Chapter 3: Screaming at the Sea
When Nathaniel finally found her on the bridge, it was hard not to laugh.
The Hero of Ferelden, the Warden Commander, the Queen, sat at the edge of a rickety bridge over the stream, dark hair hanging loose out of its normal neat braiding, bare legs dangling so that her toes almost touched the water. She looked ludicrously young. This was the Elissa that he had remembered and thought lost, the object of Thomas's hopeless crush, the big sister Delilah never had, Bryce Cousland's little spitfire.
It was hard not to laugh. So he did laugh.
She turned to him with sad eyes that brightened a little, he thought, upon seeing him.
"His Grace is looking for you," he said. "Cauthrien may be well enough for us to leave for Amaranthine in the morning."
"The sooner the better, I suppose" she replied, patting bridge next to her, an invitation to sit down. He complied, dangling his own legs over the edge, the tips of his boots cutting a wake in the clear water below.
"Wouldn't it be funny," she said absently, "if, after all this, Loghain Mac Tir's child inherited Highever?"
He stared out at the water, thinking on that for a moment, and broke into a bemused smile. When he looked at her, though, he saw tears running down her cheeks.
"Is this the kind of person I am, Nathaniel?" she sobbed. "Who holds children hostage to keep their parents in line?"
He put a hand on her shoulder. "You must do this," he said firmly. "You cannot trust her. She was loyal to Loghain, she loved him, and you killed him. You can't just send her off with a horse and a bag of sovereigns and expect everything to be okay."
She gave him a sad smile. "I killed your father," she reminded him softly, "and you're loyal to me, aren't you?"
He shook his head, "Only because you conscripted me. You forced my hand, and then you earned my loyalty. You're doing the only thing you can here. And anyway, what kind of a life do you think that child would have, the bastard son of the wrong side of the civil war? You're giving him a life, a good one."
"I bet she's terrified for him," she sighed, "I would be."
"You would never hurt that child, not in a million years. You know that."
"She doesn't know that."
He shrugged. "So she doesn't know. It doesn't change you." He paused, and then, "You're doing the best you can."
She looked up at him again, grateful for that. He tried not to think about how she smelled like flowers. He tried not to think about her hair and her eyes. He tried, but it was hard.
She made it harder by suddenly clasping his hand in both of hers and turning to face him, and he prayed that she could not feel the jolt in his body, the sudden, simultaneous, and contradictory urges to grab her close and to flee as fast as humanly possible. He split the difference and froze, unable to move.
"Promise me one thing, Nathaniel?"
Every possible response that came to his mind could have come out of his mouth dangerously wrong, so with an herculean effort he held back and merely nodded.
"If I ever become a tyrant, promise me you'll go back to trying to assassinate me?" She said it with an ironic smile, but there was such dutiful earnestness in her voice that it broke his heart. She would really, honestly, rather die than become what she hated, and this realization finally broke his resolve.
His lips were on hers for less than a moment, the time it took her to realize what was happening, and she pushed him back with both hands, eyes wide in shock. Her expression was unreadable as she got to her feet and backed slowly away from him, walking backwards as if to undo everything that had just been done, to erase it and return to the beginning.
When she was far enough away she turned tail and ran toward the castle, while Nathaniel remained, rooted on the spot, unable to move.
She was married. She was his commander. She was his queen. What he had done could be considered treason. Yet at that moment, all he could think of to fear was losing her friendship.
Elissa didn't stop at the castle. She kept running, then walking, then trudging up and up and up the hills of Highever, heedless of the rocks and sticks that punctured and bruised her bare feet as she marched on stubbornly forward. She walked until the soles of her feet were red and blistered. She walked until her calves went numb from the strain. She walked until she reached the cliffs overlooking the ocean, where she and Fergus had spent hours as children, climbing the steep rocks and diving into the sea, each daring the other to climb higher and dive farther.
Now the sea arrested her desolate march, and she cursed it. She stood at the edge of the cliffs in her bare feet and loose hair and screamed at the top of her lungs toward the horizon. She expected it to answer with an equally enraged echo, but the mist and the water swallowed her voice whole, making her feel small and inconsequential. She found the oddest touch of comfort in it.
She loved her husband. She loved her country. She loved the wardens. But somehow, she was now responsible for all three, and she could feel it slowly choking her, squeezing out everything left from the girl who had scampered barefoot over these cliffs what seemed like an age ago, and replacing her with someone else, a stranger. She had never felt so lonely. And none of the people she loved could help. Fergus was a broken, haunted man. Nathaniel was in love with her. Eamon was a fair-weather friend. Not a single person in Ferelden could possibly understand.
Then realization dawned on her, and stood and walked back to the castle. She had to get back to Denerim.