A/N: Please note that this chapter is NSFW.

.

.


"No, father, you may not bring the mabari."

Dog, who is sitting at Loghain's side in the doorway, makes a small noise that sounds much like a derisive snort, but when Loghain steers him away with a little push of his hand, the dog accepts, slinking back out in the corridor. The Queen of Ferelden watches with a frown. Aside from the kittens she insisted on as a child, Anora has never been fond of animals.

"Anora," Loghain greets her informally in the privacy of her office. "Why did you wish to see me?"

After a moment's pause she walks towards him, slowly enough for him to get a decent chance at looking her over. Something is different: she is pale and unsettled; even beneath the worry there's a deeper change, a rift in her composure. Pushing back irritated concern, he wonders if it's the political turmoil of the Thaw – or what ought to have been a Thaw but isn't quite – or more personal reasons behind it.

"Are you staying in Denerim for long?" Anora asks instead of responding to the question. It's a strategy he has taught her and, of course, it promptly drives him mad when she uses it on him. She gestures for him to sit down before she seats herself behind the desk, glancing at a pile of opened letters on the tabletop.

"Not at all." Loghain leans back in his chair. "I came here to survey the Orlesians and pick up a few things before I leave for Amaranthine."

"I understand."

"What is the problem?" he asks, when she still doesn't indicate any willingness to elaborate on her reasons for wanting to see him.

Anora sighs quietly. So quietly, Loghain thinks, that he only notices it because she is his daughter. She knows the value of composure and of remaining shielded in it - even in this room with no witnesses, she is regal but for the small flickers of emotion prickling the surface of her face. When she speaks, her tone is level.

"The Empress is pulling her strings," she says. "Our diplomats and spies all give reports of a highly increased political activity in Orlais and beyond. Do you know what is happening in Tevinter?"

"I hardly know more of these matters than you do, Anora," Loghain says, thinking that he has spent the past few months building stables and recruiting farmers' children. Thinking, too, that Anora is well aware of this. Howe was the one who had been in contact with the Tevinters, conjuring up contracts and propositions that Loghain had signed with the same lack of enthusiasm as he hadd signed everything else that year. They made profit from it and that is all he knows about the current state of the Imperium. "You tell me, what is happening in Tevinter?"

"Nobody knows."

"I see." He raises an eyebrow, irritable and impatient. This is not the daughter he raised, not this woman who is speaking in unfinished statements and questions without possible answers. The Anora he knows would handle these simple, unimportant matters in her correspondence, if at all.

"What gives me reason to worry is that the Empress has massively increased the defence of her borders," Anora continues.

"She might fear the darkspawn." Loghain suggests.

"She might." Anora sounds unconvinced, spreading her hands in her lap and giving a slight nod. "Or she fears something else entirely."

"This is merely speculation, Anora." He looks at her frankly, trying again to find the motivations behind this odd and uncharacteristic way of moving in circles around the subject. "What do you know?"

Even the lines in her face are drawn differently, Loghain thinks, frowning. She seems unlike herself in many ways and he cannot escape the thought that there is something decidedly private that bothers her. She wets and purses her lips and keeps her gaze firm in his own.

"I know that Wardens are disappearing, father. And I know that the Empress is taking action. When Alistair returned from Amaranthine, he told me that there are a new kind of darkspawn attacking now." Her voice changes, hardens. "Wardens are being summoned to Orlais, is that not true?"

Loghain nods. "It is, it seems."

"Have you been?"

"Summoned?" He raises an eyebrow. "I have not."

"I see." She seems to relent a bit at that assurance, sinking back in her seat. Between them in the hollows of every word she doesn't speak lie a thousand unmentioned implications of this, implications neither of them will ever have the right to bring up. There are so many promises she can't demand of him and just as many lies he doesn't want to tell unless forced to. The Anora he knows and raised would not accept them, would never need them.

"Anora, I do not have time for idle chatter," he says, sharply. "The Commander is expecting me in Amaranthine and if there is nothing of actual importance you wish to tell me, I shall be on my way now."

"Very well." She nods, despite the tiny grimace of hesitance in her face.

"Yes?" Loghain asks, to confirm that he has been dismissed. When she does not say anything to contradict it, he gets to his feet. Then, as he is about to leave, Anora suddenly reaches out a hand, clasping his arm.

"We're expecting a child, father."

For a second Loghain thinks he has misunderstood her rather rushed confession because he finds the idea so strange, has almost given it up after her barren marriage to Cailan. But then he scrutinizes her again and eventually he finds a thread of familiar signs leading back over thirty years into the past. The same shadows of illness and unease tearing at Anora's skin, the grey ghosts of nausea and exhaustion. Celia had once said that being with child was a quiet plague and she had also, Loghain recalls now, been bedridden for large stretches of time during those first months, becoming pale and thin.

Anora looks at him, urgently. He realises he has not yet said anything.

"That... is good news," Loghain can feel a smile form on his lips. He presses her hand that is still resting on his arm. "Eamon cannot get to you now."

For five years that had often been on Loghain's mind - on Anora's too, he suspects, even if she rarely spoke of it - and he finds that it still is, if not quite as much. He finds, too, that it's easily overshadowed by other emotions at this announcement.

"Indeed not, not if all goes well." Her eyes glitter and she smiles, too, a bit weakly. "I wanted to tell you. Before you leave. I thought you would want to know."

"Of course." Loghain nods. "I'm glad."

A child.

She is the Queen of Ferelden and the child she carries is the heir to Calenhad's throne, yet Loghain still remembers her best as a six year old girl, furious and unruly one moment, only to throw her round child-arms around his neck the next. Her toothless lisp and her hard little fists slamming against him when he had carried her out of the armoury again, explaining to her once more that she could not play in there.

Ever since she was born, Anora has been his roots. The constant thing in his life – no matter what he did to himself and others, he was always her father and he loved her, even when she pronounced him a monster, even when he was one. Though he did nearly nothing to honour this fatherly love over the years, it was there. It reminded him of other duties, other lives, softened the edges of his sharp contours and brutally defined lines.

And it still does, he thinks as she is in his embrace a moment later when he is already half-way out the door and Anora feels too small in is arms, feels cold and thin and unsteady.

He holds her a little closer.

.

.

.

.

Loghain arrives at the Vigil in the middle of the day, after a brief but heavy downpour that has left the ground dark and glittering. He arrives to a keep that is bustling with activity but he is, more than anything else, struck by the lack of soldiers. Elissa has written about it – even implicitly asked for his advice on how to best employ the happy few that still remain to serve the Arlessa of Amaranthine – but this underlines her words rather dramatically. Apart from a few armoured men carrying weapons from the blacksmith to what Loghain supposes is the main armoury, the rest of the workers in the area are merchants and craftsmen and servants of various kinds.

He notices as well that everybody in the courtyard is looking at him as he dismounts his horse and leads it through the inner gates, Dog strolling happily behind.

This is not a part of Ferelden Loghain has frequented in his life and yet he is aware that every single man and woman in this place knows exactly who he is and most of them, he suspects, have a firm opinion of him as well. Not that this differs much from the rest of the nation – although it is more conspicuous here, where Rendon Howe's reign drove people apart and caused a rift between those who were loyal to his power schemes in the hopes of being rewarded and those who were not. Loghain had stripped many of the nobles branded as traitors of their lands after Ostagar, agreed to let others die in ways Howe had seen fit. Now the other half of the arling has been punished, too, of course.

There is very little reason for anyone in Amaranthine to look on Loghain with approval.

As he shoulders his saddlebags and walks across the grounds, he's feeling intensely aware of this fact.

Inside, there is a small group of people involved in a private discussion of some kind, a young maid who curtseys as Loghain walks by her and a man his own age who introduces himself as the seneschal, Varel, and calls for a couple of servants to fetch the luggage. Loghain remembers the name Varel but not much else about him. He wonders what the other man remembers.

"The Commander is to be expected shortly," he says curtly as Loghain asks. Nothing else.

And within minutes, Elissa is there with them. She bursts in through the main doors followed by a tall, blond mage who gestures wildly as he speaks to her; from the distance Loghain can't tell if the expression on Elissa's face is one of amusement or exasperation. Fully clad in armour she looks like she's been in battle or at least expected battle whereas her companion, in stark contrast to that, is holding a kitten against his chest with one hand. Elissa shakes her head a little at something he says, perhaps she responds in a voice too low to carry. Whatever their conversation, it is clear that the mage wishes to continue it when Elissa looks up, her eyes meeting Loghain's.

Quickening her pace, she is soon right in front of him. And in front of Dog who is leaping up to lick her face, a move that would fell most people – Elissa merely hugs him back with an enthusiasm mirroring the mabari's before letting him out of her arms and watching him run off to explore the new surroundings.

"Loghain." She smiles – quick and impersonal – and it is unearthing something hastily buried in him, flicking it up to the surface like it was never missing at all. He unfolds his arms and nods.

"There you are."

"Here I am," she says; her voice is warm. There is something in her posture or even her face that seems new - a gravity and earnestness in her, things that were there before but that Amaranthine has brought out; a new sense of responsibility that runs deeper. Leadership looks good on her, he thinks but doesn't say it because the mage is giving him a strange look, one that carries what seems to be jealousy. Loghain nearly frowns. It must have been decades since any man has looked at him that way. "I take it the journey went well?"

"It did," Loghain nods.

Elissa hesitates for a moment, her gaze not leaving his but her expression and motions are frozen. Then she leans forward, shifting, and the sternness melts away.

"It's good to see you," she says, placing her hand on his arm and giving him that fleeting smile again.

"And you," Loghain replies, realising how much he means it.

The mage observes them both, visibly intrigued but preoccupied with the kitten. Elissa doesn't pay him any attention.

"I need to change out of this armour. My breastplate requires some adjustment before tomorrow's journey." She nods towards her chest – Loghain instinctively avoids looking and it makes the corners of her mouth twitch. "Do you need anything? A bath? A meal?"

"I'm fine."

She gives him the sort of glance usually reserved for those brief conversations after a battle when she suspects he is hiding injuries or deliberately omits information of his condition. He almost laughs. Nobody can accuse her of being gullible.

"Wait here, it won't take long," she says eventually. "Then I'll show you the keep."

Loghain watches her turn on her heel and set off in the opposite direction, vaguely aware that the mage is keeping his eyes on him as he does so.

"Now that is just unfair," he says in a ridiculous drawl of a voice, once Elissa is out of sight.

"What is?" Loghain asks, deeply uninterested to hear the answer but deciding that uncomfortable silence is even less tempting.

"How in the Maker's name did you do that?"

"I beg your pardon, mage?"

"It's Anders." He looks as though he contemplates holding out a hand for Loghain to shake, but catches hold of himself and remains where he is, fondling the kitten and glancing up, boyishly. "This ferocious little fellow is Ser Pounce-a-lot. Yes, he is. Anyway. No offence, my er, fellow Warden, but you're... well, old. And didn't you try to have her killed? And help Uldred destroy the Tower?"

"I hardly see how any of these things you speak of are connected," Loghain says, feeling immensely old in this man's company. He wonders if there is something genuine behind these inane insinuations and dislikes how the thought of that causes a rumble, deep beneath the crumbling walls of self-preservation.

Anders crooks a finger behind the kitten's ear and lets out a little cooing sound before returning his attention to Loghain.

"The Commander," he clarifies. "Making eyes at you. I certainly haven't seen her like that in the weeks I have known her. She's a serious woman, that one, all work and no play."

Loghain stifles a groan. In a way, the mage reminds him of Maric - a younger incarnation, eager as a puppy and clumsy as one, too. With a nagging, persistent voice that could cut through any moment of peace and quiet with its constant stream of inquiries and stories and – much too often – pure speculation and gossip.

"What is your point?" he asks.

"That she never smiles at me the way she just smiled at you." Anders looks almost patiently at Loghain as though he's a slow child.

"That, however, is not saying much," Loghain mutters, pushing the pathetic flush of odd pride back into the darkest corners of his mind.

Anders chortles. "Ah, so you both have that gruff and mean thing going on. Charming."

"We both know the Commander would break your staff if she heard you speak of her like that." Loghain looks at the kitten who gives a hiss.

"Yes, probably," Anders agrees, stroking the kitten's head soothingly with two fingers. "But you wouldn't tell her, would you?"

Suppressing a sneer, Loghain raises an eyebrow as he looks at the other man. "You really don't know much about me, do you?"

"Other than the Uldred thing and the regent thing? Not much no."

"Fair enough," Loghain says, dropping the subject as Elissa returns, attired in leather trousers and a tunic. At the sight of her Anders smiles knowingly - which also reminds Loghain of Maric and of Maric's way of being smug in ways only he found subtle. Thankfully, Elissa seems oblivious to it.

"Come on, walk with me." The scent of her – leaving Loghain momentarily speechless – brushes past him as she puts a hand on his elbow and leads him towards a side door, turning her head before they leave. "See you at supper, Anders."

"The mage," Loghain begins but lets his voice fade as Elissa smirks, looking straight ahead and holding the door for them both.

"Anders? Yes, he can be insufferable." She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and shoots a sidelong glance at Loghain. "Brilliant healer, though. And compared to Nathaniel - Well."

It's her turn to cut herself off and Loghain doesn't mention it, but a little touch of the loneliness she must feel here slinks through her words and into him. He doesn't know much more than what little she has told him in her letters but the name alone, not to mention Rendon Howe's fate, is certainly enough to draw conclusions from.

As the space around them narrows into a long corridor with open doors and soft, murmured noise coming from the small rooms, Loghain feels his own determination narrow as well, shrink pathetically into a tiny conviction a mere step away from nothing at all. It had been simple in Gwaren and in Denerim to tell himself that whatever it was that came over them that night, it was just a folly, a mistake he does not intend to repeat. Here those fragments of her – holding her, kissing her, having her on top of him with that triumphant bloody grin on her face - slip through and form themselves into vivid images again. It's revolting to find himself so easily swayed, Loghain thinks, shaking his head. He is too old; it has been so long since he longed for anything and the effect on him is horrible, draining.

"We're travelling west to Knotwood Hills tomorrow morning," Elissa says eventually, in a tone that doesn't match his thoughts at all. It's casual, if forcedly so, and she keeps walking, pointing out the kitchen and the servants' quarters to him while they pass. "There's a chasm there, thought to be leading down into the Deep Roads."

"I see."

"We have provisioned for a week's journey. Varel keeps the business running here while we're gone." Elissa's gaze lingers on him, waiting for something. Loghain nods.

"This is the finding you told me about, is it not? About the cave full of darkspawn?"

"Yes."

They don't say anything for a while as they walk up the stairs to the second floor.

Passing through the door leading out to the battlements, they almost collide with a guard, which causes Elissa to barge into Loghain's side; for a brief moment he holds her, to prevent her from falling and when he does that, everything seems to come to a halt around them. He feels her arms under his hands and her body mere inches from his own; she takes a step to the side, clearing her throat.

"Thank you."

Loghain walks after her to the ballista where she stops, looking down over the courtyard that is fully visible from there. From the side, he studies her as much as he can without staring, trying to sort through his own impressions and emotions as she suddenly turns to him, smiling properly now.

"Loghain, I..." she says when two knights have nodded their greetings and passed them, rounding the corner. "I mean. I've-"

She's interrupted by a loud sound of metal crashing down on the ground and they both lean forward to find the source. It's a dwarf – Oghren, Loghain realises after a mere second – who has managed to wreak havoc in the small smithy the blacksmiths from Denerim have set up in the courtyard. While the dwarf has always appeared to be walking a thin line even for someone they pulled out of Orzammar, he seems worse off now than he ever did during the final steps of the Blight.

"Great," Elissa says under her breath. "How unusual."

"Is he drunk on the battlefield, too?" Loghain asks, still observing Oghren who crawls to his feet and roars something inaudible to nobody in particular; then he seems to be stumbling over his own shadow, falling into a bush a bit further away. Elissa groans when Loghain looks at her.

"Yes." She folds her arms across her chest. "He nearly got himself killed a few days ago. I've banned him from partaking in battle ever since."

"Wise."

Loghain has seen enough drunkards in the ranks over the years to never be surprised at the foolishness men – this particular idiocy seems rare among women, especially women in the army – believe they will get away with. Wielding blades among your brothers in arms while barely being able to stand upright is an unforgivable crime, dwarf or not. He has never tolerated it; a soldier is a tool, no more and no less and as such it needs to be able to do its work.

"I don't know what else I can do," Elissa admits.

"Either he stops drinking or you put him on permanent stable duties." Loghain shrugs. The dwarf is not enough of a fighter or a man to merit much attention. "If he endangers your life or anyone else's, you cast him out of the Order."

At his own words – the possibility of the reckless idiocy of others placing her in danger – Loghain feels something tighten into hard steel inside him.

"He'll drink himself to death," she says. If it's a protest, it is a meek one.

"Likely, yes."

Elissa sighs as a shadow crosses her face. "Right."

Gazing out over the small shapes down on the ground for a while longer, she looks very young; Loghain feels a now familiar stab of affection for her, for the situation she's in and the responsibility she must carry. He wants to say something but before he has found suitable words for it, she tears herself away from the scene and continues walking.

"Have you dug any deeper in the conspiracy against you?" Loghain asks, when she doesn't bring it up herself. They are walking downstairs again, headed towards the other end of the keep and a door that leads out to the courtyard in the back where the training ground is located.

"Liza Packton," Elissa says over her shoulder. "She and a few assassins were collaborating with Lord Guy. We tracked them down and dealt with them a few days ago."

In the chaotic nest of loyalties and bribery that Howe had brought with him, Loghain can vaguely recall the Packton family as one of those the former arl had bought with promises of land.

"Do you think they acted alone?"

"No."

"Any leads on the others?" He can't rid himself of the idea of the political situation in Amaranthine resembling a dragon's lair, where various dangerous beasts are brooding, awaiting a perfect moment to strike.

"Not yet," she says. "I figure I have enough time to worry about the nobility once I've dealt with the darkspawn."

Elissa stops at the inner walls, leaning against the stone with her face turned towards the sun that has broken through the clouds. Loghain stands beside her, watching Dog run among the handful of soldiers who are out here, sparring. They don't seem to mind.

She looks at him, squinting her eyes in the sharp afternoon light and smiling, which softens her face in a terribly appealing manner. He sighs inwardly; he wishes they were alone and at the same time he dreads that inevitable moment – sooner or later - when they will be. Being here, in the midst of her current chaos right at the core of Amaranthine's political drama, only reminds him of how fruitless and impossible anything between them would be, even if he gave in to it.

A great deal of the mess can still rightly be called his fault – she is picking up the pieces, clearing out the ghosts and bargaining with the survivors. Any connection to him that goes beyond what they have now would be political suicide, Loghain knows, and he is certain that she is fully aware of the very same thing.

He has no intention of allowing himself this foolishness, but as usual she makes his thoughts reel, weaving new threads around the old ones.

"Perhaps we should... I mean-" Elissa suddenly averts her eyes as though she can read Loghain's mind; Dog barks happily as he comes running towards them and she seems happy not to have to finish the sentence.

"Commander?" A maid slips out through the door, looking around for her.

"Yes?" Elissa straightens up and Loghain isn't sure if he feels relieved or disappointed to be interrupted.

"The seneschal wishes to see you, Commander."

"Of course," Elissa says. "Show Loghain to his chambers, will you?"

"Yes, Commander." The maid curtseys.

Elissa lets her gaze linger on him for a second, a bright little flicker in her eyes when her mind seems to settle on something or form an opinion or a course of action. When she walks away, Loghain all but reaches for her arm. She smiles as though she notices even though he remains motionless and he curses himself.

"I will see you at supper, Loghain," she says, softly.

.

.

.

.

As a young girl Eissa once saw a play performed in Highever castle – a tragedy, her mother had explained patiently – that was set around one single scene, a supper where every character in the play sat stern-faced around a table, being miserable in their own fashion. She had never understood why this merited the verdict terribly good, but she thinks now that tonight's meal at Vigil's Keep rather reminds her of it.

They sit at the long table in the dining hall, eating boar stew and cabbage with bread and cheese, washed down with red, spicy wine. Elissa is seated at the short side and flanked by Anders and Loghain. Then there's Nathaniel - tight-lipped and sour – and Oghren who is already half-asleep over his bowl, smelling like a brewery. She had asked Varel to join them earlier, but he had politely declined. She can hardly hold it against him.

"The wine is tasty, isn't it? Yes it is," Anders mumbles when the silence has lasted for several minutes into the meal. Elissa looks at him, thinking at first that he is addressing her with that voice but realises that it's the kitten who is the object of his attention, as usual. It's perched on his lap, lapping wine off Anders' fingers.

Elissa frowns. "Honestly, Anders."

He gives her an earnest look. "What?"

Nathaniel glares at them as well, his face scrunched up in a disapproving grimace. Since he went to see his sister, his behaviour has transformed slightly. Not necessarily for the better, but it is a change nonetheless. Elissa can feel a new trail of guilt in his anger now, a distaste for her based not only on her name and her choices but also on the inherited shame Nathaniel's father brought to the family.

"We are leaving early tomorrow," she says, to say something befitting a commander.

"Of course," Loghain responds, putting a piece of bread into his bowl, soaking it in the broth.

"We are always leaving early," Anders points out. He's not an early bird, Elissa has learned, and usually needs some brutal method for waking up. She keeps threatening to throw a bucket of cold water over his head and will, undoubtedly, fulfil this one day.

"Right. Darkspawn beasties." Oghren lifts his head and rises from his drunken slumber. "I'll show them!"

"No," Elissa corrects, taking two mouthfuls of wine before continuing. "You are not. Not tomorrow."

He stares stupidly at her. She has told him, Maker help her, she has told him several time that he is not going anywhere with them until he sobers up and she hates him for making her repeat this, for making her humiliate him in public.

"You're not coming with us," Elissa explains again, watching him deflate in front of her eyes, like a child being lectured in front of his friends. Guilty conscience prickles at her heart, twists around a bit, like a dagger. In the corner of her eye, she can see Nathaniel shift position in his seat.

"Fine, fine." Oghren's chair-legs scrape against the stone floor as he struggles to his feet, unable to hide how much effort it requires to stand upright without slipping under the table. "Take sodding Miss Sparkle Fingers with you. See how he handles a broodmother or two."

Elissa sighs, fighting the urge to bury her head in her hands. "Oghren, wait-"

But he has already stumbled out of earshot.

"Broodmothers?" Anders asks over his goblet.

"Large beasts that breed darkspawn," Elissa says, downing her wine and reaching for the decanter. "They dwell in the Deep Roads."

"Lovely. Can't wait to meet them."

"Yes, they are very lovely," she fills her goblet again, sipping the wine and glancing at Loghain who eats in silence. "Not much for talking and they smell like death but other than that..."

Nathaniel stares at her over his finished meal, spreading his hands on the tabletop and leaning back.

"So we are the only ones going, Commander?" he asks, letting his gaze travel from Loghain's face to her own, as always immune to her attempts at diverting awkward situations with bad humour and Alistair-like ramblings. She really ought to stop doing that.

"Yes." Elissa nods, simply.

Nathaniel seems to be on the verge of saying something else, bridling as he empties his goblet and rises from his chair. "If you excuse me, I am going to bed now."

"Sweet dreams," Anders says, to which he receives no reply other than a grunt.

Silence falls. Elissa breaks a piece of bread and eats it without much enthusiasm. She knows Nathaniel finds her too harsh, even cruel sometimes. It is not a good verdict coming from a Howe, especially not since she also remembers Varel's words from the other day, when she had asked for advice on the state of the nobility in Amaranthine. He had suggested taking advantage of Nathaniel's name, using it and him to reach the staunchest Howe loyalists – by no means a bad plan, Elissa had been forced to admit. It feels like – and is - a failure on her part that they cannot cooperate better and therefore it's up to her to find a way to do just that. Not tonight, though.

"He is a bit of a pompous bastard, that one," Anders says, crumbling small bits of cheese into near-dust and holding out his palm for Ser Pounce-a-lot to lick. On the floor Dog growls – all afternoon he has tried to convince Elissa that the kitten ought to be removed from the keep. Nothing so small should be able to move so quickly, he had argued. It is bound to be terribly dangerous. Possibly a demon.

Elissa can't help but smile thinly, rubbing Dog's back with her foot. "Well. He has no reason to like me."

"You worked with his father, didn't you?" Anders looks at Loghain who is about to take a sip of wine.

"I did, yes," he says evenly, refusing to be drawn. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing." Anders holds the kitten to his chest again, wary of Dog's presence. "I just wanted to know if there was a reason for his extra brooding flavour of brood tonight. Well, apart from needing some good booze and a willing woman rather badly."

"Anders," Elissa warns.

"Yes, yes," he throws up his free hand in the air, in mock-surrender. "I'm just saying. Sometimes that is all it takes."

Elissa glances at Loghain, giving a nervous half-smile that he meets with a curt nod and that Anders - Andraste help them all - picks up on instead, flashing her a grin. She looks sternly at him – trying to say don't be ridiculous, of course it is nothing like that – and Anders looks away, still amused but at least he isn't commenting on it. One has to be grateful for small mercies with that man.

Not that they are giving him much to remark on. There isn't anything, she tells herself but that has become a blatant lie now as they look at each other and only see fractious, half-hearted defences. In the ruins of those something else rises and the question becomes what they will do with that.

She takes a large swig of her wine again, noticing that Loghain does the same for once. And when Anders leaves – unusually quickly and early considering the amount of wine still left on the table – to tuck Ser Pounce-a-lot in for the night, as he says, only the two of them remain.

"I need more Wardens," Elissa says, tracing the edges of her goblet with a fingertip and looking at the table. "To balance these ones out."

Loghain gives a little sound of amusement – one of those not-quite-laughs she will forever think of when she thinks of him. "We will recruit many more," he says.

Elissa gazes up at him, smiling gratefully. He speaks in the same reassuring tone that she uses when she speaks to herself lately. When she tries to ground herself in Amaranthine, anchor her being here despite the importunate sensation of being a brief visitor, of not belonging, of being sought elsewhere and of being hunted. She walks around in the garden and on the battlements, making grand plans. There, over there in the sunny spot between the trees the kitchen servants will grow vegetables and herbs; next to Harren and Wade the merchants will open up their shops, perhaps one of the wealthier farmers will sell his crop there as well. She can find more rare volumes for their library, employ a Warden scholar to trace their Order's history in Ferelden back to the beginning.

In the small hours at the very edges of time where reality thins, Elissa can convince herself that she will last. That her mark upon the map will be a lasting one, not easily washed away. Then she has to evade another capturing attempt from the darkspawn or kill another nobleman who wants her head on a plate and another kind of order restored to the arling and it feels less believable, all of it.

"I'm glad you're here, Loghain." She says it before she has mulled it over, before she has restrained herself.

Loghain smiles for a second - an almost heartbreakingly honest smile - and she feels her chest tighten before he reaches for his goblet. She bites back another silly confession.

For two years she has accepted the order of things. She has changed, adapted, transformed and placed her thoughts in new arrangements to fit the new circumstances. She has done it for so long now, so many times over and over; reinvention by force and necessity. Yet this is impossible: she cannot stop wanting it, wanting him and these thoughts runs around her unchangeable, solid heart.

He reminds her of the memory of falling deep into a childhood story, of losing herself in fairy tales and legends and to have to climb up from the depths of them, forcibly remove her mind from the dreamlike illusion. And at the same time he is the complete opposite, because despite knowing all that she knows, despite not having a single romantic delusion left, Elissa looks at him and knows. The moment where she slips into his gaze and he returns it, unguarded, she knows.

Right now his eyes seem fixed on a spot on her throat, Elissa thinks, before realising that they probably are, that he is staring at the wound she got at Old Stark's farm.

"Poisoned dagger," she explains softly, pressing down on the bump on her skin with a finger. She wants him to do the same, to reach out and touch her, trace her scars. She wants it almost furiously. "Anders had to mend it without any poultices or antidotes. Itched for days."

Something passes over Loghain's face and she can see it even in the dusk that has settled in the mostly abandoned room, a bright, sharp shade of an unknown nature, of something new.

One goblet of wine later, they leave the table. Elissa can hear the echoes of her drinks in her head, in her blood, feels her too-light limbs battle her will as they walk up to the second floor. Loghain beside her and later in front of her, is quiet and composed, waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

"I assume you are prepared for departure?" Elissa says, wondering why she must speak of such unimportant things at all. Of course he is ready to leave in the morning, he has done this for longer than she has been alive.

"I am, yes." He says it without any discernible sarcasm, which unsettles her completely.

"Good."

"Have you replaced the chipped sword yet?" he asks, as they begin to make their way – as quietly as possible – through the narrow corridor and its many side doors. The doors to their separate chambers are open and servants still slink in and out, carrying towels and sheets. Varel keeps telling her they have too few maids, she rather thinks they are too many, being only dimly aware of why she thinks so as Loghain stops right beside her, looking in the direction she keeps glaring at.

"I haven't," she half-whispers. Then she adds, looking at him sideways with a grin. "But I found a perfect helmet."

She's about to turn to Loghain, suggest that they go out to the balcony or to the battlements or anywhere less crowded by servants – she hasn't yet crafted an excuse besides I want to be alone with you - when she suddenly feels his hand on her back and his gaze searching for hers and she shifts position, hopeful and sceptical at the same time.

That's when Dog comes running, probably thinking himself a stealthy warrior as he covers the length of the corridor in rapid, soundless leaps; he intertwines himself with their legs, upsetting Elissa's balance and forcing Loghain to lean against the wall, clutching it with one hand. A second later, Dog still frenzied at their feet, Elissa finds herself holding on to Loghain's shirt, one of her hands grabbing hold of its front, crumpling it up and revealing a glimpse of his chest underneath. His free arm is holding her, too, gathering her against him.

Elissa swallows.

She doesn't know how to fight this. Not this close, not with the scent of him in the air around her and the warmth of his arm spreading along the side of her waist he is holding on to.

The wine may have dulled and slowed their bodies, but it has heated everything else until it runs like a fire in their blood – the shared blood and the beating hearts and the hot, sweaty fingers that sprawl and scramble over Loghain's arms and chest. He looks into her eyes suddenly, holds her gaze, and Elissa looks up at him without words when his lips catch hers in a long kiss, a hungry kiss that drives a moan out of her - or out of him, she is no longer aware of lines and boundaries. The slight stubble that catches in her hair, her fingers woven into the curls on his chest, their stomachs pressed up against each other and Loghain smiles again, almost in disbelief, a soft little motion around the corners of his mouth.

"Please," Elissa says or begs, her voice raw and hoarse.

He nods.

They stumble into each other once more, deliberate and eager, taking a few steps to the side as though trying to orient themselves in this strangely clumsy dance. She makes him mutter something as she nearly drags them both to the floor; he accidentally pushes her with her shoulder first into a nearby door that opens with a creaking noise.

It's the upstairs armoury, where they keep bows and seldom used equipment.

Looking around, Elissa quietly orders Dog to remain outside, guarding the entrance, while pulling Loghain inside. The door snaps shut behind them.

She breathes with difficulty, she realises, as she slips her arms around Loghain's waist and he bends down slightly to kiss her and they're still not saying anything because what is there to say?

She wants him and he knows this – and if he didn't before he does now, she decides as his hand caresses her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and she hisses like a cat.

He wants her too, she thinks half-deliriously, nibbling at his lower lip, running her tongue over its softness. Loghain groans, moving under her touch.

And this is the bloody armoury and they ought to get out, find somewhere else, but she feels Loghain's chest against her own and her hands are spread over his back under his tunic and she has forgotten that the touch of warm skin can be this intoxicating, this desperately wonderful. Moving anywhere and breaking this connection suddenly seems pointless and wasteful. With one hand around his shoulder, pressing down on muscle and bone, she pulls him closer for a kiss and he deepens it as he spreads her out flat against the wall, clinging to her as much as she is clinging to him, clawing at everything that separates them.

She wants to take him to bed, wants to do it properly and thoroughly and with no hurry in case the moment never returns, but this – here and now and however it may be - this is what they have. Somehow it must be enough, she thinks as Loghain's hand tugs at the bottom of her tunic and she can feel his heartbeat in the palm of her own hand, draped over ribs and muscle.

Elissa presses her lips to the pulsating skin along his throat where he is warm and salt and his body responds to it, to her, in a wild surge, an undercurrent in her bloodstream, and then his arms are around her waist and Loghain shifts his position, his hip grinding into her and Elissa finds herself pinned against the wall, finds that she cannot get enough of the sensation of being just that. He is all around her, she is enclosing him with arms and lips; they are trapping each other in this embrace, kissing and pulling, scraping their knuckles against the ungentle stone and she lets out a deep, low groan as he pushes his thigh into the very spot where she is all nerves and blood and impatience and oh, please.

Wrapping one leg around his waist, she urges him closer; she wishes for the first time in many years that she was smaller - thinner and slighter, a petite kind of woman - because there is so much of them both in this cramped space. But Loghain makes her forget all of it as he pushes up between her legs until he's suddenly close enough, his lips on hers and his hands firm and steady on her body – one stroking her raised leg while the other has found the way under her damp, loosened tunic. Elissa bites down on the back of her own arm when she feels his fingers slipping inside her quickly unlaced breeches, when she hears Loghain grunt in approval at her thrusting, hurried want and when she helps him, spurs him on, rocks against his hand until her mind finally goes blank, he kisses the side of her face, his mouth tasting of sweat when it brushes over her lips again.

She looks at him then, straight into his eyes that are only vaguely visible in the dusk of this room but where everything is dark, dissolved desire and it makes her knees go weak until he finds her again and raises her, holds her up against him.

They find each other in the dark, in the broken graces of her hand slipping inside his trousers, fumbling at the lacings and muttering a curse into his mouth as he cups the back of her head and kisses her until she is certain she will run out of breath.

They find each other in the quiet language of skin to skin, from the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach to the way his breathing goes heavy and quick as she takes him inside her and the rhythm morphs, increases, sends her arching back and biting down, his thumb in her mouth and her hands curled up into tight little fists in his hair.

They find each other in the aggressive tenderness of his hands slipping around the back of her head as he thrusts into her, slamming them both up against the wall; of her soft, gentle kisses over the angry marks of teeth and nails on his shoulder. In the way she flips them around so she is pressing him against the wall and the way his hands dig into her back as she does that, the way he pushes her up, close and tight, holding her roughly and forcefully until she can feel the heat of him spilling out inside of her and he stills, his head resting in the curve of her neck.

Elissa lets her arms come around his body, slip under his arms and hold him to her as they pant, slowing down breath-by-breath like after a battle, waiting for the strength to return. When it does, she disentangles herself without speaking, without looking at him. She grants him the opportunity to do the same and he does. If he has any regrets she doesn't need to hear them – can't bear to hear them.

It cannot matter.

It cannot matter, she reminds herself as they smooth out and adjust their clothes, that the room is cold and damp and smells of mildew. Or that she is hurriedly raking through her hair with her fingers, afraid that someone will catch her in the corridor as she sneaks into her bedchamber.

It cannot matter that Loghain reaches out, gently pushing her scrambling hands away before flattening her hair with his own fingers, running his hands through it. Or that she smiles helplessly back at him before they part.

In a few hours they leave for the Deep Roads and right now, that is what matters.


A/N: I apologise for not having responded to your reviews for the last chapter – ffnet was not agreeing with me and then RL got insanely busy, albeit in a good way. But now I'm back! As always, massive thanks to CJK for being a fabulous beta and to you, for being fabulous readers. I love your comments and the fact that you read this epic tale of mine. (Which is, by the way, far from over even if this particular part approaches an end.)