Mornings, whether in Highever or Redcliffe, on the road or caught up in the hours of battle, all resemble each other. There are, intimated in the nature of mornings, certain rituals that must take place. First, there is the chasing away of the darkness. The quiet awakening of body and mind, the gentle push from the other side of the Fade until it releases its hold. And the victory afterwards, the sensation of being able to pull life back from whatever direction it is going.
It's a fleeting triumph, but a triumph nonetheless.
Mornings mean to stretch limbs to the point of breaking, yawn dreams out of the body and then slip back into the element of water; water against the sleep-warm skin in her face and on her neck; followed by - and this is the best part - food. She has always been starved in the mornings, as though the night quietly drains her.
It is still hunger that awakes her on the cold ground between Redcliffe and Denerim. Hunger, and the muffled chatter of low voices sharing her tent.
"You are snoring worse than Oghren, my dear," Wynne points out, folding her bedroll into a pack and smiling.
"I am not." Leliana, face flushed and arms folded.
"Oh, you are."
"Good morning to you, too," Elissa mutters, crawling up on all fours on the ground. Her back hurts. She's not yet in her twenty-fifth year and her back hurts from travelling, her head soars with the lack of all those daily luxuries they have been denied for so long now and her shoulders are taut, wired so tight that she seems to be at a breaking-point. And there is no release. Nowhere in sight is there a faint whisper of release of any form or shape, no promises of anything better than this incessant marching towards fate. She wonders how the others are holding up, all those soldiers old enough to be her mothers and fathers.
"Good morning," Leliana turns to her, the notes of her voice warming up. "We are settling a dispute over who is snoring the loudest."
"Is there a prize for the winner?" Elissa looks over her shoulder for clothes, feeling a chill from outside the tent, creeping through the thick canvas. "I have been told I snore on occasion. It could be slander, of course."
"Oh, you don't," Leliana says, something in her face shifting and the look in Wynne's eyes switch from amused to a darker shade of worry. "You don't snore, exactly. You... ah, you seem more unrestful."
"Yes. Well. Try sharing a bond with an Archdemon and Loghain and we'll see how sound you sleep."
She is shying away from this, precisely this, and has been since she first caught them looking at her with that particular blend of pity and compassion; her mind is sealed and her body a wall of stone where this does not belong. It makes her weak, because they make her want it. She wants Leliana's hands rubbing the sore spots in her back; she wants Wynne sitting with her until it dawns, explaining why a life is not lost or wasted simply because it is not what one wanted it to be (but it is, oh it is, for in the end one cannot change one's desire, merely wash them out like stains and traces will always remain). She wants nothing more than being a very small child again, asking only for a brief moment outside of time, when she can curl up and cry for all that she has lost, and never will have again.
But Elissa hasn't cried since Highever and she can't cry now.
Shaking the discomfort off her body like her dog shakes off dirt, she offers a half-smile to her companions. They look unconvinced but let her get dressed in silence, clothes and armour slowly covering up any remaining doubts.
"I'm fine," she says, pressing Leliana's hands.
"No, you're not. And you are a terrible liar."
Wynne politely turns her back to them as a hand finds its way to Elissa's face, stroking her cheek.
"Leliana..."
"I know, I know," she sighs and the eyes darken again. "Off you go then, to lead your warriors."
Sighing, Elissa undoes the knots of the tent-opening and steps outside.
She is greeted by a sight that feels vaguely familiar, despite very few previous mornings of this kind. Camp is bustling, everyone is on their way somewhere and yet there is a pattern to it, in the way pale ladies in waiting run from tents to carriages – terribly misplaced in a scene of battle but this is no ordinary battle, this is a fight against extinction – and the way the knights nod towards each other as they walk up to their horses, the way Elissa is breaking her fast in silence, alone in the outskirts of the little village of tents belonging to the dwarves.
This, she knows, is the pattern of war.
They will ride as soon as Eamon or Teagan, assuming some sort of leadership of this army whenever they can, declare that it's wise to do so. Elissa suffocates her own vitriol at the sight of the arl of Redcliffe, thinking it steams from vanity more than anything else. This is not her army. The Blight is not hers. But she's a Teyrn's daughter and the politics in Eamon's game runs in her blood as well, ever-present and disdainfully aware of any personal loss. She knows his agenda by now, but knows too, that she is no longer allowed one of her own.
Eamon has a way with the men that she lacks. Like pawns to the queen, they flock around him and his orders, seemingly unaware of anything else.
Elissa is an inexperienced woman half their age and she may be a hero, but unless she can prove herself some sort of deity or Andraste reborn, they will not let those crimes pass unnoticed. So the knights talk. In the way knights do. Even with the taint thundering in her head she can hear them, chattering away like the gossip mongers in the streets. Whenever she comes too close, the voices die away.
"...the Teyrn defers to her, imagine that!"
"Bryce Cousland's youngest... always thought the older brother was the general of the family, but there you go..."
"...and these Wardens... heroes they may be, but what of their skills as strategists?"
Elissa groans.
Loghain walks ahead of her, a saddlebag thrown over his shoulder and his arms full of breastplate and gauntlets. She quickens her pace to draw level with him and when he notices her he throws a quick glance her way.
"Morning, Warden."
The smell of leather, horses and metal is what she will think of when this is over, she realises, as she walks there by his side. The smells and the heavy rhythm of blood in her body.
"Who were you unfortunate enough to share a tent with last night?" she asks.
"I slept outside." He snorts. "The assassin kindly offered me the bedroll beside his but it seems a wasteful death to be poisoned in one's sleep, during a Blight no less."
He gives her a puzzled and annoyed look when she laughs.
"Oh, Zevran isn't... I mean, he'd never betray an ally of mine."
"He seemed rather unsentimental about killing you." They have reached the horses and Loghain is stroking his mare over the mane.
"I trust him with my life." Elissa has never spoken those words before but as she does, she knows they are true.
"You find friends in strange places, Warden."
She smiles. "That I do."
Shaking his head, Loghain tosses his bag over the horse's back, drops the gauntlets on the ground and begins forcing the breastplate in place. It's unevenly balanced on his shoulders and Elissa sees that's it's about to slide down his left side and catches it – in one swift move – before it falls. A reflex she has developed over months of having to dress herself in armour, now a motion as natural to her body as any other; Loghain looks at her before grabbing for the metal in her hands and readjusting it. Elissa turns to her horse.
"We should be in the city come tomorrow," Loghain says, as they are saddled up and ready to ride.
Elissa nods, trying to get a good look at his face on horseback, which proves a bit difficult. She has a nagging suspicion, refusing to let go of her, that if she is feeling bad, he ought to be even worse off. This is something no question in this world or the next would have him admit, but Riordan and likely Morrigan aside, he is her strongest asset in this fight and she needs him well. Wants him well, too, when it comes down to it.
"My head is never quiet any more," she says, looking down on the reins in her hands. Beneath her the warm, powerful animal is getting restless. Her heels in his side urge patience and she is granted it. She remembers the hallas among the Dalish, but knows too that this horse's surrender is not a servile thing, it's a mere necessity. "Not since Redcliffe."
"No," Loghain agrees simply.
They ride fast and easy for a long while, scouting ahead of the army and sensing no worse activity than usual. Behind them the Dalish are relaxing as well, passing time with songs and riddles; occasionally Elissa can hear the Keeper Ashalla interrupt the soothing flow of words for an order or urge caution, but any enemy the came across – stray darkspawn and a few wild animals - is soon defeated.
Around noon, there is a rift in the air around them, an undercurrent in the steady stream of noise in her head and Elissa is about to speak, when Loghain pulls up his horse and looks at her, sharing the sensation.
"It's coming from the forest, I think-"
She is interrupted as a horde of genlocks hurl themselves out of their cover in a row of bushes to her right and a lash of unmistakable emissary magic whip across her face from the left. At her side, Loghain shouts back to the Dalish before he ducks for a fire arrow and draws his bow. With a sense of desperation, Elissa becomes acutely aware of the fact that she is no knight and dismounts ungracefully. Her weapon is still hanging limp and useless on her back when the first arrow hits her in her arm, and a second one brush against her chest but falls to the ground as she parries.
The Dalish are bombarding the horde with shots from further back, and Loghain proves that he is indeed as good a marksman as he is a rider when they suddenly hear a new battle cry. The decreasing lot of darkspawn freezes. Elissa uses the brief pause to pull the arrow out of her flesh and draw her sword, firmly ignoring the pain coming from her right upper arm.
"Blast," Loghain curses from his position on the horse, and she understands why when she looks in the same direction and spots a massive crowd of hurlocks, archers and emissaries darting forward. They are running, screaming and aiming directly for them as though the taint calls them.
Without much of a choice, Elissa fights right behind the archers, taking on the darkspawn that don't fall. She tries to make sense of how far ahead they are and when the army might arrive, but fails in this mission as another arrow pierces her breastplate and brings her to her knees momentarily. Gasping for air and regaining it, she pulls herself together again.
"Knights are coming!" Loghain screams at her, firing two arrows in a row against an emissary that hisses a final spell before it dies. "Stay behind me if you are unfit to fight!"
"I'm not!" she screams back, running a genlock through with her sword and bashing another with the side of the blade as she drags it out.
A few steps to the left and she fells another, parries a cluster of arrows by sheer luck, as she darts to find cover that isn't a moving bloody warhorse.
And then she isn't doing much at all because there's a sharp, burning pain in her side and she falls down, writhing, one hand clutching the sword and the other trying to grab the arrow that crippled her. Maker. Elissa has to close her eyes, regardless of the dangers, and concentrate on breathing because it is suddenly intensely difficult to achieve a proper breath.
She can hear the knights gallop to their battle but she can't see them, her eyes blinded with a veil of white torment that subsides only when she – screaming and probably sobbing – drags the arrow out of her stomach in a too-long, shuddering move. She feels one more a bit further down, but she can't steady her hand enough to repeat the procedure; scrambling to her feet she opens her eyes again.
The battle goes on.
There's an outnumbered group of knights taking out the archers, another one attacking the remaining emissaries and then Loghain, who has dismounted as well and bashes a hurlock with his shield. She catches his gaze before struggling back into the heat of the battle, clutching her side.
"That is unwise," he says, out of breath and his face smeared with sweat and dirt. He wipes his forehead with the back of his sword-arm. "You need a healer."
"I'm... fine," Elissa insists, still feeling the blood pulsate between her fingers and she is about to fall down again, not feeling her legs, but this time Loghain is there and instead of falling she all but collapses against him, her back against his chest.
Without words, he puts one arm around her and then – before she can protest – he grabs hold of the last arrow and rids her of it.
"The knights can go find a mage," he says.
Elissa winces. "No."
"Are you planning on dying here then?"
"I'm... no." She inhales sharply as a surge of pain rips through her when Loghain releases his hold of her body, still unsteady and without its usual strength it jerks slightly. "But I can't... don't let them see me like this. Please."
She expects a scolding answer, his usual frosty sarcasm when she suggests foolish things or at least a scoff. But he surprises her by simply nodding.
"Can you ride?"
Elissa mirrors his nod. "I think so."
He strides back to his horse, rummaging through the saddlebags and hands her a cloak, a simple brown thing that has seen better days.
"This should do," he says, eyes travelling down over her bleeding gashes, an unreadable expression in them, betraying neither disappointment nor worry. She swallows.
And they ride, once it's clear that the knights can handle anything else that might jump at them from the forest, they ride back against the stream of soldiers marching until they reach the Queen's carriage. Elissa holds herself upright through sheer willpower and a poultice that is cold and still ineffective but brings a faint promise of future healing to the worst wound. She has Loghain a mere arm's length away; as they pass people who wants to talk to them, ask about the rumoured trouble ahead, he cuts them off with sharp orders.
"The Wardens would like to discuss a matter with the Queen." He voices it like a statement, loud and clear. When he turns to the soldiers watching the little scene, his face is stern. "This is nothing that concerns you. Carry on!"
Elissa looks at him gratefully, praying that nobody notices that when she climbs down from the horseback, she is a dry sob away from wailing out her pain and that when she gets into the carriage, it is Loghain's arms that push her upwards.
"What in the Maker's name-" Anora looks at them, wide-eyed and sceptical before she has time to register why a panting Warden is crawling on the floor of her carriage. "Father, what-"
"Get Wynne," Elissa hears him say in a low, serious voice before she has to close her eyes again and drifts off into blissful, painless sleep.
.
.
.
.
It is odd how your body is made up of so many sensitive parts, she thinks, half-way out of her dream. Seems like a bad decision, to create mankind with so little strength and so much that can – and will - break. Her stomach feels like it has been invaded by fire, her breathing is uneven and every breath, when it finds its way out of her, comes with a sting as the torn flesh moves with it.
Even so, Elissa tries to sit up, to discern her surroundings if nothing else.
"I would not do that, if I were you," a soft and familiar voice says close to her ear. "You were badly injured before. The potions and salves will require a few more hours to do their job."
"But the darkspawn-"
"Riordan and Loghain are taking care of them, I am certain." Wynne pats her shoulder reassuringly.
"Warlords," another voice sighs, sounding amused of all things, "you are made from the same form, the lot of you."
Squinting, Elissa can tell this voice belongs to the Queen of Ferelden, seated with her back to the road ahead and her gaze fastened on Elissa. It's a strange vision to have, in a place like this. She possesses an effortless beauty that lashes out against them even now because even here she looks her part, despite the raging war and a stinking, bloodied Warden at her feet, Anora is regal. It's in her voice and her body as much as her face.
A rose among brambles, she thinks drowsily. Was it her mother who said that?
"Here," Wynne says and lifts Elissa's head into her own lap as she holds out a goblet of something. Something that tastes of ashes and bile, and makes her cough but that slides down her throat after a few attempts. "This should help."
It does. Almost immediately the haze is gone and thoughts are no longer filtered through sticky walls of pain that cut them to shreds. Elissa sighs.
"Did anyone notice?"
"You will be safe here," Anora answers while evading the question at the same time. "And I assure you that if my father was the only one who was made aware of your previous predisposition, the secret stays with him."
A soft noise from Wynne is the only sign of her different opinion in the matter, gracefully restrained in the Queen's presence.
"I must be off seeing to a few knights who were also harmed," she says, getting to her feet and placing Elissa's head back on the pillow. "Will you kindly let me know if she needs me, your Majesty?"
"Naturally."
Once they are alone, Elissa tries to move, carefully. It still feels impossible but is not, at least not in small steps and with gritted teeth. She tilts her head to the side and wonders if she looks as foolish as she feels. With effort she pulls the brown cloak up over her chest, so it covers most of her. What is not seen is not there.
"I have long wanted to speak to you in private, Warden," the Queen says, leaning forward in her seat.
"Yes?"
"We did not get a chance to talk after Landsmeet. And not properly before it, either."
Elissa recalls the hurried conversations leading up to that, the sense of being in the middle of something that was far too complex to be decided in one vulgar outbreak of the Landsmeet, the event her father used to refer to as a genteel playground after a few glasses of wine.
"I suppose we never did," she says.
"My methods to ensure your support were not as honourable as I would have liked." Anora watches her, with the sort of unreadable expression her father often employs. "But I think you agree that there was no doubt my father had to be stopped."
"I agree, your Majesty."
"Yes," she says, folding her hands in her lap. To have something to do, it appears. Perhaps the restlessness of battle gets to her too, royalty be damned. "You are the sensible sort, obviously."
"What would you have done if I had decided to support Alistair alone?" Elissa asks, and she does not have to spell out the silent part of the question: and put myself on the throne by his side.
Anora raises an eyebrow. "What do you think, Warden? In my place, what would have been your strategy?"
"I would have supported the regent in power, I presume. If he had been in a position to grant me future support in return. And if he had not been, I might have tried to outmanoeuvre him later, when the Landsmeet wasn't watching. Or instantly, if that had seemed more beneficial."
"You are a Cousland, still," Anora replies, a weak smile playing on her lips. "It is good to hear."
"Meaning that this was the strategy you employed?"
"He is my father." She sharpens her tone, only slightly, so that no one who isn't used to subtleties would notice. "Do not doubt that I love him, very dearly at that. But he was a lost cause at the Landsmeet. There was no saving him."
"No," Elissa has to admit. Anora had done what she could to keep Loghain safe while also preserving her own power. She had been every bit the political manipulator Elissa's mother, both jealous and in awe, would claim Anora had always had the potential of becoming.
"He thinks highly of you," the Queen says, softer now, as before. "As you may have guessed, he is not easy to impress."
It feels strange speaking of Loghain with his daughter, feels like a peculiar balance on lines that are thin and dangerously twisted and where every misstep is laden with consequences.
"Loghain has been very useful, as I expected." Elissa smiles, tentatively. The lines are indeed difficult to see. "Did he tell you... did he mention we returned to Ostagar on our way here?"
"Ostagar? What would you do there?"
And Elissa explains, in detail. Anora listens without questions until the words wear thin and the carriage rocks to a halt, and voices outside suggest a rest.
"We found King Cailan's belongings in the end," Elissa says, bringing the threads together. She has barely spoken this much to anyone since Alistair was hers and they spent every night trying to wear each other out with long-winded tales and speculation of the future.
"Ah, that explains father's new sword." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I suppose he took it before anyone had time to suggest it should be brought back to the Theirin bloodline?"
"Oh, he did not," Elissa says softly. "I gave it to him."
"You did?"
The expression in the Queen's face makes Elissa hesitate, remembering Ostagar as it was laid out before them the second time she visited it. It had seemed a decision as simple as breathing, back then. The sword in Loghain's hands and the night surrounding them with a heavy reassurance.
"I thought it belonged to Maric's best friend rather than to the bastard who just so happened to share his blood," she says, sounding more cynical than intended. "I don't... it wouldn't have meant much to Alistair."
Something softens in the Queen's face, something thaws in her voice and warms it up from beneath.
"I see," she says.
"May I ask you a question?" Elissa asks, to steer the conversation in another direction.
"Certainly."
Elissa puts her hand to the wound to her left, putting a firm pressure to it as she turns a little to her side. "Were you aware of the extent of your husband's correspondence in regards to your marriage?"
"Correspondence?" The Queen looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly before her expression relents. "Ah, you are of course referring to the letters between my late husband and his uncle?"
"No." Elissa shakes her head. "Well, in parts I am, but that is not the end of it."
"Please, go on, Warden."
"There was... evidence at Ostagar, among the personal belongings we found in King Cailan's chest, that he was... forging alliances with the Orlesian Empress."
Anora is quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that Elissa concludes that the conversation is over; her prying question is indeed overstepping the bounds of propriety that not even a new title and its disregard for hierarchies can remove from her knowledge. But then the Queen speaks.
"This was news to me, Warden."
"For which I sincerely apologise," Elissa says, searching to find her upbringing somewhere among the wreckage this past year has left in its wake. "It is not something one should find out in this way, your Majesty, and from a stranger at that."
"Thank you. Did... did my father know of this, do you think?"
"Oh, I doubt he did. He was very upset when we found the letters."
"I see." Anora is quiet for a while again. "I am going to ask for a favour, Warden."
"I suspected as much." Elissa winces as she's trying to adjust her position on the bedroll, reminding herself yet again of why bedrolls belong on grounds and not moving carriages. Every motion of the wheels translate into jolts of pain, tiny stabs of ache in her wounds.
"It will not go unrewarded, of course."
"Of course."
"We will speak more of this once the war is over," Anora says, "but allow me to say at this point that I will need a discrete and politically neutral ally with a reason to go to Orlais without drawing attention to this fact."
Elissa sneers inwardly at the thought of playing errand boy to the Queen. Her mother would faint. Faint and curse and then get down to work, priding herself on it in the end.
"Let us focus on the matters at hand for the time being," she says. "And then we might have an audience like this one again."
"That should not be a problem," Anora rises at the sound of high-pitched girl voices outside the carriage. "Thank you for your time, Warden."
"Thank you for your assistance, your Majesty," Elissa says, closing her eyes as she is left alone.
With the rocking having come to an end and the buzz outside growing into a comfortable and familiar sound of camp life, she finds that she doesn't ache as badly. And when the pain releases its grip, the exhaustion takes the field instead; she wonders what sort of potions Wynne has given her and if there are perhaps more of those at hand. She could do with sleep again. Since they are not going to let her draw her sword again before tomorrow, she might as well make use of the idle time.
"We have stopped for a while," the mage says, as though Elissa's thoughts have summoned her. Turning her head, she spots Wynne climbing into the carriage with surprising ease and lowering herself to where Elissa is resting. While glad for company, the concept of solitude is lost when other people break into it.
"How are you feeling, my dear?"
"Is there any food-"
"Warden!" Loghain's voice approaching from outside interrupts her effectively.
"Yes?"
Then his face appears and Elissa shuffles awkwardly to a different position to be able to look at him without straining her neck.
"There were a few troubles along the way." He stands on the ground, leaning in to the carriage. "We're going to let the horses rest for a few hours and then we travel without interruption to Denerim."
"Any losses?"
"A few, nothing detrimental."
Elissa can hear Wynne scoff.
"Very well," she respods, ignoring it.
"Your general will be fully restored with a little more rest," Wynne says sharply as Loghain makes a move suggesting he is about to leave. "In case you take any notice."
"Wynne."
"I'm sorry, dear," Wynne sighs, touching Elissa's arm.
Elissa props herself up to the best of her ability, her eyes meeting Loghain's for a second. He seems tired in a rather grim way, and she could ask plenty of questions of how the day has been spent – questions she would like to have answers to – but not now. Now she merely smiles at him.
"Thank you, Loghain," she says, pointedly.
"Of course, Warden."
And if she didn't know better she could swear there is a genuine smile buried somewhere in his sneer.
.
.
.
.
When they are mere hours away from Denerim's gates, Elissa is given permission from Wynne to ride again. The threats from before seem to have been averted and they spend the rest of the journey in silence, scouting ahead of the army like Elissa had not just been resting for countless of hours, near death according to the healer's tightly wounded voice – you are valuable, dear - when they went back to the battle.
But here they are. And there's Denerim.
"Looks like trouble," Loghain says sharply and slows down.
Elissa follows suit.
"Push back into the city!" A voice is thundering in front of them. "All of you! Back!"
Elissa leans forward, as though that small adjustment would help her see hundreds of metres ahead to discern what scenario is taking place just outside the gates. There's a commotion of soldiers, darkspawn and fleeing silhouettes spreading before them and then a relative calm, as the fighting somewhat subsides.
They approach, tentatively at first and then without restraint.
"It's Cauthrien," Loghain says, his voice losing its rough edges.
He is on the ground within seconds, and she looks up, removing her helmet to get a better view. She freezes as she sees him, before almost dropping her sword in what seems like surprise mixed with something decidedly warmer.
"I thought we'd never see another human coming this way," she gasps. "Least of all you."
"I refuse to die decently," Loghain is in front of her, looking at her like he suspects she is a mirage. Elissa dismounts as well, glancing over her shoulder for the others that are approaching steadily in the distance. "You should know that by now."
"We've tried to hold them back for days." The knight rests her hands on her knees to catch her breath, looking up at Loghain as though she's still awaiting orders from him. "The...king is in the city, he insisted on fighting. There was no talking him out of it. You were delayed?"
"Yes, we have been held up elsewhere," Loghain said, nodding towards Elissa who steps forward.
"Good to see you, Ser Cauthrien," she offers. The Commander of Maric's Shield is scarcely her favourite person in Ferelden, but at the moment she is indeed a welcome sight.
"Warden." The less than friendly feeling, she can tell by the tone, is definitely mutual. Then she turns back to Loghain. "These darkspawn, they can come from the ground?"
"They can."
"That explains a lot. So. Wardens." She sneers a little at that. "I must ride back to my troops. I shall see you inside the city."
"Yes, ser." Elissa nods. "You will."
"Cauthrien?" Loghain looks at her, then at the burning buildings behind her frame, the sound and fury of war greeting and repelling them at the same time. "Good luck."
