This has always been her favourite room in the castle.

Not even Aldous' endless tutoring sessions, or the giggling, regular outbreaks of servant girls being felt up by blushing knights between the shelves, had managed to in any way diminish Elissa's love for the castle library.

It's also the only thing Howe hasn't completely discarded after the coup. She notices some shelves are missing – probably those that were damaged that night – and the section of volumes chronicling the Cousland family line has disappeared, but most of the other tomes are intact. Not even Howe or his underlings were foolish enough not to see the value of a well-kept library, she supposes.

Elissa sits in the middle of it tonight, perched on a desk with one leg on the chair in front of her, the other dangling in the air. It has been a day of avoidance and moderation as the returning nobles have been visiting to pay Fergus their respects and she has been holding her tongue and perfecting her Warden neutrality. There's still noise from the newly installed servants who flutter about in the corridors, struggling to bring order to the castle after the banns have left; she sighs, picking up a stray tendril of hair and tucks it behind her ear. Half-heartedly she turn over the leaves of Tales of the Fereldan Rebellion as narrated by Ser Locke of the King's Guard.

"They raised their arms in victory and in celebration of their general who rode in front of them, across the River Dane. Even the dragons rose in joy as the Orlesians lay bloody and defeated on the ground-"

"You will be in one of those, someday."

Fergus' hand on her shoulder is warm through the much too thin summer tunic – all of her warmer pieces of clothing are packed for the ship that leaves in three days. He smells faintly of leather and something sweet, likely brandy. When she leans into his touch she thinks of leaving him soon, leaving him here, the last of their line with no other choice than to start all over again and she can feel her stomach twist a little. He will need to restore so much. He must reassembly the nobility and bring them into line even if half of them may hate her for sparing Loghain and there will be talk, so much sodding gossip and Fergus is her brother and she would kill anyone who tried to hurt him, snap their necks in a heartbeat. Except she will be in Orlais and he will be here with talking darkspawn and a handful of Wardens.

Battling the urge to turn around and hug him, Elissa sighs.

"Tales of the Hero of Ferelden?"

He chuckles. "Why not?"

"No, you are probably correct."

"Of course I am."

"And most of the tales will be false speculation and myth," she mutters, flipping another page between her fingers until she is greeted by the colourful painting of the Hero of the River Dane. He stares at her from the book, distorted in a ridiculous pose she is certain he has never adopted in his life.

Fergus is quiet but the grip around her shoulder tightens.

"They can't write the truth." She snaps the tome shut, shrugging.

"I sincerely doubt you have done things that are too awful to be written down," Fergus says; but it's more a question than a statement and Elissa feels it creep into her bones, a cold dread carrying the facts and figures of the past year. "You did what you had to do."

"Yes."

He is right, Elissa knows that he is right but there are nonetheless things that fall between duty and necessity, things that matter, too, even in times like these. And it's the moments of hesitation sometimes, moments where hesitation should not be possible: moments like the harsh, unforgiving Deep Roads and everything she lost there, the political games and the disastrous ritual, the convenient way of throwing all honour aside for no good reason. That is what echoes dully in her blood. She must let it go, but the only way out is through the fire.

"I have fought in a war, too, Elissa," he says softly. "I know that there are no heroes outside the fairy tales. But people need to believe in something."

He has rounded on her now, leaning against the chair and searching for her gaze. Elissa rubs her forehead, wishing she had a drink of something strong enough to make Highever seem bearable.

"I crowned a back-stabbing tyrant in Orzammar," she says, looking at her own hands. Once, they were being forced to learn how to play her mother's harp, how to dance over the strings in ways that always seemed impossible. They are broad and calloused now, full of scars and scabs. "Because his opponent had a weaker support from the Assembly. Do you know what his first decision as a king was? To let the opponent hang."

"That is not exactly an unusual procedure," Fergus points out, calmly.

She shakes her head, not as much in disagreement as in disbelief. "I considered having golems in my army even after I found out how they are made – they take living dwarves and trap them in stone, Fergus, and I considered it for a few minutes because they would add considerable strength to my cause. Just as I considered not fighting the cursed werewolves in the Brecilian forest but allowing them to fight for me."

He still looks at her, she notices when she glances up at him.

"We used blood magic in Redcliffe." Elissa straightens her back, feeling like a confessor before the priest. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval. She always did excel at the religious studies, to everyone's disbelief. "It was my decision not to find mages that could help us; I decided we did not have the time required for that."

"I heard," Fergus rakes a hand through his hair that is getting entirely too unkempt for a teyrn. "I must have been awful. Eamon does not seem to blame you for it, however."

"No, he has enough on his plate as it is," she says, unable to keep the frosty notes out of her voice when she speaks of that man. "He does blame me for not becoming Alistair's queen. As you may have heard, too. As does Alistair himself, I think."

"Ah. Yes," Fergus says. "Anora is a fine regent, however. Most would agree."

"She is. And yes, they would."

He seems to think of how to word the next question, his face scrutinizing hers.

"Would you have done it? If two Wardens on the throne had not been political suicide, I mean."

Once, she would have hesitated here. Now she shakes her head, because some things certainly change.

"No. I mean... the rumours of our entanglement or what it is that they call it, are true but-"

"Affair, I believe the gossip mongers say." Fergus flashes a sarcastic half-smile her way. She has missed those, has almost forgotten he used to be like that.

"Oh, of course. Our affair aside, I would make a poor queen." She grimaces a little, putting the book down beside her, fingers tracing the ornate front of it, her nails scraping over the faded colours. "Subtlety has never been my forte."

"You would be a forceful queen," he says, clearing his throat as though he's trying to rid himself of the amusement at the idea of Elissa as the Queen of Ferelden. Another childhood dream discarded before she even reached marriageable age. "Not necessarily a poor one. Although you would rile up the banns a bit too much, I think."

This is the unspoken truth between them, the silent code of their family: that Fergus is too little of a powerful leader and that Elissa is too much. Of everything. Bryce's little spitfire, still playing the man. Eleanor's little disappointment, still unmarried. She shrugs it away, replaces it with a deep breath.

"You certainly have had an adventurous year, little sister."

Her brother smiles again, warmer now. And there's a trace of concern there too, a way of tilting his head slightly as though he is looking for ways inside the things she does not tell him. Elissa squares her shoulders.

"Yes." She tries to return his smile. "You could call it that."

"You are the bravest, most amazing person I know." Fergus' face transforms instantly from kind to decisive as he looks sternly at her, towering in front of the desk, his hands on her shoulders. There's a glimpse of their father in his eyes and it almost makes it difficult to breathe. She misses that particular detail so much - his fatherly, berating look. "You had to be tough; you needed to make the decisions nobody else would make, and you made them not for your own benefit but for others. All you have done has been for the rest of us, Elissa. You do realise this, don't you?"

Elissa rests in his reassuring gaze for a second, feeling hit by something warm and sweet that falls right into place inside her, like it has been missing without her even noticing.

"I do," she says eventually.

"Good," Fergus lets go of her; one of his hands ruffling her hair before he folds his arms across his chest.

"I really hate it when you do that." Scowling, Elissa brushes back the tousled ponytail and fastens the strands he managed to let loose.

Fergus laughs. "I know."

He walks up to the window, while Elissa leans back on her hands, taking in the view of the room. It is getting dark.

All the shadows in here, all of the scents and the sounds and the very dust in the books, all of it remembers a rebellious girl who wished she had been born a boy, a girl who was climbing too high and screaming too loudly and who dreamed of kings and rebels as her heroes. There is nothing left of her.

And for the first time it feels like a relief.

"Oh, this reminds me. I came to tell you that Loghain was looking for you," Fergus says suddenly, still facing the window.

"Did he say why?"

"Does he usually?"

Elissa tilts her head back, her laughter caught between a sigh and snort. "No."

"I thought not."

"Well," she says, "he can't wait for a bit."

"You were worried about him," Fergus says then, simply. They both know what he refers to.

"Yes," Elissa replies. She was. His injuries had left her cold with dread. "I've caused enough death for a lifetime."

"So has he, I imagine."

"He has."

Fergus turns around at the sound of footfalls at the entrance, where a young servant girl carrying candles appears, looking flushed and confused, likely expecting the room to be empty.

"I-I'm so sorry, Your Grace," she squeaks, and with her head bowed she makes a run for the corridor, but Fergus calls out before she has disappeared out of earshot.

"Do come in and finish your job, girl! I won't bite."

Seconds later she reappears, cheeks red. "Thank you, Your Grace."

And this, Elissa thinks to herself, is the reason she has never wanted any ladies in waiting.

The girl scurries to the central chandelier and places the lit candle there, then she quickly begins to light the others. Upon finishing this task she curtseys in front of Fergus.

"Pardon, Your Grace."

"Yes, thank you."

As she leaves, Elissa can't help but notice that her brother looks as frustrated as she would have been, which is quite alarming.

"She's young," she reminds him. "And just arrived. Give her time to settle down."

"Oh, I know, I know." Fergus scratches the back of his head, smoothing out the frown with a small grin. "So. I still can't convince you to switch? I could use a holiday in Val Royaeux."

Elissa snorts. "And I could do with staying here, helping Loghain sort out this Order of ours."

The room seems very quiet when neither of them speak for a while, the air swallowed up by the lack of voices.

"You put a lot of trust in him," Fergus says eventually. There is no blame or reproach in the tone, merely curiosity.

"I do, I suppose." She crosses her legs, leaning forward. The thoughts of Loghain are slipping through her mind like threads of silk, some of them out of reach, others stranded where she can find them and pick them up. "He made promises and I have no doubt he intends to keep them. I think... all the things he did... he has a lot of regrets. This is his chance at atonement."

And as she words form, she realises they are true. She has spoken them before, thought them before, but tonight they are true. As an insight, it is as strange as anything else about that man, and as naturally, too. Elissa looks over at her brother. Peering across the room the light from the chandelier makes the shadows seem deeper, warmer.

Fergus nods. "I will be grateful for all help he can offer, then."

"I will let him know." She slides down from the desk. "Thank you for the motivational speech, big brother."

He grins at the sound of a term of endearment she hasn't used for years and Elissa feels a bit lighter as she walks out.

.

.

.

.

He has stayed out of sight in his chamber and outside, in the dead garden, all day.

It is an all but hopeless attempt at remaining unnoticed by the small number of banns who have been reached by the news of the returning teyrn. A mission as hopeless as being a ghost in Denerim, but he had tried back then, too.

With all the visitors gone, Loghain feels less like a holed up animal.

Outside the small chantry, the lights are burning on the walls; it reminds him of the one in Gwaren, a room he had not visited often but where Celia spent hours upon hours. When she was gone he had imagined he could even scent her in there, among the incense and candles.

This room has a different smell, a touch of damp stone and salt water. He slumps down on one of the benches near the altar.

He feels her approach even before he can hear the thuds of boots and the rhythmical pacing of her walk – whatever her goal, she does not pass slowly, she strides and tramps – and leans back in his seat, feeling a peculiar need to brace himself.

She enters without speaking to him, without even acknowledging his presence; she walks up to the statuettes and books as though inspecting them, making certain they are still there.

"We need to discuss the strategy for how to best employ the Wardens in the north," he states, bluntly when it has been quiet for a very long time.

"Yes," she says, nodding. "We do."

Having picked up a necklace of some kind, she looks at him, making her way to where he is sitting.

"If your ship is leaving in a few days then this is all the more reason to involve your brother in the plans, as soon as possible." Loghain can feel his own sentences as dissonances in here; Elissa's glance in his direction tells him she is not going to bring out her maps and quills.

"I used to hide under these benches during the services." She speaks evenly, there's a enhanced clarity her voice tonight, he notices, as though she has had a drink or a potion. But her eyes look sober as she sits down beside him. "Mother Mallol was a lovely tutor when we were alone but I hated listening. And the crowds."

She looks at him, awaiting a response.

The words are not there, Loghain finds, there is nothing he can think of saying that isn't worthless in this place; nothing coming from his lips that will bring any form of consolation or offer anything but more pain. The castle is reining him in. It resembles the time in the Palace when Maric – and Loghain, in his own twisted, speechless form of grief that got stuck like a swelling in his throat because he had no right to it - mourned Rowan and later, when Cailan mourned the father Maric had never been and Loghain had walked the corridors like a shadow. He had wanted to comfort his friend the way Maric would claim he could, back when they were different people. He had wanted to be of use, but he was not. Everything he did and everything he said drove them further apart. And he grieved that, too, pathetically.

"That night... " Elissa rubs a spot on her neck and grimaces a little. "When the soldiers marched off she was in here, praying for them. I... didn't join her."

He doesn't say anything in response to that either.

"I wonder what became of – well, I suppose there is not much to wonder about, is there?"

"She may yet be alive," Loghain offers, lifting his head somewhat. His entire body is sore, chafing against the truth of what has happened here. Being here is overwhelming. Everything he has done, one thing after the other like a chain of history, seems to seek him out in this place where he can't outrun it. "You don't know that."

"It is unlike you to expect the best."

"When I took Maric with me to my father's camp," he says, finally speaking, hearing the words in his own head. "He was followed by the Orlesians that killed the Rebel Queen."

She nods. "You told me, before. Just after Landsmeet."

He has forgotten. There are days before and after that where his memory doesn't serve him, where the usual paths and lines are broken and replaced by cloud-like fog, or dark spots. While it is likely for the best, the mere idea of having simply lost it makes him furious.

"I thought you were farmers?" Elissa holds up the necklace in the candlelight, momentarily, then she tilts her head to look at him from a different angle.

"Outlaws." He sighs. "My father kept us on the run; he provided for us and plenty of others who followed. There was a priest among those. Mother Ailis."

Elissa frowns. "Wasn't she serving Maric in the Palace for many years?"

"She was, yes."

Loghain had found no reason to condemn her to the forests of Gwaren; he had also thought, foolishly, that where he failed to reach his old friends, she would succeed. He knows she tended a lot to Cailan, but not even that seemed to have had much bearing upon the boy's ideas.

They fall silent again, he is assembling words for things he has not spoken of in so long the events themselves seem like inane stories a bard would tell, too subdued and at the same time too gaudy for having been lived through. She seems to be waiting.

"The soldiers found us, of course," he continues. "They stormed the camp. We had been lingering for too long because of Maric's injuries."

Elissa nods, still quiet on the bench beside him. She runs the necklace over her fingers and touching the small beads and the strand of metal rhythmically, as though she hears a tune in there somewhere.

"My father made me swear I would protect the prince and guard him through the forest, see that he was safe. He himself stayed behind."

Loghain has little idea why he is telling her this, why this pathetic narrative of his past has surfaced tonight and he has a good mind to take it back somehow when Elissa's gaze finds his own. She looks, of all things, grateful.

"Nearly all of them must have died instantly. I thought they had, for the following years." He remembers the gradual shift of focus, still. How he had started out with no other thought than to return, as though he would be able to track them and there would be something left to return to. How he had felt the obligation to take over his father's self-assumed leadership, even if he would never have been able to offer the same amount of protection and safety, especially not back then, as the arrogant brat he had been. But the duty had been there, not leaving his mind until he was kneeling in front of Maric. Loghain shifts in his seat, suddenly less at ease talking about this.

"But they weren't all gone," Elissa fills in; he realises he has fallen silent.

"No," he says, "They weren't. After the coronation, I found Ailis alive. She had managed to flee. No doubt thanks to my father."

"You must have been angry when he sent you away."

"I was." Loghain sneers, feeling the outlines of the boy he had been still there in his bones.

"I was furious with my father, too." She shakes her head. "All he wanted was for me to save myself and our family but I felt like he sold me, as if it was a sodding horse-trade."

When he couldn't bear to blame his father, Loghain had blamed Maric. For a long time and without being able to stop, not even with other things blending into their uneasy comradeship, wrapping themselves around his stale hatred and grief, had he been able to look at the prince and not feel bitter resentment.

But Maric had never accepted Loghain's hatred of anything, not back then and not later on; he had poked and pried and provoked without end, simply kept at it. And that was the sort of friend he was. While the initial bond between them was forged out of coercion and urgency, Maric seemed dissatisfied with merely liking Loghain as well as you can be expected to like someone who reluctantly saves your life. He had insisted on being Loghain's friend. And Loghain had no weapons against that frank kindness, no defences in the face of Maric's want to do right by him even though Loghain had spent every night for months wishing the bloody prince would die gruesomely.

"Did you forgive him?"

Her question catches him a bit off-guard. It seems to reverberate against the walls in the chantry, before landing within him.

"My father? There was nothing to forgive. He gave his life, the least I could do was to risk my own."

"I meant Maric." She is under his skin now, and she seems to know it because she looks away. "I'm sorry, that was intrusive."

As a young man, Loghain had faulted his father for the compassion and the decency he always showed others, his tendency to forgive instead of punish and his sometimes overly accepting habit of allowing less desirable elements into their group. Then he spent the entire rebellion looking for the same traits in himself, only to find that they were missing, or deformed and twisted at the back of his mind.

Forgiveness has always seemed impossible to him, like a task that requires too much – too much forgetting, too much blind foolishness.

"Maric did nothing that demanded forgiveness," he says, after a while. It is not an answer and not the whole truth but it is the only answer he will offer, all the same.

She seems to find what she sought in these words, because she grows silent beside him. Loghain looks straight ahead, stretching out his legs and observing the painting of Andraste's warriors amassing. It's a rare motif to find in a chantry. He has seen the insides of quite a few, despite having no faith to speak of.

"He must have," she says, then. "Or he would not have managed to take the throne."

"Well," Loghain retorts, sharper now, pushing back memories. "Then he has answered for that before the Maker, I am certain."

Elissa raises an eyebrow. "And comfort is only Yours to give."

The escaped canticle line sounds different in her voice, she speaks the words with a certain obstinacy; they roll off her tongue. Perhaps the Orlesian heretic has influenced her in this, too.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"People have the right to forgive each other, you know." She turns in her seat, facing him now. "And people have the right to be forgiven."

"That's a generous ideal," he snaps, stifling a groan.

"Is it?" Elissa appears genuinely interested in hearing his answer.

"The only ones who can forgive are already dead and the ones who live don't have the luxury of forgetting," he says, echoing someone else, from a different life. He no longer remembers who or when.

"I live. And I won't ever forget. But I forgive you," she says.

The sensation of her hand over the back of his own startles him a little, and then the words sink in, which is even stranger. He meets her gaze, the glint in it absolutely honest and utterly inexplicable.

"Why on earth would you do that?" he asks, incredulously, his own voice like a harsh breath in his ears.

And at that her lips form a faint smile that looks relieved, like she is driving something out of herself and into the air between them. She smiles at him and he is certain he has never seen her smile like that before. It tugs at something long gone and soundly buried and he shuffles the thoughts, readjusting them again.

He looks at her as she rises to her feet, tucking the necklace into her pocket.

"Tomorrow morning," she states over her shoulder when she walks to the door, "Great hall. Strategy. We keep it between ourselves and Fergus for the time being, don't you think?"

"I agree," he says, but she has already left the room.