The horde had beaten them to Redcliffe.

She and her company battled their way through a sea of darkspawn, genlock after hurlock and hurlock after shriek. Wolf guarded her flanks while Loghain watched her back, and her dragonbone blades sang through the air as she put the skills he had taught her to the test. Even the crushing blow of an ogre could not break the defensive protection of the rune-studded weapons, and her swords ran black with tainted blood.

Numerous villagers had already fled north into the relative safety of Bannorn. A few waited too long, and were able to escape across Lake Calenhad and into Redcliffe Castle; Teagan returned for them, leading them through the same secret passages he had once shown Elissa. The Bann had proven his mettle for a second time, efficiently utilizing what few resources were remaining to the beleaguered arling. He sent his soldiers out to slow the advancing menace and Ser Perth's knights stood valiantly beside them, waves of malevolence breaking against their breastplates.

Their bravery saved many.

But not all.

Broken bodies littered the docks, some of them painfully small, their pieces cast haphazardly to and fro like so much refuse. The chantry burned; she prayed that none had run there seeking refuge, knew the first desperate moments of violence would have driven a few to do so.

She could now hear the collective whispering that was the Calling when she was awake, hissing along the back corners of her mind. It had been growing steadily more pronounced as she and her party closed upon the horde, and Loghain confirmed that he heard similar murmurs. When Zevran first witnessed the smoke rising on the horizon a day outside of the village, she allowed herself to sink into the hive-mind to see what she might ascertain. What she found within that oily malice made her shudder in horror.

They were waiting.

Darkspawn were not proactive; they did they expect or plot or plan. They reacted to their surroundings, destroying anything that might deter them from their single-minded search for the Old Gods, fleeing when they could not fight.

There was only one tainted creature that could organize and reason.

Urthemiel.

As she and her friends topped the final rise into the village and were immediately beset upon by wave after wave of corruption, she fully expected Redcliffe to be the location of her final stand against the Blight. She cut her way through the darkspawn lines, anticipating the dragon to show itself.

She was still waiting when the final ogre fell beneath Sten's Asala at the castle gates.

It was only when she entered the keep that she learned the truth; they had all been deceived. The bulk of the horde was turned towards Denerim, the Archdemon flying at its head. The King was still in the capital with what remained of the royal army, but it would not be nearly enough to stop the flood of darkspawn amassing against them. The Wardens' gathered forces would have to race back to Denerim as quickly as possible if there was any hope of saving the city – and their King.

At the behest of Riordan, she and Loghain met the older Grey Warden in his quarters to discuss the logistics of slaying a corrupted Old God. She found that her path had been relit before her; she had a purpose again, something to fight for, and she readily volunteered to take the final blow against the Archdemon. Loghain's eyes bore into her as Riordan commended her enthusiasm, explaining how it was normally the most senior Warden who took the honor.

She did not comment more after that, and Loghain did not say a word when she brushed by him to leave.

Morrigan was lurking near the fireplace in Elissa's rooms. At first, she welcomed the witch's frank conversation; no matter how blunt or cruel Morrigan could be, she was incredibly intelligent and always honest. But when the woman began rambling about an ancient ritual, Elissa found she was too drained to care, dismissing the irate apostate from her quarters without a second thought.

There was no reason to look for hope where none would be found.

She shut the door behind the mage, turning to lean back against the solid wood. She considered what the morrow would bring, weighing her own feelings on the various outcomes. Oddly enough, she was not afraid, nor nervous; if she was honest with herself, there was only one emotion she admitted to feeling at all.

Relief.

A rumble of thunder stirred her, drawing her attention. She walked over to the window, pushing aside the shutters as she took a seat on the ledge. Her room was facing out towards the black lake. There were no fisherman's lamps twinkling this night, the guttered fires of burning corpses issuing the only light from the abandoned village.

Lightning flickered in the distance, the acidic smell of rain riding a warm breeze that swept stray wisps of hair away from her face. She breathed it in deep, savoring the scent.

Spring was coming. It was her favorite season, a time of calving and foaling, of blooming and awakening and freshness. In the naivety of her youth, she had regarded springtime as the truest beginning to a new year, a time for the world to shuck the worn dressings of previous months, and remake itself anew.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time, and thunder pealed a few short moments later, making her flinch.

Storms were heralds of disaster, just as they were heralds of the springtide; they always portended change.

The world was certainly going to be remade anew.

The squall swept in over the water, white-capped waves being driven before the winds to die against the rocks below the castle. Rain was beginning to spatter against the side of the keep when scratching at her door announced another visitor; she called wearily for them to enter, despairing that it might be the witch, returned to argue once more.

It was not Morrigan.

He hesitated in the doorway, his body backlit by the lanterns in the hall. She glanced at him, grasped at once that there was something different in his stature. As far back as she could remember, he had always carried himself proudly, his back unbent and his spirit unbroken even in defeat. He looked now as if he were bearing the entire whole of Thedas upon his bowed shoulders.

"Am I disturbing you?" he murmured.

"No," she replied, her own voice low.

He wavered a moment more before stepping into the room, shutting the door behind him. She could see his face in the firelight when he turned; he looked as if he had aged a decade and was very, very tired for it.

"Do you mind if I - ?" He gestured at the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room.

"No."

He sat on the very edge of the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs with a grunt of exhaustion. His braids fell from behind his ears, shrouding his expression. He did not speak; she returned to watching the storm as it began to rain in earnest.

A particularly close crack of thunder shook the keep, and she jerked away from the window. Her movement must have drawn his gaze; she glanced at him and found him looking back, his eyes unreadable in the darkness.

She shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. "After all I've seen and been through, I'm still afraid of storms," she explained self-consciously, "I actually liked Orzammar for that reason. Even the Deep Roads were a relief from those nights I lay awake expecting my tent to be whipped away any second." She turned back towards the window, saying softly, "Sometimes it sounds like the entire world's being torn apart."

She waited for him to scoff, to speak disparagingly, but his words were thoughtful when they came. "Gwaren has terrible storms," he mused; he sounded almost as if he was speaking to himself. "Typhoons that come in off the Frozen Seas, bringing hail and sleet and wind enough to wake the dead."

She drew one knee up to her chest, shuddering. "Highever never got typhoons, but the storms that did come in off the sea could last for days. I hated it, being locked up inside the whole time – and I could never sleep, either. It was awful."

His hands were clasped together in his lap, and he squeezed them together until the knuckles shone white. "When Anora was little, she would sneak into my rooms when the storms hit. She always expected me to make them go away, to make them stop." He shook his head and sighed. "I wonder if she's still afraid of them."

She tried to imagine a younger Anora, a fearful little girl running to her champion, to a father who could dispel any monster. It was a difficult concept for Elissa to fathom; the queen had only ever portrayed herself as someone strong and detached, a woman who made hard decisions and lived by them. Perhaps the fearful little girl had gotten so good at mimicking her stoic champion that even he could no longer view into her heart.

"It's a foolish fear," she said, feeling as if she needed to say something, anything.

"Fears may be irrational, but they are never foolish. You can always learn from them, at the very least."

She scoffed. "What are your irrational fears, Loghain Mac Tir?" she asked with heavy sarcasm.

There was no hesitation in his answer. "Spiders." He continued as she blinked at him in disbelief. "I will go out of my way to avoid even the most common of garden spiders."

It seemed unlikely for him to be afraid of something so inane that her laugh was full of suspicion. "Spiders. Right."

He offered her a half-smirk. "During the rebellion," he expounded, "Maric and I were once set upon by giant spiders in the Deep Roads. We spent many nights lying awake in the dark, unable to see anything, praying to the Maker that we would hear them in time, and – " he stopped abruptly. He shook his head as if shaking away a nightmare, and once again leaned his elbows on his thighs, gazing down at the floor.

She remembered the cave spiders, the corrupted thaig crawlers. Already vicious creatures made cunning by hunger, they had swarmed her party over and over again throughout the forgotten dwarven outposts. Their venom had coated her armor and gummed in her hair, but no more so than darkspawn blood.

She considered them all beasts of the same caliber, and told him so.

"Yes, well, that's why it's my irrational fear and not yours," he growled, shaking his head again. He irritably ran his hands over his cheeks, shoving his fingers into his hair, pushing his braids back behind his ears.

The corner of her eye caught the weak flash of more lightning in the distance, and she turned back toward the window. It took a few moments for the thunder to follow, sounding far away. Even the rain was beginning to lift, and she wondered if the storm had blown itself out so quickly.

With a sigh, she leaned her head against the wall behind her. "Why are you here, Loghain?" she asked in resignation, staring into the distance though she could see little. The rain had dulled the cairn fires; the night was black as pitch.

He was disdainful. "You know why."

"Unfortunately, I don't," she retorted. "I apparently missed the lesson on mind-reading."

She could be just as derisive as he, especially when she was still feeling prickly from her conversation with Morrigan. She did not begrudge his company, merely the manner in which it was being rendered; the last thing she wanted was another argument. If that was all he had come looking for, she would send him the same route along which she had sent the mage.

He was silent and she waited, listening to the pinging of the rain against the roof of the castle. She knew it would not take him long to dispense a point he wanted to make.

The residual anger in his words was coated heavily with weariness. "Are you still in such a hurry to die?"

A streak of lightning blinded her for a moment. She closed her eyes, could see the super-imposed image of the flash against her eyelids. "If it comes to a point where there is no other way? Then yes, I'm willing to die to stop the Blight."

He shifted; she heard the sheets rustle beneath him. "That's not what I mean." She opened her mouth to respond again, but he cut her off, not yet finished. "It would be one thing if both Riordan and I were killed," he said, "Your duty would be clear. But it's asinine to offer yourself up as a martyr when there are other options."

She opened her eyes to gaze at him. She wondered if Morrigan had gotten to him, if he had listened to the mage's idea. Though he had never liked the witch, preferring to stay far away from her, it would be just like them both to suddenly come to an agreement on this one point. "How is it any more asinine than you or Riordan doing the same? I have no desire to be a martyr," she told him quietly, "But I don't see that there are other options."

He was still looking at the floor, was resting his chin in the palms of his hands. He addressed the stone, muttering, "So you will kill the Archdemon and leave me to make sure that welp you put on the throne doesn't mess everything up, is that it?" He shook his head slowly. "I have no wish to train another Theirin King."

Seeing his bowed form in the light of the fire, she suddenly wanted – needed – him to understand. "You told me you don't want to die," she implored, all but pleading, "This is the only way I can make sure that happens."

"By sacrificing your life for mine?" His skepticism was clear as he snorted. "You really are a fool."

"Loghain," she beseeched softly, drawing his eyes up to her own. She could not see what was in them, but it did not matter; she knew he could see what was in hers. "I have little left to live for. My family is dead, my home is destroyed. I have betrayed my King, and my name – through both my own actions and the lies of others. But you," she gestured at him, "You have a daughter that loves you, that needs your guidance and support. You have a chance at redemption, and the knowledge and experience to heal this country after the Blight. You can regain the trust of nobles that once relied upon you. You can be a hero again," she said, and her voice broke, "Rebuilt and reshaped and better than you were. And I – I could never follow that path."

He regarded her as if he were seeing someone else, his expression desolate. The bruises under his eyes were made more pronounced by the dimness of the room. There were tears in her own eyes, but she ignored them. He had seen her cry, had earned the right to do so; she would not deny him now.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working, and he spoke low. "It is a path I left," he admitted, "And no longer wish to revisit." His gaze wandered away, came back to her face. "If the Maker sees fit for me to continue living, then so be it. But you are young – strong and courageous. You are what Ferelden needs after the Blight ends," he told her, his own voice rough with conviction as his eyes drifted away again, "And I would be honored to die defending that."

She considered what it might be like, what being a Hero of Ferelden would encompass and how she would survive after the Blight. The thought of having to do it all alone was terrifying and she wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her biceps in each hand as she shuddered. She was no longer strong enough, no longer capable of bearing the agony and loss by herself.

Surviving without him was no longer an option.

The wind was picking up again, and a stiff breeze blew her hair up around her face. She did not bother to brush it away, leaving tendrils stuck to her damp skin. An unexpected, brilliant flash of light startled her; she leapt away from the window with a cry as an earsplitting crack split the night.

Adrenaline poured through her system as her heart pounded in shock. She was instantly battle ready, and just as equally prepared to bolt for cover. Fight or flight instincts warred within her; unable to move, she stood in the middle of the room, trembling like a child.

He was standing as well, his reflexes reacting to her fright as much as the noise itself. His fists were clenched, his entire body tensed and ready for a fight. They stared across the room at each other. The skies opened up outside once more, rain lashing against the shutters in fury, spilling down the open window sill to pool on the floor.

He straightened from his combat stance, lifting one hand and holding it out to her, curling the fingers towards himself. "Come away from there," he murmured to her.

She felt as if her legs were rooted to the floor; she could not move.

He did not lower his hand, and in the bursts of lightning that were coming constantly now, she could finally discern his eyes; his infuriating, ever-abiding haughtiness was mixed with sorrow, a grief deeper than she could fathom. It nearly floored her, the sadness she saw in him, and all she could think was that Wolf had been right.

He is sad and troubled.

"I can't – " she started but her voice fractured. She cleared it, started again. "I don't want – don't think I can – could endure – " She stopped again, frustrated. It was only fair that he should know the full truth of her fears, why it must be her that felled the Archdemon if Riordan failed to do so.

Before she could start again, he said, "It doesn't matter. The Maker will see it done, one way or another. Tonight is tonight, tomorrow is tomorrow, and we will take it one bloody breath at a time." He flexed the fingers of his hand outward. "Come here."

We.

Her stomach fluttered at the word. It was his acknowledgement, his recognition of her as an equal. It was a sign of his respect; he did not see her as a child but as a woman and a warrior.

She gazed from his face to his outstretched hand, to the familiar scars that crossed it, and she suddenly knew the real reason he had come to her room.

The knowledge was instinctual, primal and feminine. His very stillness was shouting for it, the weary slump in his shoulders begging, and her lower stomach fluttered in revelation.

He wanted to be touched.

Her course was set before her, and they were both committed to walk upon it. There was no changing that fact. Tonight affected only tonight, tomorrow the same, and every day following until time itself met an inevitable ending.

Her feet came free, and she moved towards him. When she took his hand, his fingers closed around hers, pulling her closer; he returned to his seat on the bed, drawing her down next to him. The muscles of his leg were drawn taut next to her own, his posture rigid. He kept his grip on her hand, but his eye contact had ceased.

He wanted to be touched, and was struggling against it.

Badly.

"Warden." His voice was coarse with genuine tenderness, and it was her ruination, moving her as nothing else ever had. He had proven himself adept at destroying the walls she tried to build between him and her innermost secrets. This last barrier, established against intimacy and hardened by Alistair's hatred, was no different; with one word, it lay crumbled at his feet.

She squeezed his hand.

A small breath escaped him, an exhale that was full of anguish and remorse and longing. "Elissa," he rasped; he sounded as if he was being tortured.

It was the first time he had used her name.

She kept her movements slow, for her own sake as much as for his; she felt the calluses on his fingers and the scars along his palm as testimonies to his meticulous strength and hardened capabilities. His hands mesmerized her, had done so from the first moment she witnessed him cleaning armor. They were iron hard and uncompromising, yet he used them gracefully, sinuous and thorough in completing any task.

She wondered if the natures of all men could be told through their hands.

Thunder crashed nearby and she reflexively shied closer to him, her shoulder leaning into his chest. He did not use it to his advantage as another man might have, did not move to wrap one arm around her protectively.

He did not slide away, either.

"I don't – " she began, her words stilted, "The storm – "

He glanced at her, his eyes murky blue pools; she swallowed nervously.

Tonight could well be the last night she would be able to share with another. The nights following would be spent racing for the capital, the Archdemon at her front, her own army at her back. There were no guarantees on how much longer her life would last.

The heat of his body along her side was a distraction, and she counted her breaths, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Her whisper escaped before she realized it. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

It was he who would not look away this time; when she attempted to go, he captured her chin, lightly holding her in place. He did not bother to hide his discomfort, nor did he entirely suppress the spark of yearning in the depths of his gaze.

"I am not," he told her once more, saying each word as if it were its own sentence, "A hero." His tone was subdued and forceful, as if he was imparting something of the utmost importance.

She heard him, comprehending what went unsaid.

He had been butchering the Hero of River Dane, destroying him piece by piece, since the day she had bested him at Landsmeet. This was his final capitulation to that end. He went to meet his fate with the sunrise; a hero would have passed quickly by her quarters, no matter his wishes or desires. A man was not so easily dissuaded.

The Hero of River Dane would never have sought her out on the eve of battle.

Loghain Mac Tir was unable to stay away.

"You are a man," she affirmed softly, reaching up with her free hand to rest it against his cheek. The tips of her fingers delved into his hair, and she marveled at its silkiness.

He blinked, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. He nodded once, his murmurs gruff, each syllable drawn out and visibly costing him in dignity. "I don't wish to be alone this night, either."

He had been a commander and teyrn for a large portion of his life. He did not order without reason, did not demand without cause. He lived by the tenant that leadership was sacrifice and gave everything of himself to his people. As such, he was sorely out of practice in permitting himself to want or ask for anything.

She offered what he would not order, gave what he would not demand.

She kissed him, tasting his surprise and uncertainty. She coaxed and he groaned against her, his hands rising to grasp ahold of her biceps as he kissed her back. Their tongues met tentatively, sparring with the most rudimentary of assaults, advancing and withdrawing in warm exploration. The storm outside was forgotten as heat coiled in her belly, spreading throughout her limbs in delicious anticipation.

She took the lead when Loghain did not; she knew this role and played it well. She had been with boys before, young knights and noble fosterlings that had been sent to Highever for education. The education she gave them in the shadowed recesses of the keep was not one their families anticipated, but it was instruction none-the-less. She enjoyed the game, studying love's tangles of disappointment and bliss. She was the bold one, had always been in control; even with Alistair she had been the pursuer, and when their love morphed from something pretend into something precious and treasured, she had been the teacher and he the student.

Disappointment tickled at her; his years should have shaped this as surely as it had shaped the other portions of his life, but he was proving remarkably consistent with her previous encounters.

She wrapped one arm around his torso, and gripped the bottom edge of his shirt, pulling it upward so she could feel the hot skin of his back. She ran the knuckles of her other hand down his stomach, felt his ab muscles contract and his breath hitch. He tried to pull away then, but her fingers clutched at his pants line and dipped below it, continuing their southern exploration –

He suddenly seized her hair, yanking her head forcefully backward. She yelped in surprise, found herself locked into place, staring up at him. Any sense of softness had disappeared from him; in the flashes of lightning, she saw his jaw clenched so tight it looked as if it might shatter, his eyes black and turbulent. He was more fearsome to her in this moment than he had ever been, looming above her.

She was wrong.

She had been with boys before, but Loghain was no boy. He was not a child playing at being an adult; he knew both pleasure and pain, knew the two were not mutually exclusive, that they could comingle and cross boundaries until the mind did not differentiate one from the other. He knew his own body, his own desires, did not need her to teach him or tell him what those desires might be.

He was a man.

Looking up at him now, at the rage in him, she comprehended just how little she really knew of men. She trembled, but did not consider withdrawing. He had warned her, told her he was no hero; he was a man with all of man's vices, both beautiful and ugly.

Half a man was no man at all, and he was entrusting her with all facets of himself.

He trusted her.

She did not back down, did not try to pull away from him. She did not move at all, staring up at him in the dark, awaiting and accepting whatever action he decided upon.

She trusted him, too.

He blinked, the lines of his jaw easing slightly though his eyes remained violent. "I don't want to hurt you," he growled, and his fingers loosened in her hair just enough that she could wriggle away should she wish.

She stayed where she was. "We are what we are," she told him, "I'm a traitor and a coward – And while I would never submit to the Hero of River Dane, I gladly offer myself to you." She grasped his forearm in his hand. "There is little you could do to hurt me, Loghain."

He searched her face, searched her heart, perhaps searched her very soul; she knew not what he found, only that he set upon her with a groan that sounded much like her name.

He was not gentle.

He was insistent and rough, his skilled hands finding places on her and inside her that she did not know existed, using them ruthlessly against her, preparing her until she wanted to cry or scream. His body was large, scared and callused as the fingers that played her; he found the remains of her own battles, found them and forgot them in his quest to drive her to madness.

He snarled when he entered her, pushing hard and fast; she clung onto him, afraid she would be swept away. He bound his arms under and around her thighs, jerked her legs higher; she reveled in his strength, in the abandon with which he wanted her.

He wanted her – as she was, as she would be, as only a man can want a woman.

She came seconds before he did, seconds before he drove himself into her with a final shudder that ran the entire length of his frame. They shook together, his hair a black cloud against her breasts. He fell upon her, allowed her to take his weight, and she held him, her legs and arms and body embracing tightly.

They lay long in that manner, regaining their breath as the storm swelled and died. She held herself still, fearful that he would leave if she moved. The rain had become merely trickle against the stones when he finally stirred, lifting himself up to meet her eyes. There was no regret in his gaze, but she could feel his embarrassment, his uneasiness; when he drew in a breath to speak, she prayed that he would not apologize.

"This changes everything."

It was not an apology; it was an acquiescence.

She freed one arm, combed his hair away from his face, the tips of her fingers brushing against his cheek. He was hard, unforgiving; he was considerate and polite. He was annoyingly arrogant and painfully reclusive. He was good and evil, light and dark; he could no longer feign perfection.

He was not a hero.

He was a man.

"Everything is already changed," she replied quietly.