"Tea?"
Cauthrien's voice is immediately there as soon as Loghain opens the flaps of the tent and steps out into the icy mist of the early dawn.
Not answering the question, Loghain slumps down on the log near the fire; he finishes the last buckles of his armour and looks out over their camp. Still no snow, Maker be praised.
He has slept badly and only for a few hours here and there and feels his mind wander like a stray dream from the Fade, scattered and difficult to read. Ordinarily he quickly readjusts in the morning, having been a light sleeper for as long as he can remember – a trait only strengthened by necessity and a lifetime's experience of being on the run and leading men in battle – but today he narrows his eyes in the unforgiving light, shuddering a little. This situation is taking its toll on them all. Even the darkspawn blood seems stronger in his veins when he is tired, the pull of it dangerously near.
"Tea," Cauthrien's voice snaps, cutting off his trail of thoughts.
He finds a mug on the flat top of the log next to him, followed by a plate of bread and meat, even a sickly looking winter apple that the night frost has dealt an ungentle blow.
"Thank you," he says, looking up at her.
She shrugs.
Then she sits down opposite him, her face stern and her eyes observant of his every gesture, it seems. Loghain is rather certain she has a few berating speeches stored in her somewhere, lectures that only remains of hierarchy and obligation keep her from throwing at him. Times like these she reminds him so much of Anora.
"You are not worried." It's not a question, and her voice is not inquiring; she rolls up a slice of meat and wraps bread around it before taking a large bite. She has always had efficient methods even when it comes to eating.
"You are?" He takes the tea and swallows a large gulp, hoping in vain that the warm draught will thaw out the cold.
"It is a perilous journey still ahead and we have already lost the teyrn." Cauthrien frowns over her plate. "The Fade will claim him soon enough even if his body recovers."
Shrugging, Loghain takes a slice of bread and puts it in his tea. It has been days since the supply they brought from Denerim last tasted good, now they just eat the last of it to fill themselves.
"He is not dead yet," he says, ignoring the prickling sense of vague guilt attached to those words.
He has spent a good portion of the night battling the irritation over current events and always, clearly and infuriatingly, he has returned to the suspicion of having underestimated the danger. That the dull grind of Denerim's prison-like inn chambers, raving nobility and political turmoil crept under their skins to a much greater extent than he – or anyone else - realised and left them impatient and reckless. And he does not dwell on mistakes, but this one is strangely different, its potential consequences spreading like a bloody disease.
"There will be more assassins out there, looking for you." Cauthrien brings him back to the present again. "Half the nobility want to see you dead."
"And the other half?" he sneers, knowing perfectly well what the answer is.
"They are too cowardly to agree with the first half." Cauthrien suddenly half-smiles back, and her face looks less frozen as she does that, a little something of the cracked confidence between them slipping into place.
You will have to find ways to mend it, Anora had said hurriedly in Denerim, in a fashion that was scarcely worthy of a sharp mind such as her own. The damage you caused. There is a little bit of her, a fraction of her whole hidden well under layers of politics and intelligence, that hopes against hope. Celia had always been the same. And Loghain, his mind a dreary and heavy-set lump of sensibility beside theirs, would sometimes and with great reluctance try to give in to the tugging, demanding threads of wishes and dreams but never for long and never successfully.
And he cannot hope to mend the damage done. There is no way to even begin. Even evading the consequences of it has begun to seem like a hopeless task.
"Well." Loghain straightens his back and attempts to ease out the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. "There is no reason to believe we will linger here much longer, at any rate."
"She won't move an inch until the teyrn recovers," Cauthrien says, in a tone that is assertive and dry and the result of fifteen years of tightly woven threads of comradeship and command. What he knows she knows, too. "That is the problem, is it not?"
"There is no problem." He fishes up another slice of soaked bread between two fingers and puts it in his mouth. He is still hungry like a creature starved. As predicted by his commander, his hunger has increased remarkably since the Joining and this alone is nearly as strange as the noise in his head. Even years into his life as teyrn, even now, Loghain had never adjusted to the self-indulgence of nobility, the constant feasts with its overly abundant offerings of both food and drink and the following carousals. "Remaining here will not be detrimental to our journey."
"Unless, of course, we are attacked again or we are hit by the first storm of the season or-"
"Furthermore," Loghain interrupts her, "This is the decision the commander made and therefore your orders."
Cauthrien gives him an unreadable glance.
"Yes, General," she says, coolly.
.
~*~
.
A pale winter sun is already low in the sky the afternoon when the Teyrn of Highever eventually wakes up and his doing so cracks a noise in the grave silence of the camp, like ice breaking in the spring. Loghain hears the news as he instructs a group of soldiers to get rid of a pile of discarded armour and sends one knight far up into the mountain passage to investigate the current status of the decided route.
"He's awake, General."
Loghain hasn't been aware exactly how bothered he has been, how much it has occupied his thoughts, until the weight off it falls off his shoulders. Shrugging away the last of it, he turns to the messenger.
"He's awake," a knight repeats to him. Ser Greta. It's the same woman who stood guard in camp the night the teyrn was wounded, he recalls, having learned their faces and names now. "And the Commander wishes to see you."
"Very well," he nods. "Thank you."
Walking down to see her, he finds the camp quiet, as uneventful and grey as the backdrop - the heavy mountains and the thin air, the crispy yellowing grass beneath their feet and that sense of being on the brink of something new. Loghain immediately spots Elissa where she is kneeling beside the teyrn's side; her hands are holding his and it's so sombre a scene that nobody would guess it's a happy occasion – until the teyrn's hand reaches out to tousle Elissa's hair. Loghain stops short of a smile. He can't imagine anybody else in all of Thedas that would do that to her and live to tell the tale.
"Commander," he says, nodding at her, then turning his attention to her brother. "My lord, it is good to see you are recovering."
"My sister tells me I owe you my thanks, Warden."
"Hardly," Loghain says.
There's a smile in the teyrn's face at this. "Well, you have my thanks all the same, I'm afraid. Do with them what you wish."
Elissa grins at her brother and Loghain shrugs, ignoring the feeling of being the odd man out.
"Was this the reason for your summoning?" he asks the commander instead.
"Yes, I wanted to let you know that we will be continuing as soon as Fergus is a bit stronger," she doesn't look at him, but he can hear from her tone and the way she still smiles at the teyrn that her eyes look calmer than in a long time.
As Loghain walks away, the relief is so tangible in his body that he can almost taste it at the back of his tongue.
That evening the Orlesians serve a rabbit stew and large tankards of ale as the dark sweeps over them all; Cauthrien and a couple of knights are guarding the camp and Loghain rolls up his maps and crosses the field to reach his Commander.
She has taken her meal by herself near her own tent, for once. He finds her sitting wrapped in a cloak and a thick fur, cradling a mug in between her palms.
"Loghain," she greets him, glancing up.
"I have set the route for our continued journey," he says. "When you are ready to travel."
He gets down on the ground beside her, unfolding the largest map he has of the northern coastland in front of them both. Elissa leans closer, adjusting her position so she can have a better view; her arm – clad so heavily that it feels like the thick paws of a bear – pressed against Loghain's own.
"Do we walk across it or around it?" She sips her draught. It gives off a faint scent of ginger and honey.
Loghain looks at the drawn mountains. They appear so simple in this fashion, so easily overcome on a sheet of paper that he can crumble up in his hands or rip to shreds.
"We are abiding by the plan to use the mountain pass," he replies. "I did send out a small patrol earlier today and they are safely returned."
"Good."
Elissa nods, her gaze fastened on some spot in the distance, leaving her facial expression blank and unguarded. For as long as that lasts, she looks very worn out, her face old beyond her years and Loghain looks away, somewhat unsettled by this. There is so much they must do. So much she must carry, so many things tied to her name and her titles and so little a general can do about it.
Being here, not attending to their immediate duties, has given him time to reflect on the journey ahead and the near future. They still have had no word from the order in Weisshaupt where Loghain assumes the Headquarters are located and from where orders go out to Wardens all over Thedas. And the land granted them by the King and Queen must be addressed as well, although he cannot see them getting around to that in many months.
There is little rest in their future and while he welcomes it for his own sake, he wishes things were different for her. It's an unwelcome, most ridiculous thought for a general so he pushes it back again.
As Elissa sighs beside him, he is reminded of his other reason for seeking her out.
"Stop blaming yourself," he says.
"I... what?" She frowns at the abrupt comment.
"Stop blaming yourself," he repeats, voice pressing harder now.
"I'm not blaming myself-"
"Of course you are." Loghain rolls up the map again and around it he ties the little string he uses for this purpose. "You are the commander. We were attacked and the soldiers failed at their duties."
She offers an odd, slightly hurt smile that reminds him of their encounter the previous day. "So you are telling me to stop blaming myself even though I am responsible for this?"
"I am telling you to get yourself together." He keeps his eyes on her; her mouth is a thin line now, angry but controlled in a way she hasn't been for the past few days. "It is not merely about this. You will have worse days as a commander. There will be losses, other losses, that you have to accept, no matter how cruel they are."
Sighing, she scratches the side of her face, tugging at a strand of hair. "I'm aware of that."
"No," he says, "I do not believe that you are."
"Thank you ever so much for that confidence."
Now she is decidedly angry with him and Loghain nearly groans, feeling he's had a lifetime of this already, not wishing for a minute more. Ill-suited as he is for gentle coaxing, he finds himself doing it as an inescapable punishment present in every chain of command.
"I was offering my advice as a general," he says, eventually, making the effort to keep his voice calm and even.
She raises an eyebrow. "And if you had been offering it as a friend?"
He's silent a while, pondering this. There is no reason they should be friends despite her rather odd belief that they are.
All things considered, though, these are not normal circumstances and the Wardens are not army soldiers. His commander has spent over a year leading a group of friends and now she is commanding a troop of brothers and sisters. If he is to successfully be her general, he understands, he must somewhat conform to her defining lines, her own code.
"My advice would not differ."
She looks at him, a little wrinkle appearing on her forehead at his words but she doesn't seem irritated, merely thoughtful, as though she is reaching a conclusion.
"Good to know."
"Every commander makes mistakes." Loghain leans back on his hands, still observing her. "Every general, too. There is no exception."
"I suppose you would know all about that."
He snorts, but she is genuine, he notices and cuts himself off before he has given a response to that.
"I do know," he says instead, simply.
Elissa nods at that, looking out over the camp, lost in thoughts. She has finished her tea and tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her mass of clothes.
"I have had nobody to rely on since I left Highever," she says, quietly and almost reluctantly, the words coming out in small sighs. "Every decision from where to make camp to what we should do about the bloody werewolves... I know it's arrogant of me to think I alone carry the weight of this sodding world, but..."
Her voice fades away and Loghain nods.
"You must learn how to live with that," he says, forcing away the feeling of repeating empty phrases he imagines he would have wanted to hear, a long time ago, but that he knows he would never have taken seriously if someone had offered him. "And not let it get to you."
"Have you?" The curiosity in her face gives way to urgency as she turns her head to look directly at him, waiting.
Loghain averts his gaze momentarily.
There came a point where he stopped waiting for the end – of the war, of the rebellion, of the role it forced upon him – and started thinking of it as something he would always have, that would always define him. A point when all the diverged roads melted into one. He no longer remembers when it happened or why, but it was there among the clash of weapons and redrawn maps and gaudy statues and celebrations; it was part of them as much as they were part of it and Loghain resigned into it, like Maric and Rowan. They made a point of remaining who they had been, took to irreverence and curses and strange intimacy in private, until that, too, disappeared into the long shadows their actions had cast around the Palace and they became almost-strangers to each other. As though the war had taken everything they ever were.
"I have done this for more than half my life," he says now, squaring his shoulders and avoiding the question. "What do you think?"
Her wistful smile carries a sadness that he isn't certain is directed at herself, and it makes him feel like something has crept under his skin, but he doesn't look away.
Neither does she.
.
~*~
.
Two days later, they begin travelling again, with the Teyrn of Highever safely tucked away in the carriage should any more bloodthirsty assassins sneak up on them.
"Tells you something about who we value the most, doesn't it?" Jenner's drawl is unmistakably amused, as he walks by Loghain's side after the carriage where Elissa has opted to spend the first uneventful part of today's journey.
"If there is something you want to say, then speak up." Loghain has half a mind to make the brat trip over his own sword, but focuses his attention on the mabari at their side, marching between Loghain and the Orlesians like a shield. Scrambling through his pack, he finds a bit of cheese that he allows the dog. This, too, causes Jenner to roll his eyes.
"Ah, it's nothing," he says coyly, but continues all the same. "I wish we could have arrived earlier, in time to see the mighty Loghain fall to his knees in front of a girl, that is all."
"Girl?" Loghain sneers. "Oh, you are referring to the woman who drove back the Blight? Yes, she bested me. And the Archdemon, incidentally."
"Apt comparison." Jenner chuckles, carrying himself with the posture of someone who has accomplished something important.
"And your point is?"
"He rarely has one."
Loghain looks to his right where Hawise walks. Serious and quiet, she is the only one in the foreign troop that he can tolerate. She nods at him.
"Jenner is the best duellist I have ever seen," she elaborates conversationally. "We have deemed his skills good enough to tolerate his... ah-"
"Personality?" Loghain fills in, wondering how often a Warden can possibly be needing duelling skills. Perhaps Orlesian darkspawn are better trained.
"Yes." Hawise offers a small, tucked-in smile. "And while we are on the subject, there is a matter of logistics we ought to solve before we reach the coast."
"I have already spoken to the Commander," Shirei, the mage, cuts in from behind them. Her voice is strained and Loghain is amazed at how out of shape a Warden can be. It seems impossible, considering their living conditions and daily routines. "I will accompany her."
"What a brilliant choice," Jenner says, the words thick with sarcasm. "Nobody is better suited as a guide than she who spent all her life locked up in a tower."
"Belt up," Shirei retorts so quickly it's obvious she has counted on his comment.
Loghain is inclined to agree with Jenner, much as the mere concept of that makes him wince inwardly. The tactical choice would be Hedin or Hawise, he thinks. But the mage is a healer and that has its merits, of course; Elissa has likely planned on covering all her potential needs for the stay in Orlais and he can't fault her for that.
"If you wish, I can go with her as well," Hawise offers, glancing at Loghain.
"I do not make decisions for the Commander," Loghain says, wondering what has given them this idea in the first place.
"Oh," Shirei says, a touch of amusement creeping into her tone. "Right."
"You would have to ask her yourself," he says sharply to eradicate the mage's attempt at being funny at the Fereldan Wardens' expense. "Unless, of course, you are afraid of her?"
"No, you are probably the only one," Jenner snaps.
"Ah, if you lot could stop behaving like children." Hedin has reached them now, moving gracefully and quiet like a cat in the grass. For all of their journey so far, the elf has never made himself part of any constellation; he is crossing in between and around them, seemingly unperturbed by all personal relationships. "The best choice is for the Commander to be accompanied by Shirei and her own small set of friends. It is nothing more than a courtesy call at the Orlesian headquarters, after all. No?"
And Loghain has little choice but to agree with that. "It is a formal visit, yes."
Hedin nods. "Then Shirei shall go with your Commander, as agreed upon previously. The rest of us will be here with you, Loghain."
"That sounds good," Hawise says, smiling that peculiar smile again, and Loghain says nothing, but increases the pace of his steps as though it would be possible to outrun his own future.
.
~*~
.
They move quickly, without any disturbances, and at dawn on the fourth day of the journey the smell of sea in the air guides them the last few miles towards their goal. Shrouded in what feels like the first hints of a cold rain of early winter, their little group of travellers reach the last bit of open road until they can consider this stage dealt with.
"Good job," Elissa says, as they come to a halt on top of the brink surrounding the large village of Highever. Her hand touches his shoulder momentarily as she pushes herself up further, to get a better overview of the landscape spread out before them.
Highever.
"The rumoured darkspawn attacks were said to have hit Highever," Loghain says. It is rarely a good sign in wartimes to meet this kind of peacefulness and his commander knows that, too, because she inhales sharply at his side.
"We will see for ourselves soon," she says, her arms wrapped around her body for warmth – or comfort- as she decides she has seen enough and goes to wait for the rest of the soldiers. Loghain tries to catch her gaze but she stares defiantly at the road ahead, looking so defencelessly young that he must remind himself of her title and his own and the thousand shadows cast over the place they can't seem to find an escape from.
"Should I seek an inn for the soldiers?" he asks. "I would imagine that is most convenient."
"No, there is room for you at the castle," she retorts, quickly.
"I rather thought you-"
"You will stay at Highever Castle."
And Loghain, watching her cautiously as they make their way down into the village, is uncertain if her voice that cracks does so under the weight of cruelty or grief or something in between.