Revamped this entire chapter... still not my favorite, but I like it a lot better now. Let me know what you think!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, Bioware owns all!
She had always been an energetic child, more inclined to rough war-games with her brother rather than remaining in her rooms to play with dresses and dolls. Any sort of forced inactivity had driven her into wild fits, a fact that amused her father and exasperated her mother.
As a young lady, she had learned how to channel her reckless side; when she was required at court or amongst polite company, she stored her energy, secreting it away as she fulfilled her duty to her family. Once those duties had been seen to, she allowed it release; disguising herself as a commoner, she would practice her sword-craft with the regular soldiers or wander the crowded marketplaces of Denerim.
Sometime during her final departure from Highever, her craving for adventure had changed into an altogether different beast, becoming not so much wanted as it was needed. She had been secretly, shamefully relieved by the tumult triggered at Ostagar, and the string of events that followed. As one of the last Grey Wardens left in the country, she was constantly either fighting for her life, or fleeing for it; both options left blessed little time for remembering her dead family.
Battling werewolves, undead, and darkspawn had come easy to her; challenges only arose when one or more of the party was injured in battle, requiring time to rest and heal. She often wandered far abroad from their camp during those times, hunting or scouting with her hound, unable to control her restlessness as she kept her memories at bay.
She had been called a fool more times than she could count, her friends little understanding what drove her. Alistair had often been hurt by her departures in the beginning, sulking for days after she returned. When he discovered how to find her, he simply joined her forages; she knew he never quite grasped why she wandered so often, but he always enjoyed the time alone with her and she did not discourage him.
After he found her for the last time, she found herself incapable of roaming in reality while she healed. She therefore spent a great deal of time roaming the Fade, her dreams disturbing and full of vengeful kings, grinning darkspawn, and burning dragons. She would often shudder awake from them to find Loghain watching her, his dark gaze hooded. He never asked of what she dreamed; she wondered if he saw the same things when he closed his eyes to sleep.
When her arm and side were pain free, she jumped back into the routine of camp with relish, eager to return to the road and the battles that lay upon it.
She explicitly requested him as her opponent for her first sparring session, knowing that he would not moderate himself for her sake; where another of her companions might have pulled their attacks in difference to her wound, she figured he would fight with the same brutal tenacity that had nearly seen her defeated once before.
She was not disappointed.
Dueling with Loghain at the Landsmeet had been an act born of desperation and necessity; she had briefly considered choosing another as her champion that day but just as quickly discarded the notion. Choosing Alistair himself would have meant sure death for one of the men, and she had even then wanted to keep Loghain alive. Choosing another companion, however, would have signaled weakness in both her as well as the man who would be king.
There had really been little choice in the matter at all.
Knowing full well that failure on her part would be lethal, she had engaged him as such. Her every assault upon his person had been a risk, and she had used her quickness to keep well outside the range of his full might. In the end, it was only her youth that wore him down; he had not tired quickly, but he had also not spent the last months fighting demons and darkspawn. Once he began showing obvious signs of fatigue, she had darted in at him repeatedly, striking and dancing away until he finally stumbled and fell before her.
Sparring with him was completely dissimilar from their duel. She had admired the pure strength with which Loghain moved against her then. She now admired his competence. No longer was she allowed to sneak in against him; rather than chase her and wear himself down, he held back and waited for her to move, guarding his flanks.
He had learned from her.
The steps in their choreography steadily increased in tempo, each trying to outwit the other by changing the routine. Each exchange was a disclosure, an admission between one another as equals.
The other company members paused in their own bouts, leaning against sword and stave as they curiously watched her and Loghain rebuff one another.
Within the violence, there was precise caution. By unspoken agreement, they were both wielding their standard, non-blunted weapons. He had not donned his Orlesian armor; she had yet to replace it for him. Instead, he was combatting in a dusty pair of pants and a worn pair of leather boots. He had removed his shirt and was bare from the torso upward, his pale skin mottled pink in the chill air.
The awareness that she could run him through with little difficulty and less warning kept her attentive to the placement of her blades.
Using his massive upper body strength, he swung up and around to bring his sword down over the top of her. It was a move she could only ever envy in her femininity. Still, she was undaunted and primed for him, one leg stretched behind her to take the brunt of the impact, her shoulders square and stalwart as she lifted her own weapons.
She smiled; this was a strike he had used on her before, and one she knew how to deflect.
The shriek of silverite hurtling into red steel resonated up and down the banks of the Drakon River. The blow had the potency of a dragon behind it; her smile vanished as her strong arm buckled, instantly giving way beneath its power.
The screech of metal was harmonized by her yelp of fear as she watched his blade descend upon her unimpeded.
If not for his reflexes, her skull would have most likely been cloven into two equal portions. As it was, he checked himself at the last second, silverite whispering only just amongst the strands of her hair before being wrenched abruptly away.
She could tell he was shaken; he muttered an oath, pitching his shield in frustration so that it landed with a dull thud in the dirt a few feet behind him. He backed away as her companions rushed forward, each uttering their own cries of fury or fear at the scene.
Wynne immediately flooded her with healing magic. "That's enough," the mage snapped, and Elissa doubted that the woman was speaking only to Loghain, "No more sparring today. You need to rest or you will only cause more damage."
Elissa shook her head. "This proves nothing," she said, squashing the flutter of panic she felt. "I haven't practiced with it in days. It only needs to warm up."
Wynne scowled; a second, smaller deluge of healing magic ran just under Elissa's skin. "You are going to get yourself killed," the mage muttered.
"Not that easily," the rogue quipped in return.
Her friends backed up again as she waved Loghain forward. He hesitated briefly, staring at her, his blue eyes impassive; when he stepped towards her, it was without his shield.
The strove a second time.
Her arm functioned faultlessly until he came at her from above; it crumpled as their blades clashed. She was prepared for it, diving gracelessly away from the strike.
Everyone rushed forward; she waved them back, snarling. Her anger was fueled by her fear, by the thought that her arm had somehow been rendered defective by Maric's blade.
Once could be written off as a fluke. Twice was not so effortlessly ignored.
She took a few moments to reevaluate her stance and posture; she lifted both her blades, swinging them around in great, wide arcs. No pain flared in her side, nor did she experience any issue with handling the swords while they were elevated.
Hoping – praying – that it was her own anticipation of the blow that had caused her arm to fail, she waved him forward to try a third time.
And a fourth time.
And a fifth time.
She cursed as she dodged away from him on the sixth attempt, and he trailed her oath with another of his own.
"Your stubbornness is getting us nowhere," he growled, his actions jerky as he swiped at the braids in his dark hair. His shoulders were heaving and slick with perspiration in the weak, wintry sunlight.
She knelt before him, gazing up into his arctic countenance, her own leathers clammy with a cold sweat. Her doubt chewed savagely at her insides.
Her friends muttered and shifted restlessly nearby, but made no move to help her; she had rebuked them one time too many. Even Wynne did not offer any sympathy in the form of healing magic or otherwise. The mage's mana was nearly tapped by Elissa's persistence, and the older woman leaned wearily against her stave, too tired to even scowl in irritation.
Without the healing, her wound was starting to throb from the beating he was giving her.
"What would you have me do?" she beseeched him, hating that her breath hitched in pain.
A growl reverberated from him as he marched back and forth in front of her. He was too incensed to remain still, gesturing angrily at her weapons. "Why do you persist in fighting with red steel, wasting your strength on its weight? Dragonbone would be far more effective," he continued, reaching out grab away her dagger, "With your dexterity, you could wield two full blades instead of fatiguing yourself with this archaic method of sword and dagger."
She snatched the blade back before he could take it, hauling herself back onto her feet. "You're hardly one to speak upon the archaic, old man," she retorted.
His eyes narrowed at her slight. "Petty insults are not becoming," he said, curling his lips in scorn as he resumed his pacing.
She snorted, using one gauntleted wrist to daub the sweat impatiently from her eyes. "It's not my intention to be becoming to you or anyone else." She held her blades aloft, crossing them before her in insolent defiance. "My motives for using these are my own."
He shook his head, the tone of his voice low and dangerous. "Flimsy sentiment for bits of metal will not win your war."
Her spine stiffened with indignation. The sudden roiling in her stomach made her want to vomit. "My war? My war? You son of a bitch," she spat, "If you had done your duty at Ostagar, or had exercised even half the wisdom you claim to possess in recruiting Rendon Howe to your cause, I would not even be here!"
She was appalled when tears surged into her eyes, stinging along her eyelashes; she sullenly swiped at them, the catches on her armor scraping welts along her skin as she did so.
"Elissa – " One of her companions – she thought it might have been Leliana – murmured her name in sympathy.
She did not want their sympathy.
"Shut up!" she shouted at them all in abrupt fury, "Just shut up!"
He halted in his steps as if stricken, his eyes nothing but perilous blue slits. Gooseflesh rose along the back of her neck as the tang of ozone and menace hung in the air. She glanced at Morrigan, sure the apostate was summoning lightning, but the younger mage was only watching the proceedings with poorly masked delight, her hands empty of magical luminosity.
"So," Loghain muttered ominously, drawing her attention back to him, "It finally comes down to this."
She staggered as he rushed at her, smashing his blade at her vulnerable side. She succeeded in blocking only out of impulse; he pressed his offensive, brazenly exploiting his weight advantage, and she cried out as her legs wobbled. She crashed to the ground when they crumpled, her damaged side flaring in agony. Her sword and dagger tumbled into the grass with double muted twangs.
A honed point of silverite hovered in front of her eyes.
She heard her companions crying out with their own outrage; in less time that it took for her to draw breath, he had two bows, two staves, one greatsword, and one very large axe pointed directly at him.
He ignored them.
"If you can't defeat an old man," he condemned with a hiss, his face very close to her own, "How exactly do you expect to conquer an Archdemon?"
"I did defeat you!" she screamed up at him, her spittle flecking his cheeks, "I defeated you and I'll defeat the damned Archdemon as well!"
She punched at him with one taut fist, but he eluded her wretched effort to clout his chin by twisting backward.
"Just like you defeated the man who gave you this?" he asked, smacking her injured side with the flat of his blade, "Do you wish to speak of that now? Or do you still wish to run from it?"
He did not strike her hard, but she still felt the ripples of pain running through her as she winced away from the blow. Her walls of self-preservation were crumbling, her doubts and fears pushing them outward. She was overwhelmed by the mass exodus and started to shake uncontrollably; she knew not if it was from dread or rage.
He backed away from her, leaving her trembling in the dirt.
When gentle hands tried to help her up, she smacked them away. "Leave me alone," she barked heatedly, "I don't need your help. I don't want it!"
She reached out for her sword, used it to lever herself onto her feet. She stood there swaying, terrified and burying it beneath layers of audacity and anger.
Loghain remained a few feet away, observing her efforts with cold calculation. "Running it is," he muttered.
She waved him forward. "C'mon," she snarled at him, "Show me what an old man can do."
"Elissa – " One of her companions again tried to interfere.
Again, she cut them off. "I told you to shut up." She had never spoken to any of them with such contempt, did not realize that she was doing so now. Her focus was only for Loghain, whom she gestured at again. "Come. Here. Now."
He stared at her; his gaze was sharp, missing little. He saw how her friends flinched at her words, how they looked at one another in bewilderment. The woman before them was not an Elissa Cousland that they knew.
"You are ill. I don't fight those that are ill," he finally said. His voice was quiet and no longer cross. He bent to retrieve his shield. "You need rest."
"Like hell," she told him, still trying to goad him. The further he withdrew, the more desperate she became. "Stop making excuses and show me how much of a man you really are."
His eyes flickered towards her, looked away towards Wynne. "Do you have something to make her sleep?" he asked the mage.
"Of course," Wynne answered, sounding confused, "But I don't –"
He cut her off. "I've seen this before," he told the healer, told them all, "In soldiers that have witnessed too many battles and too much death. They let it eat at them until they lose control." He gestured at Elissa. "She has nightmares but won't talk about them or what causes them. I imagine she speaks little of her family, or of the things she has done, and now she's lashing out at everyone, friend and foe."
"What you say is true, human," Sten growled into the small silence that followed, "There are those of the beressad who are equally weak-minded. They must be destroyed."
"We aren't going to destroy her," Wynne snapped; her words were softer, more thoughtful, however, as the mage continued, "But yes, I've seen this too. There were many that came to Kinloch Hold after the occupation. The illness manifested itself at different times – we had men show up years afterward thinking they were going mad."
Elissa was ignoring their banter, watching Loghain; when he looked back at her, she thought she saw a glimmer of empathy in the depths of his gaze. He spoke, and though his words were directed at them all, she knew he meant them for her alone. "This will only get worse if you allow it. It is a sickness, and will kill you as surely as any other if left untreated."
He said it with the surety of a survivor.
Her fear peaked at his words, further inflaming her wrath. Without thinking, she threw her dagger at him; she flipped it deftly in her hand, hurling it just like Zevran had taught her. The blade flew truly, but he had seen her move and was much too fast. He ducked behind his shield; the dagger ricocheted off of it, thumping into the dirt at his feet.
That she had just deliberately tried to kill one of their party, one that she had placed under her protection – even if it was him – was alarming to her companions. They all looked at her with mixed feelings of horror and disbelief; the only sound on the riverbank was her panting.
He slowly lowered his shield, looking to Wynne. "Get her to sleep – without the dreams," he said calmly. "That's the first step." His eyes met hers again, and she knew there was more; he did not speak it.
When he turned and walked away, she wanted to call him back. She wanted to challenge him, to fight him; she wanted to beg him not to leave her.
So many others had left her.
Wynne and Leliana tried to move her, to take her back to the camp, but she shrugged them off. Her rage was burned out, leaving her empty. She did not shout at them any longer, but she did not want to speak to any of them, either.
She did not want to be near them.
She stumbled to the edge of the river, sinking down into the soft, wet loam. It was cold, freezing her even through her leathers; she barely noticed. She was already cold, already freezing from the inside out.
I deserted my family, forsaking them to save their own namesake.
I betrayed my king, deceiving him with the kindness in his own heart.
I killed my hero, rending him apart piece by piece before the very people who created him.
There was no one left to find her, to help pull her back from the abyss; they were all either dead or changed, twisted to her own purpose.
There was no one left to save her.
She was no longer strong enough to save herself.
She pulled her legs up to her chest, and buried her face against her knees. The storm of emotion bore down upon her; it whipped at her, swept her away, until there were no more tears for her to cry.