smile hidden somewhere in her voice. "My lady, perhaps you and His Majesty should go to the summer palace alone."

"What do you mean?" Alone? As in alone? Cailan's a good warrior, for sure, and she's well, Elissa Cousland, but alone is still a rather vulnerable situation for people so prominent. The summer palace, too, may not be well known, but there are certain portions of Fereldan that will know and likely be very happy to see her dead.

"I mean without anyone who is emotionally invested in either of you; not Ser Gilmore, not me, certainly not Chamberlain," Iona says, already thinking of anyone in the Alienage as what could use a job. She'll have to ask Soris. He'd know better than she, by far. "It's not fair, my lady, to either of you. You've not had a chance to really know each other as people, you see?"

"Are we talking about Cailan or Gil?"

"His Majesty, my lady, although I suppose it could also apply to Ser Gilmore. But I meant—" she pauses, weighs the words precious like diamonds, "—I meant that you and King Cailan haven't had a chance to simply be yourselves, on your own, without any distractions. You've not had a chance to get to know each other. And I think you should have that, even if it's only for a little while."

"Dane has to come," Elissa says. "He doesn't listen to anyone else. Soris too, then, I think," and here's the difficult part. She's quite fond of this odd little group she's got. They don't quite match each other and in fact looking at them from the outside it seems like someone's tried to create an armor set out of pieces that don't fit together. "And I guess I need a new maid."

"I'll find someone suitable, my lady, you needn't worry," Iona says. She'll ask Soris, for sure. And his getting out of the capital will be—good, for him, and it'll give Iona the time she needs to squash that particular crush. All the better, she thinks, pleased.

"Just no one like Nan, Maker rest her soul." Elissa looks up at Iona, pleading eyes and every bit of youth still in her features on full display. "I don't think I could deal with another Nan."

"What, you don't want someone who'll breathe down your throat at every turn?" Iona asks, wry. "I can't imagine why you wouldn't, Lady Elissa, I thought it was your favourite thing."

"Oh, Iona," Elissa says, pitying and also maybe a little envious that Iona's memories of the woman will be so much better than hers. "Nan was behaving herself when you met her."

"Maker," Iona breathes. She remembers the yelling. There was so much yelling. "She must have been a horror."

"You have no idea, Iona. No idea."

Maker, why did he think this was a good idea? He should just go check on Soris. Yes, that would be much better than wearing a canyon into the floor with his pacing. The study door is firmly shut; he's not even sure the king is in there.

He's not even sure he would know how to find the king.

Which, of course, begs the question of what exactly he should say.

Lissy won't appreciate the 'hurt her and I kill you' speech; Fergus had had to greet the Prince of Starkhaven with a black eye after that. And Gil himself finds the 'I love her so please don't hurt her' speech to be less of a speech and more of a plea that is about as likely to happen anytime in the near future as the two Divines making peace.

What would Iona do?

Right, she'd—well, she'd sit King Cailan down and do everything she could to make this marriage work because it is the smartest choice. Ferelden needs a queen, needs an heir. That it has to be Lissy is just an unfortunate twist of fate.

Gil stops his pacing to give a long look at the door. One knock and this can be done with.

Or he can go check on Soris and just pretend this never happened.

Maker.

Cailan needs to go for a walk.

He's been fidgeting in his chair for the past half-hour, and he's not getting lost in the old books the way he'd planned. Elissa is—somewhere, in her rooms, probably, still, and he doesn't want to think about that, because then he'll end up crossing the hall just to check in on her, and Iona will slam the door in his face the way she always does because she's frightening.

So he needs to walk.

He's made the decision, up and out of his chair and across the room within a minute, opening the door to freedom and—

Ser Gilmore is pacing a hole in the floor. Cailan blinks.

"Hello, Ser Gilmore," he says. "This is… unexpected. Do you need something?"

Well, there goes any chance at escape. Gil turns, stands straight as a sword, and does not bow. "Your Majesty," he starts, "I was going to check on Soris. If you would like to join me?"
Maker smite him now please. Check on Soris? Yes, that was—this was easier in Highever. Everything was easier in Highever.

"Yeah, course!" says Cailan, face breaking into a bright grin. "How is he—" he searches for the right word, finds it between doing and handling the end of everything he's ever known, "—adjusting?"

"As well as can be expected, Your Majesty," Gil answers, thankful for the neutral ground. "I've been trying to give him some time alone in the armory to figure out which weapons he prefers. Apparently he only knows what he does from watching the guard practice." Which, if anything, is downright terrifying. Soris had been a bit rough around the edges in the Arl's estate, but the raw potential there—it's not any wonder the Warden-Commander had tried to take Soris too. "He'll make a good knight, I think."

"Good," Cailan says. He's thought about the elf more than he's realized, though he doesn't know quite when all that thinking was happening; maybe when he was asleep, who knows. There's something in the texture, there, the remembered tightness to the elf's shoulders when he looked at the blonde elf girl who'd gone with Duncan that tugs at Cailan in a way he didn't expect. It was something of old familial worry, and that might be why. "I'm glad. Is he in the practise yards?"

"He should be." Gil knows, really, that that is exactly where they'll find him. Absently, he starts to lead them towards the western yard the elf has been favoring the most. For all the varied weapons in the armory, Soris has been somewhat single-minded. "He's been switching between greatswords to find which one he likes best, mostly. He's a natural with them."

"Greatswords? That's impressive," Cailan says. The last time he tried to use a greatsword, he'd ended up with his face in the ground and his arse in the air. He'd been overbalanced on the downswing. Suffice to say, it'd not turned out all that well.

And Soris is far slighter than Cailan is.

The western practise yards are, arguably, the least nice of all the practise yards. They're the oldest, for certain, and the least well-maintained: the dummies here are straw and older than the dirt they're stuck in, and the sandy pit isn't swept more than once a season. The balconies overlooking the yard are much higher up, as well, which is good for tactical and training decisions but less good for giving the general public a show.

They're also nearly always empty, which is probably why the elf picked them in the first place.

"It is. I'm not too good with them," Gil admits, thinking back to all the training in Highever. He'd not the best with greatswords, but at least he wasn't Fergus, who ended up being banned for life from even touching a greatsword. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to train him as he needs, though. Any suggestions on someone Lissy will approve of?" And then he realizes exactly what he's said and to whom he is speaking and well, hellfire. "Sorry, Your Majesty," he says, mumbles really, "I meant Lady Elissa."

"Lissy?" Cailan asks. "Is that what you used to call her?"

"Fergus called her that, originally, I think, but it may have been started by someone else." Gil speaks slowly, carefully. These are precious memories, fragile glass things that must be handled with the utmost care. "About a week after I'd arrived, we were training and it ended with me face down in the mud and her standing over me demanding I call her Lissy like everyone else."

Cailan has no trouble imagining it. A tiny Elissa, demanding equality.

It's not like it's that much different, now.

He glances at Ser Gilmore out of the corner of his eye, sees the tight prickle of anxiety along his shoulders. It's the nickname, of course it is, because Ser Gilmore doesn't know him well enough to know that he's never stood for propriety or decorum.

"I don't mind," Cailan says. "That you call her that, I mean. It doesn't matter, not to me."

She was yours, first, he thinks, and swallows hard.

"She'll probably demand you call her that too, at some point." And this is where the tightness in his chest gets to be more than he can bear because this is it, isn't it? This more of a goodbye than saying it to Lissy herself. "She doesn't much care for formality."

"I know," Cailan says, and he's smiling but it's strange and shadowed and he wishes it wasn't. "But I don't think she'll want me calling her that."

Gil glances outside as they pass a window. The sky over Denerim is different than Highever's. It's paler, a washed out blue rather than the vibrant robin's egg that can only come from being offset against the indigo of the sea. "Maybe not. It's a bit of Highever, that's all."

"It's not my place," Cailan says, very quietly, as they round a bend and the western practise yard unfurls in front of them.

Maker, he thinks, shocked briefly out of the melancholy by the sheer ugliness of the yard. This really needs some work.

Gil winces, forgetting who he's with when they step into the yard just in time to see a greatsword cleave right through a dummy. That's not a move he knows, but Soris has the damn weapon balanced perfectly, it looks like. Andraste, this elf is scary. "Would it be possible to get better equipment in this yard?" he asks. "I don't think what's here is going to survive for long."

"This place looks like a graveyard, it's depressing," says Cailan. "I'll talk to Chamberlain, he'll do something about it."

"Armor as well," Gil says, looking closer at the splintmail fitting far too loose on the elf's slight frame. "If we're going to have odd bodies in the queensguard, we're going to need armor that actually fits them."

And really, he's fairly certain it's not going to stop at an elf. Lissy has never, in all the years he's known her, given one whit what someone's background is. So long as they can do the job and are loyal, they're good. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if she recruited a Qunari or a dwarf.

He stops and thinks about it. Armor is going to be a pain in the arse because knowing Lissy, the queensguard is more than likely going to end up with a Qunari and a dwarf at some point. Probably a few more elves, too. And Mabari, of course. There will probably be more Mabari than anything.

"We should probably find a decent armourer," Cailan says, more to himself than anything. He squints up at the sky, trying to think of the armourers in Denerim: not Wade, Elissa would kill the man in about thirty seconds for being such an utter waste of talent. There's a dwarven armourer with a name he can't remember, but they're a merchant family and Cailan is loathe to harm Denerim's economy any more than it has been. There's Mikhail Dryden, as well, and though the family as a whole is a superstitious lot, that is a possibility.

"Highever's got a couple," Gil says, staying focused on the way Soris is moving with the sword. Kid's definitely good, but could use a greatsword actually built for someone so slight, maybe? He doubts the armorer at the castle survived; man was loyal to a fault. The armorer in the city proper will be loathe to move; he's elf-blooded and perfectly at home in Highever where everyone is more concerned with the quality of his work than his family. There is that elven apprentice, but same issue. None of the dwarves will move; the Merchant's Guild in Kirkwall is too important to their trade. He sighs, armoring a guard should not be this difficult. "But none will work here."

"How is he doing that?" Cailan wonders aloud, folds his arms over the balcony railing to watch the way Soris cuts through the straw dummies like the sword isn't longer than he is. It's good, he's good, but that he needs someone who knows the finer points of two-handed weapon use is clear.

Maker, there's so much to do.

"Some—the Maker must like him," Gil answers, arms crossed over his chest, trying to ignore the memory of the Chantry Mothers' chiding. "That's all I can say. I really do need to find him a better teacher. There's no way I can train him if he's that good on his own." He's not quite sure what he's expecting, but it's...something else. Certainly not the king just standing there, silently staring at the sky. "Your Majesty?"

"Ah, sorry, I was just thinking, I might know someone we could ask about armour," Cailan says, slowly, remembering the mud and the stricken look on the other boy's face. "He might be hard to find, though."

Oh no. Gil knows that expression. It's the same one he's seen Lissy with, the one that's between guilty and embarrassed and always goes with that sinking feeling that nothing is going to end well. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Cailan says quick as he can, waves the memory of the two very distinct pieces of his father's sword away. "Nothing we couldn't fix, anyway. He's an old friend—" and yes, that is a very loose use of the word friend, "—but he'll be amenable, I think."

He doesn't say that he hasn't seen hide nor hair of Mikhail Dryden in a decade, but it makes no difference. Talent like that doesn't go unnoticed for long, no matter how well a person conceals themselves, and Cailan can't imagine Mikhail willingly giving up on smithing.

"Amenable to working for you," Gil says, looking back at Soris and thinking they need an armorer rather sooner than later, because that splintmail isn't going to pass the queen's inspections, "or amenable to working for Lissy?"

"Elissa, obviously," Cailan says, grin going sharp and shark-like. "I doubt he's forgiven me yet."

"Well, if he can make strong armor and good weapons for an elf and whatever else she decides to recruit in the future, he should do just fine." Gil can't quite fight the growing smile on his own face. "And she will recruit soldiers the nobles won't like."

"Good," Cailan says, "they could do with some rattling."

Gil won't ask. The upper aristocracy has never been of much interest, outside of whatever trouble the Cousland siblings had stirred up because no one was watching them. "I hope you don't have a problem with other races, then. She'll recruit the best, regardless of where they come from or what they look like. Even if that means taking on a Qunari guard or an apostate mage." He doesn't mention dwarves or more elves. Those should be obvious enough. But Maker help them all if Lissy sets her mind of a guard that will have the nobles in revolt. "If given enough leeway, she'll have more than just the nobles breathing down your neck."

"I've had worse than that," Cailan says, thinks of his father's cold indifference, the smirking empty eyes at court. Qunari, elven, dwarven, mage; it makes no difference. People are alike in cruelty. "And as long as whoever it is does what they say they'll do, I've no reason to quarrel with them."

Not quite what he was expecting, but a good answer. "You should get along just fine with her, then," he says, quiet, attention mostly focused on the elf in the yard. "Just watch her back, please? She doesn't always think things through, not when nobles or the Chantry are involved."

"You say that like you think I'm any better," Cailan mutters under his breath. "That was Anora's job."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, you're still a Theirin. That gives you a certain kind of protection no one else has in this country." He sighs, thinking a tad bitterly of the Fereldans who came to Highever and remembered life before the occupation ended. "There's still bad blood between the Couslands and many in this country for what they did when the Orlesians came."

"Yes, I know," Cailan says. But he thinks of the books in his mother's study that he'd grown up reading, the old tales of rulers gone power-mad and marrying their sisters to keep the line pure, and knows that blood isn't everything.

But Ser Gilmore is right, in this.

"I won't let her come to harm," Cailan says, quiet. "I swear on my life."

"That's all I ask," says Gil. "And if you can, please make her happy."

"I can't promise that," Cailan says, because he can't, he really can't, he can't pretend that Elissa will be happy just because he wants her to be, because that's not the way people are. And Cailan's not an idiot, at least not all the time, so he drops his voice and murmurs, "but I can spend the rest of my life trying."

Gil looks down at the ground directly beneath the balcony, sighs, thinks that maybe Eamon was on to something when the Arl suggested this particular match. "Then you should probably know she likes seashells more than flowers," he says, and tries to ignore the way it feels like a farewell to something old and precious.

"Why am I not surprised," Cailan asks, but it's not really a question that needs an answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see Ser Gilmore saying a very quiet, intensely private goodbye.

And Cailan knows all about those.

Best to change the subject, and pretend like he hadn't seen at all.

"Do you think he's noticed us, yet?" he asks, nods towards where Soris is still cutting through the practise dummies like they're made of butter.

"I doubt it," Gil says. There's only two dummies left at this point, Maker where did this elf come from? There's no way he grew up in the Denerim Alienage. "Need to work on that. I don't even think he noticed his cousin at the wedding."

"His cousin?" Cailan asks. "The little blonde elf with Duncan, you mean?"

"That would be her," Gil replies. "I'm surprised you didn't notice her. The Grand Cleric spent half the wedding glaring murder at the poor girl."

"Does the Grand Cleric ever do anything but glare murder at people?" Cailan asks, because, really, he has no memories of the Grand Cleric doing anything else. "She's—"

He stops, because he can't say what he was just going to say, that's probably blasphemy.

"—old," he goes with.

(Which is also probably blasphemy, now that he thinks about it. Andraste, he needs to learn.)

Gil chooses not to answer that. There's history there, something unique to the royal family and the city of Denerim. It's nothing he needs to worry about, so he instead asks, "Do you think we should tell him we're here?"

"Do you think he'll notice if we don't?"

"Probably not," says Gil, reaching down to his boot for a dagger. There are probably better ways to alert the elf, but none so effective at making a point. No pun intended, of course. Throwing daggers has never really been his strong suit, but the blade flies true, landing a ways away from the elf.

Who just pauses, mid-swing like it's nothing to be twirling a sword longer than he is around, and finally looks up at them and waves like this is completely normal.

"Let's go talk to him, then," Cailan says, grinning and waving back like a madman because why not, really, what's it going to hurt. He thinks Ser Gilmore sighs behind him, but then he's swinging down the stairs without another thought.

Ser Gilmore could probably use a few moments of privacy, Cailan thinks, hanging back for long moments before he follows the other man down. It can't hurt.

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tbc.