CARTOGRAPHY
-PART THREE-
Ice burns, and it's hard to the warm-skinned
to distinguish one sensation, fire, from the other, frost.
A.S Byatt
Elementals: Stories of Fire and Ice
It's the first really warm spring day, they have told her. The heat did not begin to return until last week as the winter season finally turned on its heel.
Elissa sits for an hour of unbroken solitude in the garden, listening to distant noise of city-life. It no longer feels unfamiliar; after Val Royeaux it has settled in her as the shape of something she remembers. The sun is warm on her bare arms and tickles her neck when she leans forward or tilts her head to the side. She arrived yesterday after a journey that was a vast improvement over the first one that took her across the Waking Sea. The sun had been guiding them most days, showing the way and grazing the skin on their faces and forearms, leaving freckles and colour in its wake. Today she has walked around in Denerim, trying to bind the old-new impressions to her body: the copper beeches, the chalk-white and light brown floor in the newly restored chantry, the Fereldan children's songs, the smell of dogs and the way light falls differently here, over and across and in between.
She forges a home, like the blacksmiths forge weapons.
Since she was last here, Fergus' servants have made a fine show of the garden in his city estate, forcing the nature that had been left to run wild into submission once more.
Loghain is expected to return shortly, the knights have told her. He had been out somewhere when Elissa was brought to the teyrn's estate in a carriage that she was a breath away from telling Fergus was much too costly to invest in until she realised it belonged to the palace; Loghain had been gone again this morning as they ate in the dining hall downstairs.
In the pattern of greetings and handshakes, of smiles and returning, familiar sights and sounds she had perceived the lack of his; she feels it now again, as a little uproar in her chest. She has missed him. How, she asks herself, one hand brushing over the side of her face as if she's still expecting to find strands of hair there, how in the Maker's name does one miss Loghain?
She does.
He is sour and aloof, taciturn and stubborn like a whole horde of mules. He is arrogant and frustrating and cloaked in himself and his own grievances. And she has missed him like one misses a friend, a part of her still with him.
And Loghain is stepping across the courtyard now, she can hear him without turning her head; the gravel is crackling beneath his feet.
"Commander," comes the curt greeting.
Elissa gets up from the bench, turning to face him.
"General," she says, mirroring his solemn use of that discarded formality between them. Her attempt falls flat to the ground and instead she smiles as he closes the distance somewhat, walking up to the bench. "It's really good to see you."
Something softens slightly in his expression at that. "And you."
Since her return she has been embraced and touched more times than she can count – Fergus' bear hugs and the pats on the back from well-meaning half-strangers of Denerim who still can't quite grasp that she walks there among them – and she feels her body fall into the pattern almost before she can check herself.
Instead she reaches out a hand to touch his arm, briefly. He remains where he is.
She stands very close - close enough for her to feel the heat of his clothes, smell the leather of the horse reins on his hands and the sweat in his hair, the small pearls of it visible upon the sun-warmed skin on his neck and throat. As he shifts, discarding his shield against the legs of the bench, Elissa can see he has undone the small buckles around the neckline of his tunic; there's a rivulet of sweat running from the sharp line of his jaw down into the dark hair that's faintly visible through the loose fabric.
He looks well. Battle does that to some people, she has noticed; it pushes them out of their own neglectful habits and forces them to eat and sleep in a kind of natural rhythm.
Loghain is definitely one of those people.
"You have cut your hair," he comments dryly.
"Ah, yes." She instinctively puts one hand to the nape of her neck, which is still feeling naked without the cover of shoulder-length hair. It had been an impulse during the last few days in the city, encouraged by Zevran and his slight taunt – are you truly so vain that you cannot change something as simple as your hair? Fascinating! Of course, when she had suggested he'd do the same afterwards, he had found a reason to leave the barber instantly. "I... yes. More practical."
And she is about to say something more, although she doesn't quite know what because what else can she possibly say about hair, when Dog appears behind the bushes. He picks up her scent and then he sets off and Elissa doesn't even have time to squat down in preparation for when he hurls himself at her, barking so loudly it rings in her ears.
"Hello, boy," she says, throwing her arms around the thick mabari neck. "Have you missed me?"
Dog barks a loud chain of agreement; he licks her forehead and rubs his nose against her head as though he, too, wants to remark on the new hairstyle. They are on the ground, tumbling like they used to when they were both younger and Elissa had clothes that were not allowed to get stains – they always were stained, of course, and she was punished by having to spend another afternoon with the seamstress. She digs her fingers into his sides, stroking him and examining him, scouting for wounds inflicted in her absence. Naturally there are none to be found. He appears well-fed and not too spoiled and his fur is shining.
"You have been good, haven't you? Yes, you have."
He barks, licking her cheeks. Yes, he has been good. And not too heartsick, although he wouldn't admit if he had been, of course. He has his pride, like she has hers.
"And you smell of... darkspawn?" Elissa tries to disentangle from the hug at that realisation but is thrown flat onto the ground as Dog straddles her, not remotely finished with his examination of her.
"We ran into a few genlocks just before we got here," Loghain answers, raising his voice to drown out Dog's explanation that is, incidentally, very much the same except Dog puts more emotion into it.
Elissa scrambles to her feet, just as Dog launches another attack, obviously not satisfied with letting his mistress off the hook so easily after she has left him for many months; she is thrown off balance entirely as the mabari forgets he is no puppy and tries to run between her legs. Aware that she ought to avoid falling face down on the stone bench, she involuntarily dives.
Loghain's hand is there, quickly - soldier's instincts - and she grabs it gracelessly; his dry palm feels rough against her own that is dirty from tumbling on the ground. Their eyes meet briefly, a hint of a smile on his lips and more than a hint on her own.
"Stop that, boy," she admonishes Dog as Loghain releases her again. "You have to calm down, you see. Yes, I know. I missed you too. Yes, I did. Behave."
I'm sorry, the nuzzling of her hand seems to say and Dog sits back beside her, her fingers tugging at his ears in a way she knows he likes. With her attention turned away from the mabari, she looks at Loghain instead.
"Darkspawn?"
"There have been plenty of darkspawn sightings outside the city," Loghain elaborates in a rather clipped tone. "Last night they were crowding an area near the Alienage."
"That's troubling." Elissa feels thrown right back into something – her life, she reminds herself, the part of it that has been on hold for the entire winter – in a perplexing way. She adjusts it all for a moment. Pushes it back into place. When she glances over at Loghain she notices he is watching her, as if he notices her struggle. "Have the attacks been ordinary?"
They both know that the alternative to ordinary is darkspawn that speak and are capable of coordinated strategy. That the alternative to ordinary is nightmare.
Loghain nods. "So far, yes."
"At least that's something, I suppose."
She has so much to talk to him about. It hits her as he stands there, arms folded and his face a stiff mask of seriousness while she is fretting about, losing track of her own thoughts and impressions of being back home. They have months to go over, actions to evaluate and measure and then, once this is done, there are new plans to be made in front of a fire or quickly on their feet.
Elissa sighs. The language of Ferelden: darkspawn, battle and duty. It collides brutally with what her body still recalls of Orlais, what her blood remembers of all those little details that could be allowed to slip in between the duties and everything she must, because she was abroad, because she was a guest, because she was not the bloody Hero of Ferelden.
Here, she feels wound tightly around her own fate – one that has already been set in stone.
"In light of the situation in the Coastlands," Loghain goes on, picking up his shield, oblivious or deliberately ignorant of her unease. "I would suggest we immediately set a new course of action."
"Yes... yes, that sounds good." Elissa says, still distracted. She picks up the book she was reading before and tucks it under her arm. They are moving, walking towards the house.
"We must also see to the organisation of the Wardens in Ferelden. Amaranthine is far north; there ought to be a stronghold in the south as well."
Loghain adjusts his shield on his back, the noise it makes as it momentarily slams against the sword gives her a second to gather her own ideas.
"A stronghold, yes. I agree," she nods, having spent the journey back home with the same thought at the back of mind.
"As I am certain you understand, we would benefit from having multiple locations for the Order," Loghain adds. "Furthermore, we would do best in continuing the recruiting in the south, at any rate."
"Any suggestions for this southern hold?" Elissa asks, climbing the stairs. Dog hurries ahead of them; he has always liked their Denerim estate more than any other change of surroundings, seems to consider it part of his natural habitat.
"Of course," he says, frowning at the idea that he might not have. Elissa feels a little pang of affection for him, spreading warmth in her chest. For all his faults, he is the single most efficient man she has ever come across. "Several. I have already written a proposal for you take to the Palace when you are going there. If you approve of it, that is."
She smiles. "You didn't spend a lot of time with pastime activities while I was gone, did you?"
"Hardly." He scoffs but there's the same trace of almost reluctant friendliness in it that she recalls, buried somewhere deep down. "Did you?"
"I shall choose not to answer that," Elissa says, amused and the slightest bit ashamed.
They have reached the back entrance through the courtyard now, with the sun descending behind them. In a few weeks, Elissa knows, this garden will smell of grass and flowers and the children in the city will try to climb over the tall stone walls or slip between the servants as they walk in and out through the gates.
"Anything else?" he asks oddly charitably, as though he hasn't been the one carrying this conversation entirely.
"Not at the moment, no."
Elissa steps back to let Dog slip inside the entrance hall. Catching Loghain's gaze, she stands for a moment and just watches him, still unused to having his physical presence there where she can see it.
Home is with you now, with the Wardens, she had told Alistair once. It had been a coy, already infatuated outburst as it came over her lips, yet it proved itself true over and over again. The Wardens were her home; the Wardens are her home. As an echo – darker, deeper - of the girl who stood on the shore in Redcliffe and spoke these words she stands here now, thinking them. And it is not the same because nothing is ever the same.
But it is home.
"It is good to be back," she says eventually, the words coming out as sighs of relief.
"Yes," Loghain agrees; and before he walks up to his chambers he nods, leaving her with a glimmer of a smile.
.
.
.
.
Last time he saw this drawing room, Loghain thinks as he stands in the middle of it, only the roof over its caved in and unsound walls kept it from being a ruin.
Now it looks like something fit for a teyrn's estate again. It has been a while, certainly, but the restoration seems to move quicker now than after the last war he lived through. Or perhaps the only thing that has changed is the fact that he has grown old and his mind moves slower, needs more time to adjust to the gaps between the changes.
Back then, what permeated everything – everyone – was a sense of starting over, clean slates and empty hands. And the three of them, the heroes of the war, pretending along with the rest that they had no pasts while they reinvented themselves.
Loghain walks up to the window, glancing out at the darkness and the hints of life out there, on the streets.
He looks at the goblet of wine in his hand and wonders if this counts for reinvention, too. In a few days' time, Bann Sighard will assume the teyrnir of Gwaren, be formally given his new title by Queen Anora and King Alistair, drawing brand new lines in in the map of their political landscape. Everything does change, for good or ill.
Loghain wonders if he still can.
"Once," a low voice says behind him, "I trapped a boy in here for an entire afternoon."
When he glances over his shoulder he notices that Elissa smiles; she leans against the wall near the window, one foot resting on the low bench beneath the windowsill.
"What was the occasion?"
"Oh, he was some merchant's son. He had the prettiest red hair I had ever seen. And freckles." She chuckles. "They lived nearby and I wanted to be his friend. Somehow he disagreed with this, especially after I locked him up."
Loghain has to laugh at this; the scene is so vivid in his own imagination that he can almost see those brats running around in the room – a tall, shapely girl chasing a scrawny redhead. Elissa's gaze is warm and scrutinizing on his face.
"You left the supper early," she remarks.
He did. Spending a good hour in the presence of both the Arl of Redcliffe and his brother had felt more than enough, and as the topics drifted away from formalities and uninteresting tales about their respective lands to settle in speculations about the future Teyrn of Gwaren, Loghain had deemed it enough.
"You as well, it seems."
"They started to discuss politics so I left," she mutters. "If I can't say what I think, I'd rather not participate."
"Remind me again how you managed to meet with the Empress?" Loghain turns to her, arms folded; he feels less than enthusiastic about a political discussion, or even a discussion of Sighard's new status. Sighard was an ardent Anora supporter at the Landsmeet, and she's been raised well after all, she knows the importance of allies. Elissa seems to notice the reluctant notes in his voice.
"She had the most delicious pastry," she says, sighing dramatically as to underline her appreciation of the food. "It distracted me well enough."
She sips the wine in her hand and sits down on the bench, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. He doesn't look away.
There is something different about her and he has not yet decided what. Likely it's something as banal as her hair, or the absence of it, painting her in slightly different colours. He doesn't even know why he notices it when ordinarily he would not – but he has not lived like this in over thirty years either, pressed together, being at each other's mercy; has not been leading the sort of life where those little details become important.
"We ought to plan the strategy for dealing with the darkspawn," he says, cutting off his own trail of thoughts.
Elissa opens her eyes again, straightening up somewhat.
"Loghain..." she looks at him, her face a little grimace of exhaustion. "We have a lot to do, I know. There is so much I need to tell you and we have the Joining and I have so many people to see and just – tomorrow we should sit down and work. For tonight, can we just..."
He has not realised how worn out she must be - or realised it but not wanted to pay any attention to it, handling her emotional reactions the way he handles, or doesn't handle, his own. Elissa holds the goblet in one hand and the other fidgets with the seam of her tunic; the short blunt nails on her sword-calloused fingers make sharp contrasts against the embroidered silk.
Nodding, he takes a seat beside her. Truth be told he is thankful for the respite, too.
"Fergus says Teagan is set on marrying a foundry owner," Elissa says conversationally when they have been comfortably silent for a long time. "A girl we helped in Redcliffe. Fisherman's daughter."
"Eamon does not approves of that, I imagine." Loghain smirks into his goblet.
"Not likely, no." She scratches the back of her hand, taking another sip of her wine. "He did not bring the topic up at all tonight. Then again, neither did Teagan."
Loghain understands Eamon is pressuring his younger brother into settling down after having let him remain unmarried for a remarkably long time, long enough for the nobility to speculate about the possibility of Teagan preferring male company or being deficient in some way. But now Eamon wants to secure the family's power, or whatever is left of it. It's anything but subtle. Not that the power play of the nobility usually can pride itself of being that.
"He should have returned to Redcliffe by now." Loghain frowns. "I cannot imagine that the new king will need counselling from Eamon of all people."
Elissa looks down into her goblet, appearing ill-humoured behind the masks she puts on. "He's got nothing left," she says, quietly. "The templars took Connor to the Circle. Last month. So I suppose he avoids it for as long as he can."
Loghain can't argue with that.
"And I think he still has some faint idea in his mind that he can set the course of things here," Elissa turns her gaze upwards again; in an instant her face is perfectly composed. "I even suspect he would marry Teagan off to me if I hadn't already proven to him I don't take kindly to that sort of thing."
"To you?" Loghain frowns. "Why on earth would he marry you?"
"Well, thank you kindly for that," she shoots him a glance, but she doesn't seem insulted – more entertained, strangely enough.
"I was not passing a personal judgement," Loghain clarifies anyway, irritated with himself for doing just that. And for discussing – of all matters in the world and all important things they could discuss – marriage. "But you are far from a suitable candidate."
"Oh, I know. I know." She laughs, then she has another sip of wine and glances at him, eyes glittering. "I have spent so many years avoiding men like Teagan."
"That is understandable," he replies, able to hear the sarcasm in his own voice.
"Oh, be nice." She looks amused. "There's nothing wrong with Teagan. He is a perfectly lovely man."
Loghain snorts, trying to associate the word lovely with the youngest Guerrin brother, to no avail. It is true that he had showed some of his sister's spirit during the Blight and he seems, in all aspects, a somewhat decent man. But unless forced by a sword against his throat to act, he appears to spend most of his time avoiding responsibility and acting liege to his older brother. Where Rowan was remarkable her brothers wallow in mediocrity - he has always held that against them, as though they would diminish the mark she had made in history by being useless.
"Unlike my mother, I simply had no no idea what I would do with a perfectly lovely man," she elaborates, a smirk playing on her lips now. "Luckily, drinking darkspawn gets you out of it permanently. Or so I have heard."
He wonders if that is completely honest. Then he wonders why in the Maker's name it wouldn't be.
It had been a topic of many gossip mongers among the nobility, of course, why Bryce's youngest was well past her twentieth year and still unmarried and how they could allow her to dally like that and had they so little regard for all the young noblemen who would kill their own mothers to be married into the proud Cousland lineage. She had definitely been a coveted match.
"My mother was all but ready to send me off to Gwaren some years ago," she says suddenly, the light-hearted note still lingering in her voice.
"Gwaren?" It takes him a while to make the connection. "Yes. I had forgotten."
"I haven't," she rakes a hand through her hair. "She had already been making agreements with your advisors, she said."
Loghain grimaces inwardly at the memory – they had been like vultures, throwing themselves over him as soon as he stepped foot in that bloody estate the years after Celia's death. Because he had no claim to anything by blood it was assumed he possessed the urge to immortalise himself in the shape of more heirs. It was safe to say he did not.
"People rarely ask for your opinion in these matters," he sneers, "I, for one, did not know I was supposed to want a child bride and I assume you had no desire to become one either."
"I was not a child," she replies, sounding hurt, rebuked. "But no, I didn't exactly want to. Neither did my father. He wanted me to inherit the teyrnir and besides he thought you were – well, he objected."
"Of course he did."
They are silent for a while.
"You didn't want to remarry?" Elissa asks eventually, in a tone that suggests she finds it a perfectly natural question.
He startles a little at her frankness. He can't remember anyone has ever asked him about these things before in his life, can't recall that anyone has been tearing at these particular lines and limits. Not even Maric, he thinks,
"How can this possibly be of any interest to you?" he retorts, harsher than intended.
Elissa looks at him over her goblet, letting the pause grow as she takes a sip.
"Because I'm a very curious person," she states, simply, and with a smile that unsettles something in him that is out of reach even for his defences, something impalpable and denied, slipping away. "You don't have to indulge me, though. I won't hold it against you."
Loghain shakes his head.
He cannot even imagine being married once more. When Celia died it had felt done, finished, that part of his life forever taken care of and sealed shut. He had married a stranger once, all those years ago; made a wife of a woman he knew next to nothing about and who barely knew him. Of course they learned with time. Merged together in some ways and found silences and strategies that mended the rest, things to breach the distances and fractions. The idea of replacing that with some nobleman's brat – a brat who would have been held hostage in Gwaren while Loghain spent his time in Denerim, no less - had always seemed repulsive to him, no matter how powerful that marriage would have made him. Or especially because of that.
"No," he answers, after a long time. "I did not want to marry again."
"I see."
Elissa says nothing else; she looks thoughtful and even more tired than before.
"For the record, I hope you remembered to thank your father," Loghain says, to end the conversation. "Gwaren is a bloody awful place."
He is rewarded with a wide grin that spreads across her face. Then she leans against him so they sit shoulder to shoulder, her warmth against the fabric of his shirt. Neither of them speak for a while, although the dimly lit room seems to be full of their voices all the same. It's not until Elissa yawns by his side that Loghain realises how late it must be. Then she suddenly raises her goblet, looking at him.
"To the Grey Wardens," she says, grimly.
"To the Grey Wardens," he echoes.
A/N: And this, ladies and gentlemen, was a brief interlude of sugar before we go back to our regular dealings with the angst and darkspawn. :)
As always, thank you to CJK and to you all, for reading and reviewing. Much love.