A few days pass without interruptions of any kind and Elissa begins to think of it as rest, being back in Denerim. Even the weather is nice - warm and dry and inviting – and because of it, the Wardens spend most of their waking hours in the garden, poring over maps and books. Elissa and Loghain take turns in training the recruits while Hedin lectures them; they keep busy between the long sessions of food in the great hall and tea in the drawing room or outdoors and it seems even the darkspawn leave them alone for the time being – no reports of attacks are finding their way to them, at any rate.

Tonight, however, that respite will end.

Elissa stretches out in the bath, head tipped back and eyes closed and half expecting to be able to drift off to sleep when the patter of feet approaches and she can hear the servants whisper among themselves.

"...going to be late... the teyrn will not be pleased..."

At least half of the girls in his service are scared of her, Fergus has informed her conversationally over a mug of ale. Elissa is an anomaly in this house, falling in between the neatly drawn lines and the clearly defines roles and she can understand their wariness.

"Am I running late?" she asks helpfully. Squinting with one eye still closed, she can see the blur of bodies coming closer and what appears to be the braver one of the girls nodding fervently.

"Yes, Commander."

They have at least ceased to call her my lady, she thinks, climbing out of the still warm, pleasantly scented bath water and stepping into the towels being held out for her. There's a clash of oils and ointments in the air, a tang of incense burning somewhere nearby and she takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the coming event.

"Are you hungry, Commander?" a tall, somewhat older maid asks, gesturing for one of the younger girls to carry the water away. Elissa thinks about it for a moment before nodding.

"Some bread and cheese will do."

She is being rubbed dry and oiled and then rubbed dry again as the oils grease her skin a little too much – the most nervous of the maids apologises for this a hundred times, stuttering the words until Elissa begs her to stop, grateful the Wardens don't have many servants – and then the tall maid arrives with both food and the dress.

It is always the same with the dresses. After picking apart a chunk of cheese and shoving it in her mouth, she stands up and lets the rich fabric fall down over her head, spreading her arms and tilting her body in the ways the many efficient hands working at her appearance prompt.

And when they are finished the dress, as expected, looks peculiar on her.

Not necessarily bad, but definitely odd , like her body doesn't understand how to carry the garments. Warriors are not meant to wear dresses. Elissa turns in front of the vanity mirror, shaking her head at the flimsy fabric that seems too tight over her bosom, too revealing and not sturdy enough to endure a night of feasting and dancing; she looks to the servants for a confirming smile or a headshake.

"Am I meant to go to the Palace dressed like this?" she asks when nobody says anything.

"This is the dress His Grace had made specially for you, Commander." The girl who is being forced to answer looks confused. "Is the dress not to your liking?"

Sighing and reaching for another piece of cheese, Elissa looks at her own reflection again. Please, don't wear heavy plate armour, had been Fergus' only stipulation as he informed her of this event and her own involvement in its aftermath. After having stroked both the leather armour and her drakeskin suit longingly, Elissa had agreed to be decorous and docile for once. Maker knows she does not use those traits very often.

"No, it's nothing," she says, tucking away the conflicting sentiments. "Carry on."

As she descends to the great hall much later, Elissa feels like she has been sent back in time, like she has landed somewhere in her mother's ideal vision for her – well dressed and proper, carrying herself like the well bred woman she is. She is wearing a heavy, intricate necklace, a gold bracelet and even a loose braid of silky hair tucked into her own short and wiry curls, to give her a luscious sort of hairdo befitting a noblewoman not spending most of her time killing darkspawn.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Fergus exclaims as she walks into the drawing room where he is waiting for her. "Who are you and what have you done to my smelly little sister?"

"Charming as ever." She folds her arms across her chest, only to catch a glimpse of her own breasts. This is definitely not something she is accustomed to. Her mother would certainly never pick out dresses like that back when she could still get her daughter to wear them at all.

"Nah, I meant it as a compliment," he says, grin broadening. "You look lovely."

"I would not suggest getting used to it," she mutters. "I normally avoid lovely."

He pretends to take in the sight of her in a dramatic fashion, which makes her smile slightly. They used to play with their parents clothes when the servants didn't catch them in time and Fergus would always imitate their aunt Dora, nearly fainting with excitement as Elissa paraded about in some ill-fitting piece of clothing. Marvellous dress, dear, simply marvellous!

Here, in the corridor, she spots Loghain and Cauthrien, walking side by like like solemn guards on duty, reluctantly indulgent towards the lord and lady of the house who are running off on wicked adventures. It is a most amusing image, she concludes as they draw nearer.

"Ever the sly little minx, are you not?" Fergus goes on, oblivious to their almost-company; Elissa purposely avoids looking at them, too. "I know you; you want to make certain the King is aware of what he has lost – all of it, so to speak."

She winces. "Don't be such a dirty bloody dog, Fergus."

Her brother chuckles; she has, in truth, missed their brawling, inappropriate conversations that would never fail to lead their parents to the conclusion that they had raised animals instead of children. She isn't sure Loghain appreciates the topic, however. In fact, the strange look he is giving her suggests quite the opposite. Fergus still has not noticed that they are no longer alone.

"The Queen will have to counterattack tonight, no doubt," he says, shaking his head. "What weapons will she use, I wonder?"

"The carriage has arrived," Loghain's voice pierces the very air of the room; he is sounding as grim as he looks. Elissa is caught between a guffaw and a sympathetic groan on her brother's behalf.

"Er..." Fergus looks suitably embarrassed. "I didn't mean..." his voice trails off.

"I should think not," Loghain retorts. He stands close to them now, looking particularly imposing tonight, especially in comparison to Fergus who appears to shrink. That is a sign of maturity, indeed, for her brother to blush like a boy when he has put his foot in his mouth, Elissa thinks, smiling apologetically at Loghain.

Beside him, Cauthrien is having a difficult time keeping a straight face. Her jaw is taut and her gaze safely averted, which makes her seem composed enough, yet there is a twitch around the corners of her mouth telling a different story.

Elissa suddenly wishes they were all going, that the feast wasn't going to be stiff pleasantries between uncomfortable nobles but rather a different kind of gathering, an extension of the past few days. But that is not the case. They have been trying the breadth of the collective nobility of Ferelden enough already; Loghain attending the new teyrn's ceremonious welcome feast might be the last straw. Unfortunately, Elissa thinks almost to her own surprise, as she would have enjoyed his company.

She wants to say it, but there is no decent way to do that, of course. Not that she would. And not now, not with him looking at her like she is a stranger, a frown appearing in his face as Elissa takes Fergus' arm. She nods towards Loghain and Cauthrien.

"Before my brother further insult the majesties of Ferelden, I will take him to the Palace," she states, receiving a quiet chuckle from Cauthrien who finally has relented a bit. "Let us make our bows, Fergus."

"I wish you an enjoyable evening, Your Grace," Cauthrien says. "You too, Commander."

Loghain says nothing but when Elissa quickly touches the sleeve of his shirt, his firm gaze softens a bit.

"I will return with a full report," she says, quietly. She doesn't have to add that she will return with this report no matter the time of her arrival back home and he doesn't have to add that he will still be awake by then, working. Certain things are habitual by now.

"Very well," he replies simply, nodding.

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Several hours later, Elissa wonders if she is too old and too dignified to weep with frustration. Because if she is not, then she considers sitting down on one of the old statues in the avenue leading from the Palace to Fort Drakon and bawling her eyes out.

Naturally she doesn't.

She is the sodding Hero of Ferelden and crying isn't among her duties.

After the feast - and a most unexpected audience that is the very reason for the frustration - she takes a walk, alone in the streets as the tightly woven fabric of dusk transforms the city into shadows and darkness. She walks up and down the streets, wary of the dangers of relying solely on her physical strength and the daggers hidden under the layers of silk but taking a twisted pleasure in endangering herself like that, too. She walk for a long time, picking the empty slots, the winding roads and narrow alleyways only to take cover as voices approach or the sighting of other living creatures disrupts her solitude.

It is much later than what would be considered reasonable hours for visits by the time she returns to the house, finding herself in the corridor upstairs all the same. She ought to get to bed, by all means. Wash her face and fall back into clean, cool sheets. Yet she finds herself tapping the door to Loghain's chambers, steered by a rhythm of other things than sensible choices.

And he opens the door, still fully dressed like she expected and stepping aside without a word.

"They're making me the Arlessa of Amaranthine," she says without preamble as Loghain closes the door behind her.

"They are?" Loghain raises an eyebrow.

"They are." She rakes a hand through her hair, pacing the floor. "I don't even... They just... I am to be a figurehead of Amaranthine so the bloody nobility can sleep safe and sound in their beds."

Loghain makes a little sound that is almost a snort, or a short laugh.

"Say what you like, but discontent nobility makes for an unsound strategy," he says, dryly.

It doesn't have to be said that he should know all about that. He walks up to the table by the windows and pours a mug of tea that he hands her, before doing the same for himself.

"Huh," Elissa grunts, sitting down in the armchair by his bed, while he returns to the desk at the opposite end of the room. He is working, still. She spots the books he is using to write down the records of the Fereldan Wardens, their progress and history.

They are, indeed, making her the Arlessa of Amaranthine. The more she considers the words and their meaning, the less she can make of them. Perhaps it is the wine that has got to her head, but nothing about this seems to make sense to her – not the title itself, nor the way she was introduced to it: by Alistair in his office, as the festivities went on without them and Elissa spiralled back into feeling like a pawn. She has been a queen for too long, she establishes with a grimace; being a pawn upsets her balance.

The title carries so many meanings, digging deeper and deeper into her mind, nagging at old pride and half-healed wounds. It used to be a very real possibility. Howe was the father of two sons after all - Nathaniel who was gruff and vain and Thomas, a few years younger than her, constantly a terrified stuttering mess in front of the teyrn's daughter who played with swords – and Elissa's own father never truly considered himself above the Howes, like he should have. It was always there, over the years. Now it's written in stone. She grinds her teeth.

If she closes her eyes, she can still see her own signature at the bottom of that contract, the one saying that the lands of Arl Rendon Howe are to be transferred to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Even though she remembers it, she can barely trace the memory back to her own life; she signed this in a different existence altogether, it seems.

"I take it the banns are not satisfied with leaving the title in abeyance?" Loghain asks, rummaging through a pile of parchments on his desk.

"That would be correct." Elissa sighs. "From what Alistair told me, he and Anora have tried to delay the decision. The Orlesians who are running Vigil's Keep at the moment kindly offered to name a commander of their own, to end the debate. Apparently some of the banns were even showing signs of being willing to accept that."

Loghain scoffs. "They were left with little choice, then."

"Seems like it."

She has been dreading this even before tonight. Over the past few months she has felt the development of it and put the very idea far back in her own mind, farther back than Morrigan and that night in Redcliffe, buried it soundly among things she doesn't dwell on. After the restoration, the arling would fall under Grey Warden command, that's what they said. It would belong to the Wardens, no further explanation. No figurehead to issue the commands, no title to swear fealty to. And Elissa knows this is not tenable. The lords and ladies need their betters just as much as they need their vassals. This is the way of things. She knows this and she has neglected it even so, hoping that issues they do not speak of will cease to exist. The logic of the nobility, wearing a bit thin now.

"It is not a terrible idea," Loghain says to her mild surprise once she has found enough words in her frustration to explain the situation further. "Yours is a familiar name. And you know the games already."

"They know me as Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. I doubt they'd swear fealty to her."

Loghain snorts. "False modesty does not suit you."

"It's not false." Picking at her cuticles, Elissa feels the involuntary frown deepen as she thinks about what he is saying.

He shoots her a sceptical glance. "Is that so?"

She falls silent, glaring at the mug of tea beside her. The tea is still so hot that when she runs a finger along the rim, it feels like tiny little claws of heat prickle her skin. Loghain has probably demanded it, because he prefers it very hot - so hot it burns the tip of her tongue if she tries to drink it - and gets annoyed when it cools too quickly.

"I don't want to do this." Her confession surprises her somewhat, but Loghain merely nods, which encourages her to go on. "It's silly of me, of course. I was raised to govern a teyrnir but I always thought I could escape, somehow."

Loghain gives her a lingering glance, without speaking. Elissa feels the childish indignation prickle at her thoughts, colouring them with a meaningless rebellion against something that cannot be changed. She is not entitled to this. People have suffered a Blight, people have died in front of their eyes and she sits here, moping about being given a bloody arling. Disgusted with herself, she clears her throat.

"It's only a formality, of course," Loghain points out. His eyes are icily blue as always, but she imagines there's a feather-light thread of something warmer in them as he looks at her. "You will not have to do much more than attend a few gatherings here and there. And make the overall decisions. I am convinced you will succeed at that quite well."

Smiling gratefully, she leans back in her seat. Loghain turns his attention away from her and continues with his writing. Elissa watches him work with a growing sense of calmness enclosing her; she is not alone. She has Fergus and the Wardens and she has Loghain, who might not have any desire to be her second – or anybody's second - but who is just that, whether he likes it or not.

"It gives the Order an opportunity to set an example," she says after a while, thinking of Sophia Dryden and Avernus, remembering suddenly the haunted keep and its inhabitants. They will need to travel there, too; she has almost forgotten. "Which could be very useful, of course."

"Of course." He puts down the quill and shoves the book to the side. Then he fidgets with a vellum, rolls it up and seals it.

She looks at him. "Will you help me?"

"I think a seneschal is a vastly better option," he replies, not looking up.

"I meant with the actual governing."

Lifting his gaze from the work at the desk, he observes her quietly for a long time, long enough to make her feel stupid where she sits, expecting things from him. She has no idea when she started doing that or why. It seems a bad habit, considering.

But then Loghain nods. "Should you find that your upbringing and the wide selection of lieges are not enough, I am here," he says, and his voice takes a strange turn at the last part. "Though I scarcely believe you will need my help."

"I always want your help," she says, deliberately tweaking the words and regretting it immediately as they travel across the room, growing in importance before her eyes.

Loghain gives her a long, hesitant look; she sighs and turns her attention back to the cup next to her and her frayed fingernails that she can pick at, faintly hearing her mother admonish her for that nervous habit. The silence that falls has laboured edges coloured by the orders and duties that have been tossed around all night; Elissa feels her stomach plummet a little as Loghain looks at her again.

"Will you have to install yourself in Amaranthine right away?" he asks eventually.

"No, not right now," Elissa says, grateful to be talking again, and takes a sip of her tea. "I got a respite, until the darkspawn war is definitely over." She smiles grimly. "If they want a Commander as Arlessa, they will have to adjust to the laws of battle."

Loghain half-smiles back at her. "We will have to assume the First Warden does not object to this then?"

"I asked," she says, frowning. "Alistair said the First Warden was neutral to the idea. He didn't wish to discuss it further."

"We will find out in time what the Aderfels truly thinks about it, I wager." Loghain looks thoughtful.

"Yes," she agrees, nodding. "Or Alistair will find out and wait to tell me until some fancy assembly where I can embarrass myself by walking around half-naked-" she points at her chest, which makes Loghain look away, "and feel like strangling everyone."

He says nothing in response to that. There is nothing to say in response to that, she assumes.

"It was a very odd night," she mutters, rubbing her temples. She feels the new title as a beat of her heart, written on her body, echoing in her ears and she can't outrun it, no matter what else she tries to think about. The arling is hers now, for the good of Ferelden. It is difficult to argue with that. "Seeing Sighard as the new teyrn of Gwaren-"

Her voice fades as she's waiting for Loghain to respond.

"There is little sense in giving something as banal as titles sentimental value," he sneers, almost on cue.

She wonders what he feels about it, when and if he does at all. Growing up, he was the Hero and the Teyrn and she can't imagine anyone else holding that spot in the long line of nobility showing up at Landsmeets and formal gatherings; in her head she still sees him there, even if he has morphed into something else in her mind, his title in those particular surroundings remains.

"I suppose it's not," she says, squaring her shoulders and tilting her head, to try to get a peek at what he is writing. "But the nobility is hardly a sensible lot."

They are kingmakers, the two of them. Kingmakers and warlords, so deft at running other people's lives for them, assuming control over those lenient enough to let them. And utterly confounded when they are the ones being manipulated. Elissa shakes her head, wondering if it is flattering or terrifying to find paths running from her mind to Loghain's, to feel that particular light of understanding, of sameness in his trail of thoughts.

Loghain glances at her – raising an eyebrow – and then he smiles, a proper smile washing away the sneer and the steel, a smile that leaves her somewhat unsettled beneath all the wine and frustration. And she thinks, sinking back in the armchair, that it might not be flattering and more than a little terrifying, but it's also a warm rush of comfort.

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They perform the Joining shortly after the break of dawn.

For a ceremony it is rather unceremoniously handled, Loghain observes, standing behind the short line of recruits. The room feels chilly and damp, a wetness in the air seeping in through the half-opened windows and finding them where they have gathered, the people in this room who are to constitute a record of his mission this past winter. A proof of how well he has handled his duties. Death will be the judge.

Loghain wonders if anyone in this poorly fed, mismatched lot will pass their test.

The first recruits he found – two decent, seasoned footsoldiers serving under the teyrn of Highever; they had volunteered to join the Wardens, the Blight still raw in their memories – stand next to a man Jenner had insisted on. Loghain can't remember the man's name nor his own reason for complying with the other Warden's idiocy. Then there is a knight – Ser Adrianna – who had been defending a small village more or less on her own when the darkspawn hordes moved past. A little to the right, as though they are a separate entity, stand Brann and his sister, Ada. They had encountered them both outside Highever and when Brann voiced his interest in joining, his sister insisted on doing the same. Now they are looking at each other; Ada has the face of someone being sent to her execution, her mouth a taut white line in her face.

It is an execution of sorts, of course. An intricate form of penalty, leaving the verdict, the choice between life and death to the Maker and the darkspawn. The monsters themselves deciding who are strong enough to fight them.

Two deaths. Four Wardens. These are the scant notes he allows himself to make in his head as they carry out their ritual and welcome their new brothers and sisters – although he doesn't call them that, not even Hedin calls them that, as though those are names they will have to earn. Loghain finds the whole thing unreasonably distasteful.

They lose Brann and the man Jenner recruited and Loghain watches them die, thinking of what makes a Grey Warden, wondering if it is about balance or strength or the impalpable, seemingly insignificant thing beyond and before those traits, making all the difference.

Afterwards, they burn the corpses by the edge of the teyrn's grounds; their actions are half-covered by the blooming garden and the scent of the newly fallen rain in the grass. The fire dies down quickly and the ashes of the bodies linger, sticking to the damp walls as the death around them crumbles into flakes and grains landing on their skin.

In the corner of his eye, he spots Hedin and – far away, speaking to the new Wardens – Elissa.

"What now?" Loghain asks the elf.

"I... " Hedin begins, his voice a croaked groan.

He looks far gone, Loghain notices suddenly and can't stop staring, like he's seeing his companion for the first time. And Hedin is not well at all. His face is sweaty and his hands shake as he seeks the nearby bench for support. Sitting down he bows his head, resting his forehead against his knees and coughing, a rattling noise that makes it sound like his lungs are falling apart with the rest of him.

"Are you ill?" Loghain folds his arms across his chest where he stands in front of him.

"No," Hedin replies after a while. "Nothing worse than usual."

"Indeed? You look near death," Loghain says, realising once he has already spoken that it might not be the best choice of words.

"I am. It's the Calling. The Joining takes its toll these days." He looks up, seeking Loghain's eyes. Without saying anything else he rolls up a sleeve of his shirt and holds out his arm. "Look."

Under the shirt his arm is bloodied and scaly, and severely bruised as though the body is still struggling to stop the transformation. Loghain stifles an involuntary shudder. The Orlesian has not given any hint of illness in their months together – of course, Loghain had known Hedin is feeling the Calling but he has never been able to imagine it quite like this.

He is, in all things and without mercy, becoming a darkspawn.

Hedin nods, and for a second Loghain wonders if he has said out loud what he is thinking.

"We turn on ourselves, in the end."

"This is why dying Wardens go to fight the darkspawn? To join them?" Loghain bites back a grimace of disgust. He remembers the night in the tower, back when Maric had been captured by Orlesian Wardens and darkspawns, remembers those creatures that he had found so strange back then – blending with the the idea of dying like one, trapped inside one,partaking in a never-ending cycle of death. He looks away.

"It is preferable to die in the Deep Roads rather than becoming a monster in plain sight," the elf shrugs. "Safer, too. Nobody can say for certain what happens to Wardens that go there to die, of course."

"Of course." Loghain snorts. This pattern of speculation and lack of certainties will forever remind him of the Wardens and their motivations.

"It is a long journey. At first you feel better, stronger," Hedin says, after a moment's silence. "Your body adapts to the new strength. Then it should level out for many years – if you're young, at least." He catches his breath, giving Loghain a glance. "When you start to feel the Calling it is a matter of time before your body finally succumbs."

"A matter of time?" Loghain asks, shifting his weight. There's a heavy sound at the back of his mind, dangerous and beckoning all at once. He imagines how it would feel – how it will feel – when the sounds and the pull inside overwhelm him; imagines how he will sink deeper into the near-madness of it; he wonders when and how and how long.

The elf is quiet for a moment, his breathing becoming less laboured eventually as the rigid look in his eyes subsides.

"For you, several years at least. For me it will be months, likely much less."

It is a simple enough verdict. Loghain swallows a taste of bile at it, the unease from before not leaving him alone, imprinted on his very thoughts. Battle will kill him first, he tells himself. There used to be a faint joy attached to that knowledge, used to bring him a double-edged form of relief, of consolation. He would consider the impending end a blessing – a definite and certain change, clean slate devoid of duty and responsibilities or even possibilities that he can't resist reaching for because he is ever the man to catch at straws.

"I see," Loghain says, eyes sweeping over the garden.

Hedin nods again, as a finality this time, a confirmation before he gets to his feet – not without a grimace – and staggers out of sight.

Loghain glances at the commander, wondering if she knows.

Elissa sits hunched up by the pile of remains with her sleeves turned up and mumbles something that Loghain assumes are prayers or pointless bits of canticles - as she once revealed to him that she is wont to use when the words fail her. She still does that - the praying - and it still surprises him. There is something both compelling and confounding in her scraps of faith just as it had been equal parts infuriating and sympathetic to find that Maric, after years of assassination attempts and staged coups, still believed that people were good until they proved him otherwise.

"Make sure this is cleaned up properly," she rises to her feet, brushing her hands against her legs.

Loghain nods. "Of course."

"It's a good result, all things considered." Her face is lit by a little smile, private and discreet.

"They are untrained," Loghain says, not returning it. "Hapless fools who are untrained to fight darkspawn. They will last for a few days."

"I doubt they are all hapless," Elissa points out. "You recruited them after all. And they survived. We will continue training them tomorrow, once they've had a good night's sleep."

"The south will have better soldiers." He scrapes large piles of ash together, using his boot.

The few days since her return have been filled with planning for the future, with strategies of past and present, speculations and mutual agreements. They have done little else than work, tightly wound together and around their obligations; there are times with her and with this new life of his, Loghain realises, when he is so riddled with things he has yet to do and efforts yet to be made, that his past fades into a mere backdrop. And there lies the true comfort, likely the only one he will ever be granted – the only one he deserves.

Several years, at least.

The words resound through him again, disrupting his defences and rearranging them in different shapes and ways. He no longer finds comfort in the thought of his own mortality.

There are so many things left to do.

"I'll make sure they get a warm meal and a hot bath and then we can sit down and discuss the training again."

Elissa's voice makes him jolt back, shaking his head slightly, brushing away the lingering sentiments.

"Yes," he says, still half-way inside this gloomy layer of thought as she smiles at him and clears it up, somehow.

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Loghain is in the middle of an uncomfortably warm and fractured sleep when the noise outside the window wakes him. At first he doesn't realise that the knocking - careful and soft like fingers raking against the glass - is happening outside the Fade, then his body reacts to the possibility of attack and he sits up in bed, the sheets around him damp and constricting.

Struggling out of them, he rises to his feet and stands for a moment in the middle of the room, trying to navigate in the grey light flooding the bedchamber; the squares of moonlight makes it even more difficult, maze-like and deceptive. While he is searching for a shirt among the clothes thrown over the chair next to the window he spots a hooded figure outside. Well. At least darkspawn don't announce their presence.

He unbolts the large window, sliding it open with little effort. When the figure lets the hood slide a fraction of an inch, just enough to reveal the outlines of a face, he realises that it is the rogue he hired months ago. She frowns at his state of undress but then simply hands him a bundle of parchments.

"I found your witch," she says, matter-of-factly.

Your witch. Loghain flinches at the thought; he allows himself to remember very little of that night, even less of the ritual itself or the shady reasoning behind performing it in the first place. He recalls, when he must, the scent of incense and the bitter taste of roots at the back of his tongue and her voice, slightly broken as though she was forcing herself as much as she was forcing him. It had been something about her that night, something raw and unbidden – not for one second does he believe the marsh witch had motivations concerning anybody but herself and her own selfish curiosity, but he had found it difficult to blame her because of those notes in her voice, the way she could not bear to look him in the eyes. He had found it difficult to blame her because he was not ordered.

He had agreed to do the deed – volunteered to do it, even.

The witch and whatever monstrous creature that will spawn from her blood ritual are his responsibilities now. It lands in him with a wave of nausea.

"Where was she?" The night air is chilly against his chest, sharp as his own voice.

"West Hill. But she keeps moving around. Headed towards the coast, it seemed, when I left for Denerim." The woman nods towards the papers in his hands. "I've documented it thoroughly."

"Was she...?" he says, feeling strangely incapable of finishing the sentence.

"Yes." The woman looks at him for a while, the questions she doesn't pose visible in her face.

It must seem odd, what he has asked of her. Bastard children are certainly common enough to not require a secretive missive costing a massive amount of gold – bastard children of men like Loghain, who have no titles or lands to inherit, can appear out of thin air without anybody raising an eyebrow. Yet here he stands.

"Thank you." He nods, his body heavy like lead.

The woman waits only until he has given her the gold they had agreed upon, then she steps back into the night and Loghain sits down on his bed, staring at the documents in his hands.