This chapter is somewhat of a surprise to me. It came out of nowhere... was definitely not how I saw the second chapter of this story in my head, but I liked where it was taking me.

Let me know if you feel the same :)

She was disoriented that first night she awoke; instead of being under her own woven wool blankets, she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings that were stark and masculine. She grasped that they could not belong to Alistair with a strange mix of distress and relief; his sleeping area was kept in constantly varying stages of disarray. Laundry, armor, and assorted bits of weaponry were dumped wherever there was an open space, trinkets and toys he had found on their journeying interspersed among the piles.

This space was glaringly plain in comparison: there were no clothes, no papers or journal, no trifles or baubles or otherwise little pieces of what made up a person's individuality. The bedroll on which she lay was mostly made up of finely treated animal skins or rough furs, and was clean and warm. There was a large pack in the corner across from her, but it looked to be tightly tied, sealed off from unwanted intrusion into its contents.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, flinching when she felt a stab of pain race up her side. Shoving the blanket off herself, she found someone had removed her drakeskin leathers and replaced them with apparel more suitable for sleep: a coarse linen shirt covered her shoulders and torso, while a pair of men's trousers had been pulled on over her legs.

Gingerly lifting the side of the shirt away from her skin, she examined for a moment the festered, grisly scar that now ran under her right arm and down along her rib cage. No doubt attended to by magical services, the damage appeared to be largely healed. Even so, it still held some redness and irritation, and caused a good deal of discomfort when she moved her sword arm.

She had gained many scars over the past year, had come to terms with the fact that she would never again have the smooth, supple skin of her youth, so this new blemish did not impact her in any offensive manner to her vanity.

The possibility of losing the use of her arm, however, was cause for some immediate anxiety.

A passing, brilliant flare of grief nearly crushed her as she comprehended that she could very soon experience yet another loss, this one both more insignificant to her being and so much more imperative to her mission.

She experienced an impulsive, desperate need to see Wynne.

She stood, feeling instantly dizzy and nauseous as she did so. She had experienced enough blood loss to know that she was feeling the after-affects; she was going to have to eat something, and soon, even if her stomach rebelled at the knowledge.

She was standing in the same spot, swaying slightly from lightheadedness, when the flap at the front of the tent opened and he stepped inside.

He clearly did not expect her to be up; he hesitated in mid-stride, and one brow arched in what was likely a demonstration of his derision for her. "You are awake," he commented, a simple, flat statement of fact, as if he was talking more to himself than to her.

"I-" She took a step as she tried to speak, and lurched forward, losing her equilibrium as the world spun around her. She promptly crouched closer to the ground, feeling no steadier the less vertical she became. She could feel her gorge rising; her stomach clenched, her body seeking to retch the sourness outward, and she took several deep breaths to avoid doing so.

Maker, but she did not feel well.

"If you vomit on my furs due to your own stubbornness, you will be the one sleeping in them," she heard him growl.

His furs.

Very likely his tent, as well.

There was naught that she could do to respond to his verbal prod, however, as she squeezed her eyes shut and endeavored to keep from doing just as he had said. She could sense his exasperated regard, heard him shift when she did not stir for a few moments.

"Infantile fool," he muttered crossly under his breath. He moved then, and she felt sturdy hands close around her biceps. "Lay back," he told her in milder tones as he used faint pressure to guide her back onto the bedroll.

Her stomach was still churning; once she was lying down, she curled herself into the fetal position around it, wrapping her arms about her middle. "Wynne," she grated out, hoping the healer was close by.

"Aye," he replied, "I will get her."

His grip held for just a second too long before departing, squeezing gently against her. The gesture was one of reassurance, and not something she would have questioned in another of her companions.

He was not just another of her companions.

She gave her mind something to ponder, deliberating about it as she waited for him to return, attempting to create a distraction from the spinning room and her aching side. The answer was not challenging: she supposed that he was making sure she would not spew bile on his precious furs while he ran for Wynne.

The tugging in her blood told her when he was one his way back, and she recognized the rustle of the tent flap; a few seconds later, two cool, dry palms cupped her cheeks, coaxing her eyelids open as an alleviating ripple of magic coursed along her skin.

She stared up into empathetic, experienced grey eyes.

"That should help a little," the mage murmured, her breath smelling of hops and cloves, and the many other unidentifiable herbs she worked with daily.

The older woman looked worn, weary and drained, and could only conjure a half-smile when she noticed Elissa watching her. "Sorry, dear," she said, speaking every word as if she meant it, "I would have been closer, but I honestly thought you would be sleeping for a few more hours."

As her sickness faded into the placid waves of healing incantation, she eased the hold she had on herself, her arms slackening from around her waist. A twinge persisted in her stronger appendage; though not as sharp as before, it was enough of a reminder for her to ask apprehensively, "My arm?"

The mage glanced down at her sword arm, took one hand from her cheek and set it over the heated weal on her side. Another swell of magic took the feverishness out of it, further reducing the leftover sting.

"Obstinate to heal," she commented earnestly to the rogue, "Too much longer without treatment, and there would have been little I could do to mend it." The enchanter skimmed her fingers over the younger woman's forehead, brushing away a few stray locks of hair; it was a maternal action and one that felt unusually agreeable. "You lost a great deal of blood, and had me very nervous that I would not be able to revive you at all."

"I'm not that easy to kill," Elissa returned, forcing a confidence into her demeanor that she did not feel.

"Who did this?"

It was the echo of a question she had been asked before; glancing over to where the former teryn was lurking, she found his blue eyes intent as he observed both women.

It was he that had asked.

Wynne scowled over her shoulder. "Do you wish to interrogate her when she only now shows signs of recovery?" the healer snapped defensively, "Clearly she does not know or she would say."

His gaze narrowed with obvious scorn on the mage, then contemptuously shifted to the rogue; under his glare, she felt a coil of wariness twist near her heart. Maybe it was his years, his knowledge and experience matched against her lack of them, but she could have sworn by the Maker that he grasped, at least to some degree, precisely what had occurred.

"She knows," he affirmed, crossing his arms over his chest with a decisive nod.

She felt her shoulders tense with the sudden realization that she had given away far too much of herself with one unassuming look. He had seen far too deeply inside of her; it was unnerving for a woman who thought her walls sturdily built, who had managed to fool almost everyone, including her closest companions and her own lover, into believing whatever she wanted them to believe.

He was not so presumptive, not so trusting, and would not be so readily fooled.

Her troubled thoughts were pulled back to Wynne, who scoffed at Loghain's estimation as she returned her attention back to her patient. "Then maybe it is a matter of her not wanting to tell you," the older woman retorted, though a slight smudge of uncertainty passed across the healer's face where before there had been none.

"More likely that she does not want to say in front of you," he replied, not rising to the mage's bait in the slightest, his tone remaining disassociated; it was as if they were speaking of nothing more interesting than the weather.

She peered around Wynne to meet his eyes once again, finding that he had not withdrawn his scrutiny of her. "Your judgment," he continued speaking to the mage, though he did not look away, "Would likely mean a great deal to her, good or bad, whereas I am an indifferent party. My opinions, I'm sure, matter very little in her reasoning."

He was both right and wrong in his assessment; he was a grim, hard man, one who had ruthlessly walked away from a battle that had seen hundreds of his own people, including his king, mercilessly slaughtered by darkspawn. He had sent assassins to hunt and destroy the last of the Grey Wardens, had callously ordered Ferelden elves into slavery, all while staging a bloody civil war in which more of his country's people had been carelessly slain. He had been disillusioned and disastrously mistaken; there had been instances in which her hatred of him was nearly irrepressible, and many nights she had lain awake, imagining the multiple excruciating fashions in which his death could find him.

He was the betrayer, the rebel, the deserter.

He was the Traitor of Ostagar.

He was the Hero of River Dane.

He was the Savior of Ferelden.

As children, she and her brother had both listened in awe as her father spun stories of him, of how he and King Maric had pushed back the devious Orlesian usurper and reclaimed the throne for the rightful heir. Loghain Mac Tir had ever remained a larger than life figure in her imagination, a man who could achieve the impossible, no matter the odds against him. Her impressions had bordered on hero-worship; when she had been old enough to attend the Landsmeets with her parents, she had witnessed him from afar and perceived that what others called brusqueness in him was actually candidness instead, and that his disdain for the proceedings was, in actuality, an equal to her own uneasiness in having to be present there at all. She had seen a man who stood above the frilly obligations of the courts, a man more inclined and better suited to action rather than words, and her ideal of him had only amplified to greater volumes.

After all the crimes he had committed, he was still the hero to her.

His pedestal had been taken, and his once sparkling image long marred with imperfections and fallibilities, but it was as he was kneeling before her, unafraid and accepting, that she had fully grasped the reality of him; there existed men that were virtuous and men that were evil, and still others that held both inside them. In her pursuit of the greater good, she herself had done things both benevolent and immoral, all while continuing to hold him to an impossible standard.

The truth was that Loghain Mac Tir was no different than anyone else: he was just a man.

But that was not wholly correct, either, because he was both a man and a hero.

A man made himself, but only his people could make him a hero, and only they could take that title away. He was a man who did what no one else could, who forged ahead where no one else would, and his people loved him for it. He made human miscalculations and mistakes along the way, but his people forgave him for it; his errors in the last year were already being forgotten, brushed away like so much dust.

A man died in minutes.

A hero lasted for generations.

For his faults, she despised and distrusted the man; for his victories, she badly craved the advice and approval of the hero.

She was not sure how much of these thoughts he could see, how much he already understood about her, but she thought she saw a small flicker of recognition in the blackness of his irises.

If he could see into her, she could see into him, in return.

His eyes turned yet more guarded, and he twisted his head to look away as Wynne asked heatedly, "Is it any wonder she would think so little of you? After everything you have done to her?" The mage touched Elissa's cheek once more, and she felt a last, lingering pulse of magic wash through her before the healer settled back onto her haunches, glowering up at Loghain. "You are an oathbreaker and a liar, Loghain Mac Tir."

The words were like a physical shock; they were the very words that Alistair had used against her, and she jerked in reaction, almost brought to tears by the aching in her memory.

She was pushing herself up onto her elbows as Loghain said, "Madam, you have no idea the oaths I have taken. Do not presume to know which of them I have broken." There was a deep weariness staining these words, though she could tell he was trying hard to conceal it beneath disinterest.

The mage opened her mouth to retort, but Elissa stopped her by reaching out and clasping her wrist. Wynne looked down at her, surprised by the interruption. "Enough," she told the older woman quietly, shaking her head. "That's enough."

Wynne hesitated, blinking in indecision.

She knew that the healer had been just as aggrieved by the losses at Ostagar as any of them had been, and was probably similarly distressed by Loghain's presence here; she would hazard a guess that the mage, who had been alive during the occupation and had heard the stories of the Savior of Ferelden firsthand, struggled with conflicting images of him, as well.

Wynne sighed and shook her head, disappointment settling on her shoulders even as she forced a slight smile. She patted the younger woman's hand, and deliberately responded, "Of course, child. You need the rest."

She nodded; it was as good a reason as any to terminate their argument. "I'd like to go back to my tent," she said, pushing herself up further into a semi-seated state, leaning against a few rolled up skins that served as a pillow, "If I can."

"No." He was deadly serious in this, his response immediate and leaving no room for rebuttal. "Until you tell us who the culprit is that attacked you, I want you guarded at all times. Since I have the largest tent, you stay here."

She began to protest, but a second sigh from Wynne stopped her. The mage frowned at Loghain, then regarded Elissa unhappily. "As much as I hate to admit it," the healer told her, crinkling her nose in distaste, "He is right. This is the largest tent in the camp, and I'd prefer you were watched over until your arm is up to swinging a sword again."

Her fingers twitched in response, curling inward. Her anxieties about her ability to ever again affectively wield a weapon had never left, had continuously been gnawing at her since she awoke. She wanted to trust her friend's evaluation and have faith that the arm would heal, but self-preservation told her to be wary; another loss so soon after Alistair would be ruinous if she was not prepared for it.

She had little desire to stay in Loghain's tent, but arguing about it with both him and Wynne held even less appeal. She glanced back and forth between them before giving her acquiescence.

"If you need anything, or begin to ache or feel ill," Wynne told her, "I will not be far. And get some sleep, young lady," she ordered, slipping into the voice that any soldier would be quite familiar with, "It is the best healing magic there is."

She turned on her heel and walked from the tent, not acknowledging Loghain's presence again at all.

She tolerated his renewed cool appraisal with little interest, suddenly too forlorn and tired to care. She closed her eyes, unwilling to match him stare for stare; she felt him retreat a moment later and was relieved.

The reprieve did not last. When he re-entered the tent for a third time, the smells he brought with him made her mouth water enough so that she was obliged to drag her eyelids open.

He was standing above her holding a bowl in one hand, a hunk of bread and cheese in the other. "Now that you aren't threatening to puke all over my furs," he said dryly, "It would probably be best if you ate something." He did not make another move, however, until she gestured him forward with a wave of her hand.

He conscientiously stepped around her legs, handing her the bread and cheese while setting the bowl on the ground next to her bedroll.

"Ferelden stew," he grunted when she looked askance at the sticky substance in the bowl, "I'm sure you're acquainted with it."

And, indeed, she was familiar with the bland, greyish paste that served as typical camp fodder. The stew normally held little flavor and even less enticement; its one redeeming trait was that it always tasted better after a serious injury, its hardiness being one of the best curatives for getting a warrior back on his feet.

As she dug in, Loghain went to sit next to the pack in the corner, untying it to pull out bits of armor. She watched surreptitiously from the corner of her eye as he laid each piece out in front of him, the design customary in nature. Once the ritual was complete, he pulled out a small vial of oil, along with a worn scrap of cloth, and began diligently cleaning each piece in turn.

His hands were no strangers to hard work; they were covered in multiple white scars, some large, others small and hardly visible. He held the heavy silverite parts effortlessly as he scoured, his fingers noticeably educated with the task at hand, his movements even and sure. The routine seemed intimate to him, one he had completed many times in this exact manner.

His repetitive gestures were peaceful, reassuring in a way that she had not formerly detected, and she sat entranced as his hands labored over the precious metal.

"You know how I got this armor, don't you?" he eventually asked, disturbing the serene ambiance and jolting her from her reverie.

She turned towards him, but he was fully absorbed with his chore. "I do."

"And do you know why I took it?"

Everyone had their theories. Most assumed he had taken it purely out of efficiency; the armor was well-made, and enchanted against most forms of attack. Still others thought he had taken it as a trophy, an arrogant testament that he would display amongst the nobility as a reminder to them that he was no longer a commoner. There were a bitter few who hissed darkly that he had stolen the armor for his own morbid desires: Loghain Mac Tir, a man so consumed with hatred for the Orlesians because he secretly craved to be one of them.

"There are many rumors," she told him carefully, "But it would be presumptive of me to guess your genuine feelings on the matter."

"Of course it would," he sneered, the action breaching his pattern of monotonous responses, "Though that rarely stops people from speculating."

Unsure what to say, and uncertain as to where he sought to go with the conversation, she went back to eating, taking small, slow bites to ease her stomach. If all he pursued was argument, he would not get it from her.

"I took it," he said, carrying the conversation when it was clear she would not, "As a reminder."

She considered as she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. When she swallowed, she asked cautiously, curiously, "Of what?"

"Of our loss," he said, and he was once more in control of himself, aloof and distant, "Of everything Ferelden has lost."

His declaration froze her solid, her muscles locking up in fear and shame as she unexpectedly heard Alistair's words of anguish resound in her mind and felt her own loss sweep through her. He did not notice her reaction; he was still not looking at her, still cleaning that damned set of armor as if it were the only thing he had ever aspired to do.

She felt that same cold twisting in her chest, and wondered what he knew, how he knew. Certainly she was not so transparent.

Her throat was tight, making speech difficult. "You want to be reminded?" she rasped, not comprehending why anyone would choose such a thing. If she were granted one wish, it would be to crawl into a hole and forget.

If the Blight were not a factor, she might have done so.

His reply was sardonic. "It is amazing how the recollection of such things can keep you focused in war."

It begged the question if he was truly sane; she presented the contemplation to him, still sounding strangled. "That road leads to madness. Always being forced to remember and relive the agony -"

She paused and couldn't continue.

He was silent, his hands never faltering as they moved across the sheen of appropriated Orlesian armor. When he did speak, he was introspective and hushed, "Perhaps it did. It is not wise to live solely in the past."

He suddenly stopped polishing, the absence of movement so abrupt that she flinched. His blue eyes caught hers, held her forcefully. "Do you now wish to speak of who wounded you?" he asked her pointedly, low and brooding.

She did, she did want to tell him, wanted to lay it out for someone, anyone else to deal with. The man, the hero, it mattered not; her loss was too vast, too great for one person alone to bear, and she could feel it pounding down on her, threatening to squash her with every breath.

She stared into the depths of him, and felt herself begin to shake, small tremors running up and down her spine; the recognition she had discerned earlier was but a reflection of herself in his icy glare, and it shook her to the core.

She glanced away, averse to acceding with what she saw. She felt embarrassed and beaten down; any link between them was merely a figment of her guilt-ridden fancy. They were nothing alike.

Oathbreakers and liars.

You are nothing.

She heard the words echoing in her ears and she knew she was being dishonest; she was lying to herself.

Her appetite was gone, and she set the rest of her food aside; she plucked fretfully at the blankets, and took note when he recommenced shining his armor. Easing her body further into the bedroll, she hoped his attention was thus otherwise occupied for the remainder of the night.

The tent was quiet, despite the occasional soft squeaks of oily cloth rubbed over silverite and the clink of metal against metal. She could hear the cracking and popping of the campfire outside, and tried to differentiate amongst the sporadic murmurs of her companions. A bark of laughter could be heard now and again, and she felt her insides clench with old doubts and new regrets.

Sighing softly, she began easing tense muscles, compelling them to relax as she began with her legs and moved upward.

The hum of voices drifted into silence as the fire burnt down. She grew lethargic, her stomach content with food, her body mollified with healing magic. Even her mind calmed, lulled into stillness by the consistent simple sound of burnishing silverite.

She did not sleep, found it unnecessary in the tranquility surrounding her.

It was possibly hours later when he spoke again, and she was not sure if he was speaking to her, himself, or the Maker when he said into the stillness, "I'll not be wearing it again."

She waited for him to continue, her thoughts muddy with lassitude; when he did not, she rolled onto her side to see if he expected some sort of result.

The Orlesian armor was shining even in the murky shadows of the tent, every piece fastidiously oiled and laying out in front of him. He was kneeling before it, his expression guarded as he gazed at it. "As my commander, I'll expect you to replace it," he said, barely audible.

Perhaps it was her drowsiness, but his words were a revelation that she could not figure out. She sorted through all he had said, puzzling over what he just told her.

If what he preferred was new armor, she would get him a replacement; his motive for wanting one, however, was a complete mystery to her.

Unable to come up with any reasoning that made sense, she asked a sensible question.

"Why?"

He was waiting for her to ask; his reply was swift. "Because," he answered, his form still bowed before the pieces of armor as if he was praying at a grave, "The Hero of River Dane is dead."

There was faint whisper of relief in his words; she deemed it the Fade playing tricks on her.