Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space.
Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike
Feeds beast as man

Antony and Cleopatra

William Shakespeare

The Orlesian court is nothing short of terrifying.

Its size, its display, its very core of posturing, positioning, slightly threatening manners intended, without a doubt, to make Elissa feel exactly what she is feeling where she stands, sweating in her finest clothing and with the legendary weapons from the Blight on her back. They suddenly feel too heavy, like she has shrunk in size. The clothes feel tight against her skin – and not only because of those lovely Orlesian pastries and a lack of exercise, but because she wants to crawl out of them, run away from this and hide behind a large Fereldan army, preferably led by someone else. She is aware of the infantile cowardice in these thoughts, but at the moment it feels more tempting to take on the Archdemon for another fight than meeting the Empress of Orlais for an afternoon chat.

"Nervous, Commander?" Cauthrien asks beside her, her voice wrapped in a peculiar sound mirroring what Elissa feels.

"Not in the slightest. You?"

"Hardly."

They exchange a wry half-smile.

Before them are the enormous stairs leading up the the equally pompous entrance, warded by a small army of guards who are armed to their teeth. Around them the courtyard is splendid in itself, resembling the kind of botanic garden Elissa has only read about before and even now, with melting layers of snow taking away some of the impressive beauty, it is possible to imagine how striking it truly is.

With a last look around, Elissa walks up to the waiting crowd that - without saying many words save the necessities - takes her to her audience with the Empress.

She is a short woman.

This is the first thing that strikes Elissa – an odd thing, too, considering the pomp associated with the figure in front of her, the massive surroundings of marble and gold so costly, one might assume, that it is almost shameful to speak of them. Seated in the middle of the room, the glitter from her extensive finery distracts momentarily, as she is shifting a little in her seat at the announcement of the new guests. When the first impression wears off, and everything sinks in, Elissa truly understands that she is looking at the most powerful individual in all of Thedas. Her expression is one of power, her gestures – controlled, confined – are all those of someone used to ruling; absolutely nothing is out of place or carelessly handled. There were those - back when she was still Cailan's Queen and not Queen of Ferelden - who said Anora resembled the Orlesian Empress; they said it like it was to her disadvantage, resembling the tyrants. It is, Elissa realises now, a compliment.

A wiry old marshal takes a deep bow.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he states formally. "May I present to you - Elissa, the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey Wardens and Defeater of the Blight."

Elissa kneels on cue and hears the sound of metal on stone as her entourage does the same.

Defeater of the Blight. It's a pity they don't use all this form and decorum more often, she thinks, to make herself distractedly amused in her position on the marble floor. It would certainly make for long conversations.

"Commander," the Empress nods, gesturing for Elissa to rise again.

"Your Majesty."

They meet eye to eye, observing each other levelly for a moment.

Up close, Elissa finds, the Empress is beautiful in an unremarkable way, she is what her mother would have called a good breed, is power and pride and carefully made brilliance; she has eyes the colour of grass, that seem to dig their way into Elissa's calm composure. But there is no maliciousness in her face. She scrutinizes her visitor.

"I have heard much about you," she says, her gaze lingering on Elissa without transforming in the slightest, it remains exactly the same and is impossible to read. Polite indifference, detachment, mastered to a kind of perfection that is truly stunning.

"I am honoured to meet you, Your Majesty."

"Ah," the Empress adds a smile to her face, distant and crisp. "A well-mannered hero. How fortunate for Ferelden."

"Thank you," Elissa inclines her head and pushes the irritation at the remark to a dark corner of her mind. This is no day for remembering anything further back than yesterday unless it serves a visible purpose; this is a day for politics and careful manoeuvrings.

Suddenly the other woman stirs, being aided to her feet by the ladies waiting by her side.

"Walk with me."

It's not a question, so Elissa follows suit as the Empress begins to walk slowly across the room, through the crowd that disperses at a flick of her hand.

They make their way to the side of the large chamber, exchanging unimportant phrases until a note surfacing in the Empress' voice indicates it is enough. There is a moment of silence before she turns to Elissa.

"The First Warden has overlooked your treachery against the Order, Commander," she says. She sounds friendly – or rather: she has hit a perfect imitation of friendly – and her eyes betray no contradicting emotion. "This should make any Warden business much easier."

"Ah, I was-" Elissa interrupts her own sentence, reminding herself of the company. "Yes. It is most generous."

Your treachery. She may be a foolishly proud creature, but to assume responsibility for that makes her body clench in a quiet fury, rising from a low whisper to a roar as the conversation progresses. Yes, she understands guilt by association and she is much more than just associated with Loghain, having placed her trust in him and left their nation in his hands, again, regardless of his crimes against it. But it's not like she was ever presented with much of a choice, she thinks darkly.

Bloody Loghain and his arrogant use of power. At least half of her new duties as a Commander would have been significantly simpler if he had not - if he had possessed a smidgen of the sensibility he prides himself on – No. Elissa shakes her head slightly, demanding her thoughts to return to present. She can't change the past. It will remain there, jarring against her every step, until it is worn down or driven out and she has no idea how to accomplish the latter.

"I take it you have not met with the First Warden yet?"

"No," Elissa shakes her head again, this time while looking at the Empress. "No, not yet."

"He is seldom a visitor in other nations," the Empress says, rounding a pair of guards. All of them wear the same kind of silverite armour that Loghain had seemed to be attached to when she first met him – Elissa knows the legend, how he beheaded the Commander of the Orlesian army with one stroke and took the armour for his own, a spoil of war reminding them all of what means they had used to pay for their freedom. It leaves an odd taste in her mouth, here. "It is rather unfortunate."

"I understand the First Warden prefers not to leave the fortress in Weisshaupt at all." Elissa steps in between a curtseying elven maid and two deeply bowing chevaliers; it appears the Empress is leading her towards an exit in the shape of an enormous gold bronze door where delicately crafted sea snakes made from silver are forming the arch.

"He does not." Her smile is somewhat frosty. "For all most people know, he may exist only in legend."

Elissa smiles back, politely. "This is not true, I gather?"

"Indeed not."

Noticing that nobody follows the Empress, Elissa gestures briefly to Cauthrien to linger, too. If a a trap or an ambush awaits behind that door, it is unlikely a handful of knights can stand a chance against it and the risk to display hostile or even defensive behaviour is too great. Elissa hopes she is right, thinking of her mother's lessons in diplomacy – verbose and tedious as they were - that invariably led to her father tutting and shaking his head, saying you should have been Queen, Eleanor.

"We are taking our tea in the garden," the Empress says, forestalling all questions.

"I see." Elissa nods, without asking further about the garden part. It is true most of the snow has melted but the air is still cool and the ground is wet. Hardly a perfect day for outdoor sojourns.

But as she follows into the garden, the scenery speaks more than words. In the middle of the courtyard, taking up most of it, save a few neatly arranged paths is a colourful, blossoming rise in the ground, entirely in bloom and carrying a heavy scent of roses. It is vastly decorated and arranged into several sections, one of which awaits them at present, a few servants standing ready to serve tea underneath an arch topped with white and faintly pink lilies. All in all, it resembles a painting from a fairy tale. Elissa blinks. Naturally. She should have understood that the Empress of Orlais knows how to put her mages to good use. The garden is gaudy, of course, and provocatively sumptuous – but this is not Ferelden, she reminds herself once again – and absolutely inviting.

Elissa is being seated in a soft-cushioned chair with her back to a high rose bush, and served strong tea with delicious little cakes of various size and shape that all seem to melt in her mouth, the sensation of them trickling down her spine with a soft gasp. The Empress looks vaguely amused at the - likely badly hidden – pleasure. It makes Elissa straighten up in her seat.

"Your Majesty, if I may speak?"

"Well, certainly."

"I was hoping," Elissa says, wielding her sentences carefully as though the words are hot coals. "I mean, I believe it is crucial for both my Order and for our nations to have a future... understanding."

"There has been such an understanding since the treaty," the Empress replies softly, putting her tea back on the table with a little clinking sound.

"Of course." Elissa nods. "But surely we both know that it was broken during the Blight. It serves neither of us well to pretend otherwise."

The boldness of her words marks the air between them, the spaces outlining them both against the backdrop and where the scent of roses basking in the gentle spring sun makes it difficult to breathe. They are combatants now more than ever and Elissa doesn't back down.

"You are an unusual Fereldan," the Empress says eventually, after what feels like a procedure involving weighing Elissa against some invisible competition, measuring every inch of her.

"I will take it as a compliment," Elissa says, rather dryly.

"Oh, you should. It was intended as such." A new trace of friendliness, sounding differently this time, creeps into the voice. "And you have my word, Commander, that I shall honour the understanding in the future."

"As will I, Your Majesty. As long as it serves the Wardens and my duty to them."

As will I.

Elissa stifles a grimace. It feels a little bit like the tales she would read in secrecy in the armoury – the stories of rash and bold heroes selling their soul for infinite wisdom or bottomless courage, being forever trapped in a demon's chains. She reminds herself that Anora and Alistair have made no promises, sworn no oaths, but the taste of ashes in her mouth doesn't fade. Her parents taught her well, after all, she is no blind fool; then, as the images of them burn out in her mind she thinks, irritably, about Loghain, almost hearing his cold and unreasonable berating from across the Waking Sea. You made peace with them, she snaps back. And then you slaughtered the chevaliers at the border because you think nobody but you knows anything, you stubborn-

This is what she came to do.

The Empress looks up; their eyes meet levelly. "I do have a concern, however."

"Yes?" Elissa raises an eyebrow, swallowing her last sip of tea. The servant closest to her rushes forward to pour more into her cup, a whiff of perfume and roses brushing past them as she does so. She already knows what the concern will be.

"Loghain Mac Tir," the other woman states, expectedly. "He is a great risk for you, Commander. While he is a Warden now, by all means, he is still the same man."

"Loghain is my responsibility, Your Majesty," Elissa hears her own tiredness break through the reserved tone she has taken great pains to maintain all afternoon. "I assure you that his motivations will never interfere with the Order's motivations."

The Empress looks thoughtful. "Let me ask you this, Commander – in a choice between his nation and the Order and the Order's best interests, where would he place his loyalties?"

Something is stirring. Elissa knows the Empress has let her know as much today, has let slip slices of unspoken information in her questions and casual remarks; she has also gathered enough similar traces of information over the past few months to know that there are things beyond their control taking place and that loyalty will be important before they have seen the end of this.

Loyalty to what or to whom, she cannot tell.

"Such a choice will not be his to make," Elissa retorts, praying she speaks the truth, not knowing what in the Maker's name Loghain would choose in a situation like that. She hopes she will never have to find out. "It will be mine."

And the Empress says nothing more, but the expression in her face reveals that she doubts Elissa's false certainty as much as she probably should.

.

.

.

.

As she returns from the audience, the Wardens are celebrating an upcoming Joining, one that marks the five hundredth in Val Royaeux. An occasion to wrap in wine and generous servings of food, Elissa understands, as she slips out of her ridiculously overwrought clothes and into a simple leather armour.

She will have supper and a mug of ale and then retreat, she tells herself.

After the first serving of food and wine downstairs, however, she forgets the promise entirely and grants herself the respite of not thinking about it at all, falling into habitual gestures and words of badly performed companionship. Like she is wont to do. Ivan beside her helps her to a third glass of wine and Shirei grins, raising her own goblet to cheer her on. In the corner of her eye, Elissa spots a heated debate taking place, with words so loud they crash against the spirited hum of a room full of Wardens.

"It's the Wardens from Mont-de-grace," Ivan explains. "Notorious for causing a stir wherever they appear."

"Why?" Elissa reaches for more grapes.

"Oh, they habitually move against the Empress." He grins, wiping something off his thick beard. "She doesn't like that."

"Neither do most of you," she replies. She feels bold today, too bold, and the wine doesn't help.

Ivan looks sceptically at her for a moment.

"No," he admits. Nothing else.

Sighing, Elissa knows this is how it is. This is all, this as far as she'll get. The rest is silence. Shirei refuses to discuss Warden politics with her, in spite or because of Elissa's increasingly aggressive attempts. She knows, too, that Dvalinn disagrees with Shirei, whatever it is that Shirei believes in; what little Elissa has been able to find out about Ivan, the historian, is that he seems fairly uninterested in making statements of any kind. He has been kind to her, and occasionally even helpful, yet she would never dream of being able to pry any sort of information out of his guarded persona, because he would never allow it.

You are at a disadvantage, Loghain had written.

He is right, of course. She sits right in the beast's lair.

And she has reached a point after which there is nothing. Regardless of her attempts, regardless of the months she has spent building up good graces and friendly relations, she remains the Fereldan Warden, the guest who might be lying to them about the end of the Blight – who is lying, she reminds herself- and the visitor who is given scraps of the whole, but never more than that. This will not change. This cannot change.

Drowsy and a little drunk after the meal, Elissa walks up to the divan where her companions are seated, sinks down in between Zevran and Galen, one of the knights, who grunts a little and moves further to the left. Beside them in an armchair, Cauthrien is balancing a mug of ale in one hand and a plate of cheese in the other. She has not yet begun to look less misplaced, Elissa think, smiling to herself. It is clearly a lost cause.

Elissa takes a large gulp of wine. "Andraste's arse, I want to go home."

Zevran grins. "So you shall. Soon."

"It can't be soon enough, Zevran." She tips her head back, momentarily resting it against the wall behind them. "Give me darkspawn over politics, any day."

"Ah, I don't know about you, but I have found this little trip of ours rather... interesting." He glances at her, one eyebrow crooked. "For me, that is."

She had known – or guessed, and at times, if she has to be completely honest with herself, even fantasised - about his particular talents in this area, but even so, it seems shocking that a base and banal thing can be put to such uses. For weeks now Zevran has returned to her with gossip, stray words here and there, details that in themselves signify nothing in particular but that put together make an intricate weave of diplomat politics and an Orlesian worry, she gathers, regarding other nations. It seems, judging by all things Elissa has found here, that Empress Celene is concerned about something and secures her borders, aiming to expand and thus fortify them.

The servant girl from the Fereldan ambassador's office – a pawn in their game, hopefully not ever revealed as such – confirms Elissa's beliefs with her careless revelations of odd intrigues.

"You may let her go gently now," she says. "We mustn't endanger our discretion."

Zevran nods. "Alas, I know."

And as he rises, likely to get a refill of his wine, Elissa thinks she can spot a gleam of regret at that. It makes her frown.

"Is he truly that skilled?"

Cauthrien's question is tearing at the flimsy cloud of exhaustion and wine that seems to surround Elissa; the morass of words, phrases, meanings, implications and worries that tangle and untangle in her mind, prying her coherent thoughts apart like sharp swords. She blinks, turning to the woman beside her who is picking at a large chunk of cheese.

"Zevran?" Elissa asks, as though there was anyone else.

"Yes."

"As a spy, you mean?"

"As a prostitute," Cauthrien corrects, looking grimly amused.

"He isn't... well..." Elissa rubs her cheek with the hand that holds the goblet, before taking another sip, feeling that familiar stitch of uncomfortable truth again, surrounding their friendship. A friendship, she knows, that was founded on his death wish and her desperation but that all the same seems to fall apart under the things she asks of him. "It's not like that."

Cauthrien shrugs.

"It's a cheap trick," she says, putting down her untouched drink on the small table in front of them. "And surprisingly common considering the poor outcome."

"It seems to work in this case," Elissa replies, sinking back in her seat.

"Yes. Which is why I asked."

"I... yes. Yes, I believe it goes well. He is skilled."

"The Orlesians sent plenty of bards to court for a few years," Cauthrien says in response to that. She reaches for another bit of cheese. "When their corpses were sent back one time too many, they stopped, though. Of course, it was not always confirmed they were Orlesian bards, but it's a safe assumption to make."

Elissa nods. It's not hard to imagine the scenario.

"Either they thought very highly of their bards or very little of King Maric's court." She feels herself sound distant, feel distant, like she is somewhere else, tugging at her lower lip and watching Shirei in the far end of the room, disappearing into the passage that leads to the library and research quarters.

"Both, I should say." Cauthrien snorts. "They usually made the mistake of targeting the men around the King. You can imagine, perhaps, Loghain's reaction."

"Yes." Elissa bites back a dark laugh at the idea of some highly trained temptress attempting to ensnare the Hero of River Dane; she cannot see the situation end in anything but a lot of blood and it is not, of course, amusing in the slightest. The threat of the occupying nation was always there, even in her childhood in the years of diplomatic endeavours and truce it was there, in the stories they told and the songs they sang and she has always known the price they had to pay for freedom. Even today, she thinks and feels the taste of tea and cakes and ash-grey compromises overwhelm her again. "Yes, I think I can."

She sighs, noticing that Dvalinn exits through the same door as Shirei used only moments ago, as though he has followed her trace.

"I must..." Elissa scrambles to her feet. "Wait here."

"Of course, Commander."

The rooms and corridors of the building have become familiar places to her now, yet Elissa has never used them for anything beyond the ordinary, has not come to know the place like she knows the castle in Highever, where all corners and doors hold endless possibilities for both flight and secrets. Here she is a stranger. She has to use the ordinary means of walking on these floors, cannot do anything but follow the fixed logic of exits and entrances; she has no secret language of the building in her possession.

Elissa reaches the same corridor Shirei and Dvalinn sneaked into and wonders for a few seconds how she will find them, before she can hear their voices loud and clear. Grateful that they are not skilled spies or rogues, she slinks closer.

"...don't throw about your false accusations, Dvalinn!"

It's Shirei, Elissa realises, her voice distorted by irritation that bleeds into her naturally soft tone and makes her sound downright unpleasant. The door is ajar and she comes to a halt, holding her breath while waiting for a sign that they've heard her approaching.

"They're hardly false when you confirm them, mage."

"So many different reasons - " A clatter of metal from inside the room interrupts their voices and Elissa hears a soft, mumbled noise of what sounds like curses. She leans as much closer as she dares, pressed up against the wall.

"There are lines we don't cross!"

"Because we know it is bad or because it has always been that way?"

"Does it really sodding matter?"

Then the voices sound more distant again, like they're walking around in there and have reached the other end of the room. Elissa can't make sense of some of the following sentences; just as she is about to leave, thinking the she won't be able to eavesdrop any further, they draw nearer.

"...going to tell them? Are you?" Dvalinn, loud and angry.

"That is not your concern-"

"I am a Warden! And the Fereldans, what will you tell them before they leave?"

"Dvalinn..." Shirei sounds like she's pleading now, her voice shattered and difficult to hear "Don't... Not yet. There's no reason not to think... not trust her."

The loud steps approaching make Elissa retreat quickly into a small research chamber, breathless and stiff against the wall as the angry dwarf storms past her in the corridor, followed by Shirei whose skirts make a swishing noise as she follows him, a few steps behind.

Elissa rubs her forehead, feeling slightly nauseous.

Air, she thinks absent-mindedly. She needs to breathe.

On the little balcony overlooking the streets behind the Headquarters as well as the small courtyard where Elissa has learned that the Order historians and scholars grow herbs and vegetables, she drags fresh, cold night air into her lungs. It evens out the turmoil of emotions inside her, pushes back the desire to empty her stomach of all its content.

It's still chilly when the sun is not up. But the seasons are shifting, a slow and steady pull of the inevitable powers of nature, of warmth battling the last snow; it's the melting snow being forced to give in to the warmth of the earth, the will to bloom and prosper.

The ships, she knows because she has asked the same question for a fortnight now, will start sailing by the end of the month. Unless, of course, the sea decides to freeze over again or an avalanche will trap them or if the powers of nature in any other way decide to hold her here. At the moment she feels ready to go against even the Maker, if she can just return home.

When she hears footfalls, she turns on her heel, hand grabbing the hilt of her sword without even thinking about it, as though her battle instincts would do much against whatever danger a whole nation can assemble against her. Still, it's difficult to rid oneself of things so deeply rooted in flesh and bones.

But it's Zevran, his soft steps sinking into her as a relief, and he walks up to where she's standing and glances at her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"No need to apologise. It's this whole sodding day." Elissa grimaces. "No, wait. Make it this whole sodding winter."

They are both quiet for a while. Zevran peers out over the courtyard, looking in the same direction as her, seeing the same darkness and empty benches in the garden.

"I have a confession," he says, eventually, the notes of his voice unusually free from insinuation and amusement. He has come to be honest. "And a proposition, one might say."

Elissa nods. "Speak."

"Now that the ships are sailing again, I wish to take my leave for a while. Return to Antiva to take care of a few... undisclosed and unfinished businesses." His lips twist slightly upwards in an imitation of a grin. Whatever those are, she knows, they are no pleasant and he takes no pride in them. "I could, should you decide you have use for such things, be your little spy even there."

"Are you tired of Wardens?" she half-asks and smiles faintly. The prospect of losing him suddenly feels faintly disturbing, like everything is just slipping through her fingers and changing, without her consent. Commander of the whole world and all the creatures in it; she groans to herself, when did this happen?

"Of you? Never," he half-replies and remains where he stands, looking down on the empty courtyard. "My intention is to return, actually. Should I successfully avoid all assassination attempts in Antiva, that is."

"Why do you..." she begins but lets the question fade. It is not her place to know everything, she reminds herself, ever so reluctantly. She lets her hands fall to her sides, turning around to lean her back against the parapet with a distinct impression of leading a life that runs in circles. Perhaps all lives are drawn in the same way. Zevran deserves a chance to find out if his is. "It sounds like a good idea, Zevran. If this is what you want."

"It is."

She nods again. "Then I shall wish you good luck and make sure you are paid handsomely."

There is no pretence, at least, that he does this for her as a friend. Or that she would ask it of someone she considered just that. Still the agreement echoes dully in her chest and the sensation of losing them all, of driving out the few things that were good that was so persistent after the battle on Fort Drakon returns, full force until the cold of the night air blends with the beginning of grief in her lungs.

She has never missed Ferelden more.

.

.

It's the thawing of the earth that brings out the darkspawn, Loghain decides, pulling his sword out of a defeated shriek. They have been spared the attacks for a long time now, but since a few days back, when the first hurlock was spotted, the villages are steadily reporting new sightings of darkspawn in the area. And they seem to arrive like ghosts appearing out of thin air, or secret passages to the Deep Roads, which is a possibility that fills him with dread.

These shrieks have attacked the glens near Highever castle and driven away the few freeholders who had braved a return – and now they are dead in spectacularly inane way, having rushed a crowd of Wardens.

"Well done!" The teyrn of Highever rides up to greet them as they make their way to the castle. "You have my thanks, Wardens."

"Of course, Your Grace," Hedin says simply, sheathing his cleaned sword.

"Did I not tell you to forget those titles?" Fergus dismounts with a wide grin and pats Hedin on the back; it's a gesture that seems somewhat out of place, but Loghain has long since stopped expecting the new teyrn to follow any usual social procedure. He resembles Cailan in this – but only in this, thankfully.

"You did," Jenner cuts in, having reached them now after a quick pickpocketing of the hurlocks – he once found a few useful herbs on one of them and has made it an unnerving habit to always loot their bodies.

Loghain and Hawise walk side by side as they, all of them, enter the castle grounds where they have been promised warm baths and a hot meal. It will be a welcome rest after days of battle, yet he cannot let himself relax and it seems at least Hedin shares this worry.

They are too few. The darkspawn attacks are currently under control thanks to the soldiers of the Bannorn and the Coastlands, not thanks to any Wardens.

"As the Order grows, it will be easier to recruit more... unconventional Wardens, should you want to," the elf says under his breath; he pauses before the guards' entrance to the castle where Fergus has told them to put their armour and weapons in order to have them properly tended to by the servants.

"Criminals who can plot an uproar, you mean." Loghain puts his shield down, against the wall where it glitters blindingly in the afternoon sunlight. He keeps Maric's blade, has found that the more carefully he cleans the runes and carvings on it, the more they seem to serve him, like he has decoded an ancient language. "I prefer to let them hang."

"You are not a teyrn any longer." Hedin frowns. "You must have Wardens."

"I do."

They have sent a small number to Denerim, awaiting the first Joining ceremony – a decision made, he thinks grudgingly, before they knew the darkspawn were returning. In hindsight, they could have used them here, of course.

"Don't deliberately misunderstand me," Hedin sighs, in that tone he uses to berate Jenner, when the other man is being stubborn. Loghain prefers not to think about what it means to be subjected to the same treatment.

.

.

.

.

The dining hall is empty, except for Hawise who is helping herself to the food already waiting on the tables. Loghain enters, picking up a goblet of ale.

"Good bath?" she asks, smiling somewhat. Her hair is wet and down over her shoulders, whipping up a scent of spices and flowers as she moves beside him, her arm almost hitting him in the chest as she grabs a piece of bread.

Loghain takes a step back, waiting for his turn – or for the woman to be finished without invading his personal space. "It was a bath," he replies.

"You don't differentiate between good and bad baths then?"

"Not usually, no."

Her chuckle is low and almost private, as though this is a joke they share. He lets it pass, like he lets her inane advancements pass – without acknowledging them, while wondering what her purposes are and how he can find out.

"You Orlesians do not worry about the stability of the Order," he comments, as he takes a seat beside her, stirring his bowl of stew.

"I worry about being outnumbered by darkspawn." Hawise puts down her mug. She looks understandably addled by his abrupt change of topic.

"That seems like a foolish main concern, considering you always are."

Loghain takes a spoonful of his food and glances at his companion. They are the first ones to return from their baths, the empty hall nothing like he remembers it from his last stay here, when they had crowded each other and prayed for solitude.

"Well." Her shoulders seem smaller somehow, their frame thinner, as she shrugs. "You have a point. But there are different ways of being outnumbered, too."

Different ways of losing the war. Yes, he is aware.

"It sounds as though the Order is bound to be divided?" he asks, though the question has the shape of a statement and she understands it as one, he can tell.

She gives him a hesitant look. "It is."

"Tell me." This isn't a question.

"About the divide of the Order? Certainly." She smiles, hastily. "Given the Empress's large influence over the Order, the Orlesian Wardens are traditionally split in two fractions. One who approves of the political advantage this give us and one who thinks we are weakened by serving other purposes than the elimination of the darkspawn threat."

Loghain nods; he has gathered as much from Elissa's letters and his own speculation. What he does not know, however, is how much of a danger these fraction constitute or how they position themselves in the presence of other potential conflicts. Elissa's last letter gave reason to suspect the power of the different fractions runs deep.

"There are those who devote all their time to Warden politics," she continues, looking at him over her mug. "Both in Orlais and in other nations. It's a large and diverse crowd of different wills and ideals. You will even find Wardens who believe the darkspawn are worthy of respect and rights, who believe that they have been unjustly enslaved under their own nature but could rise above it, given the opportunity."

"And you?" Loghain downs a large gulp of ale.

Hawise looks at him. "Do I believe the darkspawn are oppressed by their own nature and pitiful creatures? Certainly. But it is scarcely my sworn duty to do anything but dispose of them, all the same."

At least she isn't an utter fool, Loghain thinks, nodding. Unsubtle and not yet trustworthy, but he can't imagine she is as stupid as the Wardens they are presently discussing, who are willing to give up all reason for some soft-hearted belief about equality. Even so, he finds himself observing her, trying to figure out what she demands in return for these confessions.

Two servants slip into the room, tending to the fireplace and carrying new ale to the table. As they leave again, Hawise puts her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands.

"How often do these fractions clash against each other?" Loghain demands, showing away the empty bowl of stew to the other side of the table.

"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow. "Not at all. Not so far, at least. There have never been any documented internal conflicts in the order."

"That hardly means they have not existed."

They fall silent as some of Fergus' knights arrive, a loud group of five who takes a seat at the nearest table. Loghain rubs the bridge of his nose; he is tired and irritated, blaming the recent darkspawn attacks on poor planning and an idiotic lack of imagination. He also wishes the commander was here to weigh her ideas against his own.

He has been unaware of the extent to which he trusts her judgement until it ceased to be there, until her often annoying and ridiculously stubborn opinions sailed to Orlais and left him alone with his own.

As he looks up, Hawise is still watching him, a softer expression in her face now.

"I was born in Gwaren, you know," she says. "Or rather, I was born on a ship that was sailing to Gwaren. My parents worked as trading merchants after the war; they had... well, they had limited means for survival. The returning soldiers were treated as vermin, at least outside of Val Royeaux."

"For having lost?" Loghain asks, not out of any particular interest. His goblet is empty and he considers turning in for the night, hoping for a good night's sleep, uninterrupted by attacks.

"For having lost." She nods. "The chevaliers blamed it all on their lessers. You have a strange nation, but I do believe it is fairer. In Orlais, we grew up with the stories of you. You came from the fields of a farm and became the King's right hand. It could not have happened that way in Orlais. We reluctantly admired you, you know."

Sneering, he shakes his head. "There is no sense in that."

"Hero worship has little to do with sensibility," she says, amused. "Neither has friendship, as it happens."

"Do you have a point?"

"No." Hawise cocks her head, in a coy manner. "I merely enjoy talking to you."

Loghain has nothing to add to that, so he gets up with a little exasperated sigh.

On the bed, once he is able to reach his chambers in the castle, he finds a letter, still slightly cold and damp from being just delivered. Loghain fidgets with it for a second, before opening it, the melting seal sticky against his fingers. By now he knows the hand-writing so well it seems almost readable.

Loghain,

When you read this I am hopefully already on a ship. I shall keep this brief – yes, you are allowed to laugh – and I write mostly to tell you that I am headed towards Denerim for the installation of the new teyrn of Gwaren. Fergus has asked for my presence there. Will you bring Hedin and join him on this trip? This would serve as an ideal opportunity to perform our first Joining, no?

I cannot wait to be back in Ferelden!

Elissa.

AN: As always, thanks to CJK for being a fab beta and to you lot for being encouraging and awesome.