"I trust everything is prepared for tomorrow, Commander?"
Elissa looks up from her raid at the leftover foods in the kitchen, to see Cauthrien standing in the entrance, leaning against the wall and observing her. They are certainly not meant to be in here, either of them, but the servants are still clearing the dining hall and only occasionally running past this room, trying to conceal their displeasure at being interrupted in their routines by cheeky betters.
"It is." She adds a smile, remembering Cauthrien's steadfast service over the past month. "Thank you."
Between them is the unspoken mission. It is what the stern woman in the doorway wants to know about and it is what Elissa can't bring herself to tell, not now. Not here. Elissa doesn't know what Loghain has told her on his part, or what the Queen might have revealed. She makes a mental note to take her time to sit down with Cauthrien in private once they have left the coast; with only one Orlesian – and not exactly the brightest one – to be concerned about, not to mention the vast amount of time on their hands, they will have this discussion.
"And the Coastlands will be safely seen to, I assume?"
"It will have four Wardens in its service," Elissa replies, picking up half a loaf of bread and examining it before nearly putting it back again, but spotting Cauthrien's glare before she has completed the motion. She places it on her plate instead.
"That seems a very small number, considering-"
"And yet it is one more than the whole of Ferelden had during the Blight."
Elissa knows the stories of what happened in the north during the civil war. Good men and women punished for doing their duty, banns fleeing and banns abandoning their sworn oaths because of the unjust regency causing discord. It's a slowly churning wheel of discomfort and hurt being here, for all of them, she has come to understand. All of them pressed against the past, with little to offer each other in terms of escape except living it through. Walk through the fire, Mother Mallol would call it.
Not that Cauthrien strikes her as the praying sort.
Or the sort to hold regrets, either, but even so there's a sharp edge to her presence here, a little note of something they will not speak of.
Her face closes now, her voice tautening. "I see your point, Commander."
"Besides," Elissa says, "I trust Loghain to do whatever it takes."
Cauthrien snorts, barely audibly. She wears gauntlets indoors, for some reason, and does so tonight as well. Elissa hears the metallic noise they make as Cauthrien shifts her weight or change position.
"He will," Cauthrien says, finally. There's a wistfulness appearing in the cracks between the words, though Elissa doesn't know her well enough to interpret it better than that.
"We will be successful. And I'm sure we shall be able to return to Ferelden soon enough."
This false optimism doesn't suit her and she isn't certain where she has found it. She sounds like Cailan at Ostagar. Elissa winces, turning her head momentarily. When she looks back at the other woman, she notices Dog has found them. He glances sidelong at Cauthrien, as though he is still evaluating the new members of their flock, before coming to Elissa's side.
"Alistair will certainly spare more than enough soldiers as well; I have notified him of the darkspawn presence in the north," she adds, in the same unsuitable spirit she seems unable to rid herself of.
"Very well, Commander." Cauthrien nods curtly. "Goodnight then."
"Goodnight," Elissa says, knowing neither of them will sleep until they are on that ship.
At least she will not.
For three nights now they have not done much beside reading, looking over maps and discussed the territorial and political sections of the Coastland. They have wrapped their hands around the darkspawn problem, wrought it and tore it apart and shaped it into something resembling a coherent thought. The rest of the Wardens have participated, of course, but Elissa has always slipped back into Loghain's room once they have parted ways for the evening, always adjusted the ideas with him only.
It is, in the end, a matter of power. Orlais is still intact, the Blight merely brushed past its borders and they can afford motives beyond survival and restoration and this, more than anything else, is what makes them dangerous. The Fereldan Order is still no more than two Warden strong, faltering in every comparison, so they hold on to each other, without reserve and out of necessity.
And out of choice, these too-late nights when she knows she won't sleep and knows that he will be awake and willing to hear her sleep-deprived rant about potential recruits and dangers. There's a frantic need in her; a forceful tug at her heart and mind to close the circle, finish things and tweak the damned uncertainties into solid, warm reassurance and half the sentences in her head begin with if I don't return.
"If I don't return, remember that I shall haunt your every moment in the Fade should you marry Lady Hertha," she tells Fergus, ignoring his slightly wounded gaze at those words.
"If I don't return," she tells Dog who refuses to hear the rest of that sentence and spurts off in the opposite direction every time she tries.
"If I don't return, the Order must survive," she tells Loghain, grateful that he, at least, merely nods.
If I don't return, she tells herself, I have at least done my part.
There's nothing dangerous about this, of course.
(Nobody has ever set course for Orlais and not reached the shore.)
She will not be in any peril.
(The Orlesian Order is tightly manipulated by the Empress whose chevaliers were being pushed back and killed at the border.)
Shrugging off the pathetic anxiety, Elissa grabs a grape from a bowl and bites down on it.
Loghain's retreated early tonight, after a big supper with the lot of them; it was a feast for her journey, even if nobody spoke of the fact that they were all there solely because the ship leaves shortly after dawn. After all the goodbyes this year, it is surprisingly difficult to say goodbye to Highever.
There is still a comparatively rich selection of food in the kitchen, especially considering the circumstances. Elissa makes another mental note. This time it is to remind Fergus to compliment the new matron and the cook and -. She almost finishes the thought before remembering that this is no longer her place – like it ever was, she has not been able to tell servants apart for most of her life. Now, when she is leaving it behind, she is suddenly a teyrna in her own mind.
She shakes her head, irritated with herself and returns to the task at hand: food.
With nobody watching, she puts the bread back again and picks up dried fruit and fried fish so tender and so well cooked that the buttery surface is starting to melt, running along and in between her fingers as she tries to bring the fish to her plate. Wiping it off on her tunic, she snatches cheese and walnuts, too, and takes the last slices of the boar. Dog, sitting expectantly at her feet, gets a piece of a calf's head.
Remembering Loghain's preference for dried figs – odd for a man who claims to dislike sweet flavours – she grabs a handful, before walking up to where his guest chamber is located. In her memories it's the room where Lady Brega always stayed, for months sometimes when she needed rest and recovery. Elissa had never quite gasped what Lady Brega required rest and recovery from, but she had gathered over the years that the unspecified reasons among her parents' friends and acquaintances usually concerned violent husbands or various unspeakable diseases. According to her mother, she was better off not knowing about that.
He opens the door to his chambers after her first knock.
"Yes?"
"Can I come in?" she asks without preamble.
He is still fully dressed - wearing a linen shirt and trousers – but he has loosened the neckline and taken off the waistcoat since she last saw him at supper. She still has the notion of him as the Teyrn of Gwaren, proper and powerful in his silverite armour or wrapped in fancy clothing at the banquets and feasts; at the same time this is how she sees him when she thinks of him: dressed down or ready for battle. The Teyrn is being washed away, worn down. He seems to welcome it even more than she would have expected.
Loghain steps aside, no longer dropping a sarcastic remark regarding her frequent visits. He is too practical not to see the use of the extensive company, she supposes. And there are moments, however brief and fleeting and likely spurred by wine-induced vanity, when she thinks he enjoys her presence, too.
"I have a favour to ask of you."
It is always best to be clear and honest with him, she has learned. To state the business immediately. He expects the worst otherwise, reads the situation to her disadvantage and that is simply annoying and takes entirely too much of her time. Parsing it from this angle, though, he can be a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist.
Except perhaps not the night before her departure.
"Aside from the fact that I am to sit by and watch obediently as you run headlong into an Orlesian trap, you mean?" he says. The sarcasm in his voice is real. Its origin – concern for the country and the Order and possibly also for her – is real, too. But he isn't vehement about it, that sentiment has been replaced by an irritated acceptance that somehow unsettles her more. "Speak."
Elissa looks at Dog who has curled up in front of the fireplace, chewing at the remaining bone of the treat he was given before.
"You like him, don't you?"
Loghain frowns. "Who?"
"Dog." She puts down the plate on the low table in front of the sofa where Loghain has placed a few old tomes about Warden history as well as a map of Ferelden. Her own vellums and papers are left behind, from last night. When she meets his gaze again it's still puzzled. "I meant to say that you like my dog. And he is very fond of you. So I am going to leave him in your care."
He is quiet for a bit.
"That was not a question," he says eventually. "It was a statement."
"Yes. Well." Elissa shrugs. "Look, I can't really bring a dog with me to Orlais. They will eat him-" She is interrupted by a high-pitched growl from the mabari. "Hush, boy. I have explained this to you already. Orlesians are mean to dogs. Yes, they are. You want to stay here, you would be miserable on a ship and then there would be no decent food for you to eat and no foxes you can hunt."
Dog accepts this once more, undone as ever by lack of foxes, and goes back to his treat with a low snarling sound.
"So," she continues, looking at Loghain now. "We can't imprint him on you, of course, but he should consider you his master now that I am no longer in Ferelden."
The dog barks, confirming this by giving Loghain an approving glance.
"I see."
"You told me once that you had a mabari as a boy." She searches for familiarity in his face, tries to bring out something similar to willingness in his gaze, because this is beginning to feel like a rather foolish idea. "I figured... well, I thought you would be the best choice."
He walks up to Dog and sits on his heels beside him, reaching out a hand to scratch him. After a second of hesitation, Dog looks up and Loghain strokes him over the head. There is something about the entire scene that undoes her, something that softly and quietly strikes at that part of her that she has tucked away, the part that wishes she could escape duty somehow.
"Is there a particular reason you do not leave him here with your brother?" he asks, searching through his pockets for cheese. "He is a Highever dog, after all."
Elissa approaches them, sitting down on the edge of table that creaks under her weight. Dog is too involved in licking Loghain's palm for the last scraps of cheese – and still punishing her for leaving him behind - to take notice of her, which is a decidedly good sign, even if it breaks her heart a little.
"Fergus isn't fond of animals," she says, remembering how he used to throw sticks at the mabari being trained in the castle, claiming it was because they shouldn't get too attached to those who weren't their masters, but Elissa soon found out it was because Fergus was scared of dogs. While he isn't afraid as a grown man, as far as she knows, he has never truly formed any friendships with them. "I would rather he is left in the care of someone who will appreciate his company. He's a fine dog, better suited for battle than herding knights in a castle."
Dog barks at this, proudly.
If Loghain has any objections against the halting logic – the Hero of Ferelden, moreover the Commander of the Grey, could probably bring a small dragon with her to Orlais and convince the natives it was a lovely pet if she put her mind to it – he does not voice them.
"This is an unusual order from a commander." He shakes his head, but he is more amused than disapproving. Dog nudges his arm affectionately.
"I am an unusual commander," Elissa says, smiling.
"That you are."
They look at each other as they are both rising to their feet; turning her head, she notices he has been taking notes while reading the book on the Fereldan Warden rebellion she left. He has a neat hand-writing - she can tell as much without looking too closely - the letters are thin and obedient and smooth. She wonders where a farmer's son learned that. Her own writing is small and cramped, she knows; she has always had problems fitting everything she wants to say within the limited space on the sheets of paper and all her tutors would berate her for it.
"Will you do it, then?" she asks, nodding towards Dog.
Loghain nods, too. "If that is what you think is best, then yes. I will."
"Good." She buries her relief in another smile. "Thank you."
Elissa bends down to pick up the map from underneath the table as Loghain sits down on the sofa, watching her briefly before resuming his reading of the open book. Without even asking, she takes a seat too, reaching for a quill and her old Orlesian books used for her least favourite tutoring sessions.
They don't say anything; they sink into their own private studies. Occasionally one of them reaches for the food on the table, eating it in the same silence. Elissa throws scraps to Dog and Loghain gets up a few times to stir the coals, keeping the flames alive.
This is a very new habit they have formed since arriving to the castle. No, she corrects herself, it's newer than that – it has formed itself during the past few days, creeping up on her, reminding her that she has not yet got a handle of every relationship in her new life. She does not, for example, know precisely what the boundaries and benefits of this friendship are. If it is a friendship. Loghain has never seemed to approve of the idea. But it is something, and she is thankful for it.
Glancing at him, she wonders if he would much rather be alone at the moment or if she is welcome to stay. Just as the question is about to slip out of her he meets her gaze and raises an eyebrow as he spots her curious stare. Elissa shakes her head, turning her attention back to the text in front of her.
Some things she prefers not to know.
And with the fire spreading a comfortable warmth in the room and with her relaxing in the somewhat worn piece of furniture, Elissa begins to feel the recent lack of sleep in her bones. It becomes tangible here, with nothing else to do with her body but rest.
Her head lacks the will to even try to make up for the physical weariness, too.
La bataille est e merveillose, e grant. Maker's breath, she has managed to forget the dreary old Orlesian words since last she was bent over this, near tears all the time because her mouth could not pronounce what she read and her mind refused its inherit logic. La bataille est e merveillose e grant. Marvellous is the battle now, and grand. And the brave Thibaut raised his sword and field upon field bathed in blood.
La bataille est e merveillose e hastive.
This is not even the language being used at present. Inside her the brat she used to be is still raging against the futility of being taught dead languages. Yawning, she skips straight to the next verse, but loses track of the meaning so she must return; dragging her eyes over the lines of bleak sentences and faded drawings. The letters are ghosts, she concludes after the third attempt to decipher the first and second strophes. Blurry, grey ghosts spreading out over the paper.
Thibaut est e merveillose -
And then Thibaut runs through a field of peculiar-looking flowers, all of a sudden, followed by a barking dog. She can feel the scent of roses in the air – it strikes her as wrong since she can actually see no roses, but perhaps they are behind those trees in the distance. As she is about to follow the knight, there is a noise beside her, like someone calling back a dog, a rapping sound echoing in her mind, pulling at it –
"Elissa."
Only half-way out of the Fade, her thoughts continuously being pulled in separate directions by the soft darkness of the dream as well as by the voice speaking to her, Elissa grimaces and pries open her eyes.
"Elissa." She has a hand on her shoulder now, someone pushing her backwards and she is about to protest when she realises she has almost fallen forward towards the table. Damn. Her neck creaks faintly as she turns her head and looks into Loghain's face.
"You fell asleep," he says, rather needlessly.
She blinks. And settles, as reason is seeping back into her blood to mitigate the absurdity of sleep. The touch of his hand, cupping her shoulder and the stark sensation of being torn from a different place altogether. Loghain lets go of her.
Elissa winces, rubbing the nape of her neck.
"Did you snap your fingers before?" He snorts at the irritated expression she can feel in her own face. "You did. You snapped your fingers at me."
"It is not generally a good idea to be too close when you wake up people who are used to war," he says, dryly.
"Huh." She sits up straight, rolling her shoulders back and forth to soften them up again; sorting out the last bits of confusion at the same time, the thoughts and ideas slipping back into their places with soft thuds. Like fingertips on skin. "I didn't hit you, though, did I?"
"No, you did not."
Loghain seems amused. Or rather: there is a gash in his grim and closed-off way, that she has come to know as amusement. And she has observed it often enough to be half-certain. When he leans back against the sofa she keeps her eyes on him, observing him now as well, trying to sort him out as swiftly as she just did her thoughts, as though such a thing would even be possible. He has resumed reading, or if he is not reading then at least he has gone back to holding the book with one hand. The other rests on his thigh; his hands, she notices, are scarred and still carrying the faintest touch of summer, the skin running over veins and faded silver lines is not yet winter-pale.
He is a tall man, a head taller than Elissa who is unused to be shorter than other people, and with broad shoulders to match the height; he is in all things built like a warrior and fights like one, even at this age, even after years and years of other duties he has remained muscular, strong. And yet she is convinced it is his personality that makes him appear large. It fascinates her to think that someone can be such a presence it affects the way their faces appear to others. Growing up, she always thought of him as sour-looking, with a face made of dull, unrelenting stone. It is not. That much she knows already. He seems different to her now than he did months ago, when he stood before her at the Landsmeet and her mind struggled to adjust its threadbare images - painted in colours of victory and heroism - with the brand new ones of desperation and tyranny.
She knows these little things about him – small things, important things, things that make him a man outside of the myth – and they blend with those stories everybody has heard about Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the facts and figures clashing and explaining all at once.
She has not yet figured out what or how he looks like, with the old being replaced with the new, and this is strangely fascinating.
She wonders, briefly, what colours and shapes she has in his mind.
Elissa is interrupted in her thoughts and her unabashed staring, as Loghain clears his throat, catching her gaze. He puts the book in his lap and looks at her, waiting for a comment or a question if his facial expression is anything to go by.
"That was very dull reading," she offers stupidly to have something to say.
"Yes." He is amused, damn him. And she feels strangely at a loss, like she's been caught doing something more intimate than just looking at him. "I understood as much from your snoring."
She scratches at the back of her head, dragging fingers through the tangled hair.
"I read it before, many years ago. My parents wanted me to learn Orlesian... but this is just... can you read it?"
"Orlesian?" Loghain peeks over her shoulder at the Chanson de Thibaut and his brave, fearless adventures among enemies that seem to pour down over him like rain. "Not well."
"Me neither." Elissa snaps the book shut, tipping her head back a little so she can sink further down in her seat. She feels so dreadfully heavy, capable of falling back into the Fade on the spot. The warmth and the subdued colouring of the room does nothing to help either. This room is indeed one of the best in the castle; she recalls hearing her mother saying it ages ago – let poor Brega have the finest bed - but has not had a reason to reflect on it until now. Perhaps this is the reason poor Brega stayed for entire seasons, sleeping them away in here.
"It is very late," Loghain says evenly, as she struggles to keep her eyes open. "You should retreat to your own bedchamber."
"Are you turning me out?"
"Yes." There's a suggestion of a smile in his face as she yawns and stretches her arms towards the ceiling to prepare herself for the task at hand. It seems like a much better, warmer idea to simply stay precisely where she is. "I cannot imagine you want to be found here by the servants in the morning."
Groaning, she reaches for the spread-out maps and begins to roll them up again. Then she places the largest of them, the one of the Tevinter Imperium, beside Loghain on the sofa.
"Keep that," she says. "In fact, keep all of the maps. I have several in my pack already and I will not be needing road maps of Ferelden for a while."
"You want me to have these?"
"Yes."
He looks suspiciously at the parchment next to him, fingers tracing the worn edges as he picks it up.
"You do intend to come back to Ferelden, I presume?" For the first time today, she can hear something close to the furious disapproval he had initially expressed at the plan.
"I do. Why would I not?" The earnestness in her own voice makes it thick and difficult to manage, so she attempts a half-smile before she leaves.
Loghain does not return it.
.
.
.
.
Elissa has the bleak morning sun in her face as she reaches the harbour.
She has insisted on walking alone, while the rest of the group that set out to send them off has taken a carriage from the castle. A biting cold prickles her skin but the freshness of the air silences the leaden feeling of departure in her stomach, if only momentarily.
Until she sees them all standing there. A front line of people with little weapons other than polite smiles and words of luck and Maker watch over you.
Because she is leaving.
"There you are!" Shirei calls out, brightly. Of all of them, she is the only one going home and even if she is well-behaved enough not to parade this, it is noticeable in the pattern of her speech, the way her eyes fall on faces and packs and the ship, towering behind them.
Elissa falls into her place, in front of the group. She lets her own eyes fall upon the faces of the sombre troop that has gathered.
The Orlesians are the first to crowd them.
Smiling, Hawise throws her arms around the mage, kissing both of her cheeks. Hedin, too, kisses her in the same fashion. Whereas Jenner – entirely unsurprisingly – stands a bit on the side, watching the scene.
Neither Hedin nor Hawise pay their farewells to Elissa in any physical way; she adjusts the cloak tighter over her shoulders as the two of them stand before her.
"Be careful, both of you," Hedin says, looking at Elissa and Shirei as well as the small crowd: Cauthrien, Zevran and three knights, silent and surly and hand-picked by Cauthrien - aided by Fergus who still wants Elissa to take at least half the Highever soldiers with her. She has instead opted for an insignificant and forgettable display, hopefully defeating all speculation about her purpose until she has what she needs. Which, she must admit to herself while kicking back the dark, persistent swirls of doubt, is not as clear as it could be.
"We will be careful," she says.
"We promise," Shirei adds, sounding very young. She speaks to her senior Warden from the position of a reverent child and it makes Elissa uncomfortable. So much for the absence of hierarchies in the order.
"I have no intention of not returning," Elissa points out, the conversation from last night fresh in her body.
"Maker knows I will strangle you if you don't." Fergus has made his way over to her now; the Orlesians take a collective step back.
"It's not the bloody Anderfels, Fergus." She tucks her bare hands into the pockets of her winter trousers, the thick leather feeling rough against her legs.
"Even so." He observes her, his face serious and marked by a wrinkle of worry between his eyes. "I can't pretend to like this."
"I know." She smiles, defiantly. "Just remember what I've told you. And do not hesitate to ask Alistair for more troops. He will be in tune with the darkspawn threat as it is, all you need to do is give him notice-"
"Elissa, I know," Fergus shakes his head. "You have told me this several times already. I know it by heart. And your general over there will be here to remind me, should I forget something terribly important. A phrasing or perhaps a stray word-"
"Don't joke about this-" she begins, but is interrupted efficiently with a hug. For a second she allows herself to lean into it, feel her numb momentum melt a little around the edges as her brother's arms hold her tight. As soon as he releases her, she slips back into steely resolve. It feels like it takes a bit of her heart, every time she has to do it.
"You will be missed." Fergus says with a small, inwardly sigh. He turns his head a bit to look at the mentioned protection. "At least you have excellent protection."
"Count on it, Your Grace." Cauthrien bows formally. She glares at Zevran beside her, as though her mere disdain would make him bow with her.
"Ah, yes." He nods, arms folded across his chest, sounding every bit as bored as Elissa knows he is. "We shall... prevail?"
"Fool," Cauthrien mouths discreetly.
"Such harsh words, ser knight," Zevran retorts in a normal voice, which makes her scowl deepen even further. It is going to be a long journey. "And in front of company, too. Tsk, tsk."
Cauthrien looks like she could drop a lifetime of discipline and honour and behead the elf on the spot. Fergus seems to notice that, too, because he turns away slightly, a ghost of a grin threading his lips.
"Zevran," Elissa says finally employing a tone she has refined over the course of these past months.
He interrupts himself with a shrug, shooting her a wicked smile and she has to stifle her own. She is suddenly glad he is coming along; for all his faults and stupid habits he is a good fighter and a skilled assassin and - when he is not too busy staring at it - he has her back, because she has his respect. Zevran is above all else a survivor. She can't have enough of those.
"Thank you, ser," Fergus places his hand on Cauthrien's shoulder.
The crowd has eased, people scattering to board the ship and the knights are already carrying the packs along the pier. Elissa turns to the remaining company.
Dog sits hesitantly in front of Loghain, titling his head to watch the master who is about to break his heart. She bites down on a whine, of the same kind that Dog usually lets out when he is miserable. For years he has been wherever she goes; her shadow and her friend, not to mention her bodyguard. Leaving a mabari is no simple feat – she had assumed him dead as she woke up in Flemeth's hut, yet the first thing that met her on the road, as they took up the trail, was Dog fighting his way through darkspawn hordes to return to her. It is probably a good thing they are separated by an ocean and a temporary master, this time.
"You look after him now," she says, burying her hands in thick mabari fur and breathing in his scent. "Keep him safe."
"Have I not already told you that I will?" Loghain asks, a bit impatiently.
But as Elissa looks into Dog's eyes and Dog barks conversationally, she knows he has understood the direction of that command better than his human general. He licks the back of her hand once, too, for good measure and for underlining his point.
Good boy, she tells him mutely, by nuzzling her face against his head. I will be safe, too, you see. I promise. It's like when I went to Fort Drakon without you and promised to return. I returned then and I will now. You can trust me; I would never abandon you, would I?
Dog barks once more, a little sadder this time but still in agreement, before positioning himself at Loghain's side.
Elissa stands up, meeting Loghain's gaze. It is unreadable and solid and she can take comfort in it, grateful for the opportunity. They watch the others disappear, leaving the three of them alone. She knows it is very close now, the ship will be leaving shortly.
"You are the Commander of the Fereldan Wardens until I return, then." She has certainly developed a bad habit of stating the obvious, as of late.
"So it appears."
"I'll keep in touch," she says, ignoring the voices calling for her. "Shirei claims the Warden messengers are quite fast and have a well-functioning service even across borders. I will instruct you further once I know more."
"Very well," he replies, looking over her shoulder at the waiting mission. "I think they want you to hurry."
"Yes. If I don't return, Loghain," she says quietly. "You will know what to do."
He looks at her darkly for a moment, then he nods. Elissa places her hand on his arm, a little awkwardly, trying to form suitable words, but can't find any so she merely smiles what she hopes is her most reassuring smile.
And quickly turns on her heel, before she can change her mind.
AN: As always, thanks to CJK for the beta and to all of you for reading.
The quotes in old French is from Chanson de Roland. Sneakily disguised here as an Orlesian hero.