A/N: As always, thanks to CJK for beta and for being very, very patient. And thanks to you all for being a supportive bunch of readers!

"So she wasn't lying." Elissa rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs heavily.

"Did you believe she was?" Loghain stretches out as much as he can in the uncomfortably small armchair by the window where he is seated, looking at the pile of parchments spread out in front of them, and at his commander.

She is huddled up at the foot-end of her bed, still wearing nothing but a tunic and a facial expression that makes her look half-asleep despite that their conversation has stretched out over a good hour by now. Outside, the sun is rising.

His neck creaks a bit when he turns his head, looking over his shoulder through the window, at the night dissolving into day. He leans back, folding his arms across his chest.

"I was hoping." She looks apologetic, ill at ease as this imagined flaw in her strategy is being exposed. As though he doesn't do just that – plans for the worst and hopes for the best. Or used to, back when he nursed such feeble things as hope, for anything. "Even with magic, I assumed it wouldn't really be the most certain thing, to...well -"

They have never said it out loud, that last part of her sentence.

He seldom completes that trail of thought in his own head, either, so he isn't certain how he would phrase it. To conceive a child through a blood magic ritual? To pay a blood debt in order to ascertain better odds for surviving the Blight? To play this right into a lunatic apostate's hands? Loghain shakes his head.

"I got the impression the marsh witch was rather aware of all possible outcomes," he says slowly. "She took precautions for all of them, I assume."

Light has its way even now, here in her bedroom, the rays of dim morning sun falling on the floor beneath the windows and making the dust appear in the air, fluttering languidly around them. Loghain wonders how he will disappear without any servant noticing him and wonders too, momentarily, what he is doing in here in the first place.

When he hired the rogue he had intended to deal with any kind of aftermath himself, discreetly and efficiently without ever involving anybody else, thinking that the less they discuss this, the better. Even a couple of hours ago, with the records in his hands and his chest heavy with disgust, he had considered continuing this mission alone. This is the rhythm of thirty years, hammered dully into his bones - one year of difference cannot change him.

Or perhaps it can. He is sitting here after all. He burst in here in after the ill-founded decision appeared in his mind, and she opened the door, with a bewildered expression on her face at the reversed roles and shifting parts in their play.

Amazingly, he doesn't regret it.

Then suddenly Elissa meets his gaze with a pained grimace. "This is my fault."

She means the witch, the idea she had presented to him in Redcliffe, the one order she never gave and Loghain shakes his head. .

"It is not." He draws himself up, or makes an effort to. "And it serves no one that we sit here and brood over it."

"Right," she says incredulously, giving him a dark look. "We will just leave it, like that."

He has a vague recollection of a conversation many months ago when she had claimed to not dwell on this mistake – he remembers it because it was a conversation that had shaped the months that followed, formed his own motivations slightly, as much as anything can possibly form his stone-set ways. She does that, sometimes. Overlaying concerns that are running deep, covering them with momentum and composure, ignoring their claims on her mind and heart until they return, plunging her into deep pits of guilt and always wrapped in feeling of surprise, of being taken aback. He knows this; he nurses the same idiotic habit.

"We do not leave it," he argues, feeling very old. "There is still time to deal with the consequences."

Neither of them state the obvious: that they have no plan for what they will do once they find her. No prospect that doesn't seem revolting or useless or both, not one single idea that sheds any light on ways how to best deal with the beast they likely have created.

That he has created, he reminds himself for good measure.

"Very well." Elissa nods, smoothing out the remains of emotions still visible on her face; dragging a hand through the short, disorderly hair, she picks up one of the letters again. "You're right. We simply need a new plan."

"We do."

"Yes."

"Do you have an inkling as to where she could be travelling?" Loghain asks to break the circle their conversation runs in. "Does she have contacts somewhere - other apostates perhaps?"

Elissa is silent for a short while, her hands shuffling the scattered records together in a neat pile that she instantly begins to fidget with again.

"Morrigan doesn't care for other mages, as far as I know. Or other people." She looks up, searching for his eyes. "Flemeth practically raised her to be bait in... I don't know, magical power games; she wouldn't trust anyone enough to turn to them if she needed help."

"Unless she was offering them something in return?"

"That... yes, I suppose."

The idea settles slowly at the back of his mind once he has spoken it. It is not reassuring in the least.

"She is giving birth to an old God," he says, feeling the weight of each word in his mouth. They still carry the flavours of her enchanting roots and the sour wine, intermingling with his thoughts in a way that leaves him slightly out of breath. "I cannot believe she would be the only one interested in that possibility."

"Maker's breath, no." Elissa purses her lips. "In the light of what we know about the darkspawn now... if they can speak, they must be able to think. Reason. That leaves us with the possibility of darkspawn that are almost human."

"They would have uses for one of their Gods, reborn," Loghain nods.

"The... darkspawn you told me about, before. The one Maric met?"

"The one allied to the Orlesians?"

"Was he, really?" She frowns. "Somehow I doubt that darkspawn ally with nations."

"Even if they merely ally with those corrupt enough to oblige, this one was definitely with the Orlesians," Loghain returns, a flood of frustration welling up in him at the memory. This is one of the things he will never forgive Maric for, not for as long as he lives: waking up one morning, finding himself not only in charge of the country but also the surrogate father of an all but orphaned boy while the King himself was chasing tales and adventures with storybook heroes. Loghain's verdict of that bloody year had scarcely improved when Maric - safely returned and actively governing again - confessed his liaison with an Orlesian mage that had resulted in a bastard. At least he had possessed enough decency to find it slightly awkward, not that it mended matters – or seemed to spoil Maric's overall mood.

With a shake of his head, Loghain releases himself from the past.

"Okay. I'm sure that is not very important." Elissa shrugs, spreading her hands. "What I wanted to know was why? What did he want? Do you know? Did Maric tell you?"

"He was a darkspawn." Loghain squares his shoulders, leaning back. "I did not think to ask about what he wanted."

"Did Maric?"

What Loghain remembers is this: a creature who was more darkspawn than man, trying to collaborate with the First Enchanter and his supporters, a creature he had wanted to interrogate properly before killing. Maric had prevented that, listening to the fool's plea to die with what little dignity he had left. As though being willingly stabbed to death by Loghain's soldiers was an honourable man's defeat.

"Maric did not reveal much," he admits, finding it slightly wounding even now. He had asked, of course; during the months that followed the rescue at the tower, Loghain had prodded and coaxed and threatened until Maric sent him back to Gwaren on some feigned business. "We arrived too late to the Tower to capture anyone who mattered. The one we caught died before we could get anything useful out of him. I recall one of those who got away was calling himself the Architect – he seemed to be significant."

"Was he a darkspawn as well?"

"I think so, yes."

"So Maric never- I mean, he didn't... talk to you about this?" Her eyes narrow as she observes him.

"No," Loghain says, abruptly.

"I thought, I always assumed..." she sighs and looks to the side, tip of her tongue pressing against her lower lip as if she's struggling with herself to make the intrusive question come out right. "You were his right hand, were you not?"

Unwanted as this foray into his personal history is, Loghain finds himself too tired to respond with anger or refusal.

"It was never... uncomplicated," he admits, wondering if he has any words to express it, any way to phrase this that isn't hollow and bitter, a pathetic old man's memories of an unhealed past. It disgusts him to think it has to be that way, the he cannot rise above it. He clears his throat, determined to speak. "I don't know what happened to Maric during those months when he was gone, so all of this is just speculation, but I assume it had something to do with the Wardens. He would not have wanted me to know that. I already opposed the decision to lift the ban on the Order in Ferelden."

"I can imagine," she says, softly.

They are both quiet for a while, listening to the slow stir of footfalls and hushed-up voices in the corridor, the sound of the servants, of the day that begins. It will be a while yet before they wake anyone up, he supposes. The commander seems oblivious – or accustomed - to the issue of the maids not finding her alone in her bedroom, so he merely sinks back in his seat.

"So what are your thoughts on our near future then?" he asks.

"Before we travel south, I suggest we make our way to West Hill."

Loghain nods.

"I also have another proposal," she continues, crossing her legs and pulling the tunic down over her knees, forcefully, as though she can stretch the fabric itself through sheer will. It rides up within seconds. "We went to the old Warden base before, a keep near the coast. Soldier's Peak. It's a two days' journey from Denerim, I guess. If we don't find Morrigan in West Hill, we could go there."

"Why?"

"I have a... well, there's a mage there who owes me a favour. He might have information."

"A mage?" Loghain raises an eyebrow, a growing impatience clouding his thoughts. She seems less than willing to share this with him, which is unusual and hits the notes of doubt that still surround his idea of her, even after almost a year under her command, even if he believes she would die for Ferelden in a heartbeat. For lesser things than that, too, most likely.

Elissa's smile is as washed out as her voice when she turns her head and looks at him, seemingly going over possible answers in her head.

"It's a long story. This mage – we, well, I could have executed him or cast him out of the Order for his crimes. But I didn't. In return he promised me to share his... research with us."

"He's a Warden, too?" Loghain wonders if she has some sentimental personal aversion against executing criminals or if they all just happen to be of use to her. Then he berates himself for the depreciating thoughts and sighs heavily. "What makes him trustworthy?"

"He was a Warden once." She hesitates. "A long time ago. Now he has no one, he shouldn't even be alive; I sincerely doubt he would be capable of betraying our trust, even if he wanted to. You will understand when we meet with him."

Loghain realises he will not be offered any further explanation than this.

Elissa leans forward, resting her chin in her hands as she watches him. Her gaze is beginning to recover its clarity and focus even if she still looks tired in a profound way that can't be cured with a few hours of sleep.

"This is such a mess," she grunts eventually.

"It is."

Loghain wishes, of all things, that the former Warden-Commander was here. Maric aside, Duncan would be the only one who would have known what had truly happened, what secrets they had uncovered in the Deep Roads. Secrets that Loghain spent the better part of a year afterwards trying to learn, only stopping short of actually forcing Maric to speak. Although he doubts Duncan would have been willing to disclose much, there would still be a possibility, if the man was still alive. And Loghain would not let him slip away so easily this time, not like he had during their hurried conversations in Ostagar, where they both had been tight-lipped and suspicious of each other, threaded around the important business like two idiots putting their own pride before the safety of Ferelden.

But then, of course, Duncan had fallen like the other pawns at the battlefield and Loghain had returned to Denerim, none the wiser.

"Do you think we will ever sort it out?" The light touch of hope in Elissa's voice skitters across his path of thoughts and impressions, clouding them slightly.

"I do," he hears himself say.

Elissa chuckles, somewhat unexpectedly. "Sometimes you truly are no more forthcoming than a stone, Loghain. But I appreciate the vote of confidence."

He looks out the window again, where an unstable weather seems to announce its presence. There are hints of grey clouds behind the rays of sunlight that are beginning to warm the back of his head through the glass.

The commander has shifted position on the bed, bent over the pile of records once more. She sorts through them, putting the letters in different piles; then she reaches for a pack on the floor, barely keeping her balance while she's rummaging through it, hauling up a large and familiar scroll – her collection of maps that he borrowed recently.

As she moves, the tunic rides up and instead of looking away, Loghain notices a strange mass of badly healed skin almost covering her left kneecap. It has a fascinating shape; he wonders, despite himself, about its history. Lifting her head, Elissa catches him looking at it before he has found something else to fasten his gaze upon. He feels oddly exposed, half expecting her to give him a scowl, but instead she just looks back at him, levelly.

"I was burnt, by a dragon." Her fingers trace the uneven corners of the scar. "I told you about the Cult of Andraste, did I not? Those madmen who guarded the temple with the Ashes. They kept dragons. We didn't become friends with them, as you may have guessed."

"And you killed their dragons?"

"Dragon," she corrects him. "The one they thought was Andraste. We didn't run into any others, just a bunch of recently hatched dragonlings. Zevran had managed to lead us around the dragon's lair unnoticed, even, but then we figured a dragon trained to obey madmen might not be wise to spare. So I decided we would fight it."

Of course she did; of course she fought a dragon. Loghain feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a wry smile.

"How many of you did it take to slay it?" he asks, vividly remembering the Archdemon and the hordes of dwarves and templars they had lost, merely weakening it.

She glances at him, revealing a certain pride in her composure as she replies. "Four. Zevran and Alistair and I took turns with the close combat while Morrigan cast spells."

"Impressive."

"Yes." She makes another effort to cover the greater part of her legs as she leans back on her hands. "I am impressive."

Loghain snorts at her self-assured attitude but he must admit that he likes it; it makes it considerably easier to be her general. There is still a trace in him, of experience and memory of those first years serving under Maric - clumsy and unpractised at taking command over anything, almost touching in his lack of confidence - when Loghain had felt like an older brother rather than the war strategist he was supposed to be. He is grateful this second attempt at serving someone is so different.

"Where exactly is the keep situated?" he asks, making an effort to reach for the collection of maps.

"Oh, I forgot." Elissa scoots on the bed, moving closer to the other side and gesturing for him to sit next to her. Unfolding the map of northern Ferelden, she begins running a finger across the lines marking the roads, travelling from Denerim and further north, until she stops at a spot where she has drawn a large cross. The terrain appears varied, somewhat bothersome but if they don't carry too much they should be fine. "There it is, up the mountains."

Loghain leans over the map, trying to count the number of days they will need to travel between Gwaren and the Warden base; he wants to ride, but there is always the issue of darkspawn and horses to take into account.

"We should ride," Elissa says, as if reaching inside his thoughts. She smooths out a wrinkle on the map, tapping her finger against a thin line showing a path he once travelled with Maric, when they were trying to get to Denerim unnoticed. "Are these old roads still passable, you think?"

"I hope so," he gives the piece of parchment a long look, as though his willpower alone could transform its lines and marks.

They are debating the best route for the mountain part of the journey – disagreeing, both trying to convince the other of the merits of their opinion – when the door opens and a servant girl slips in, all but ready to wake the Commander when she freezes in her step, gasping.

"Oh." She clasps a hand over her mouth.

"Do come in," Elissa replies in a neutral tone.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Commander," the girl curtseys, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "Forgive me for intruding, I apologise for-"

"There's no need for that," Elissa cuts in with a sigh, rolling up the map and looking at the maid. "This is scarcely a compromising situation, as I'm sure you can see."

Loghain frowns, turning to the girl who looks absolutely frightened out of her wits at the sight of him. He shakes his head and gets to his feet.

"Of course, Commander. Forgive me," the maid says, breathless.

"Just continue with your duties," Elissa rounds up, sounding benevolent like an old matriarch who is speaking to small, misbehaving children. But the servant certainly doesn't seem to mind; she hurries out again, head bowed.

Elissa groans.

"I am not having servants in Vigil's Keep," she complains, climbing out of bed as the girl scurries out of the room.

"Say that again when you have cooked your own supper for the first time." Loghain has a vague recollection of the commander trying to assist the Orlesian bard with a soup once, without much success. Knowing her better now, he gathers she will likely need detailed instructions for chopping onions.

"Well, you can cook, can't you?"

"I am most certainly not going- " he begins, interrupting himself harshly at the realisation that she's giggling at him behind his back. For a second he feels irritated at the laugh at his expense, then he shakes his head, admitting reluctantly that he did swallow that bait too easily.

"I couldn't resist." Elissa flashes a smile. "Sorry. Anyway. Now I'm going to turn you out before they return with the washbasins."

Loghain nods, gathering his vellums and letters and is one step away from standing in the corridor when she calls out his name. In the corner of his eye he notices the servants hurrying along, slipping into the storage room and back out again, returning with armfuls of clothes and basins.

"Oh, Loghain?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Thanks for letting me know immediately."

He is about to say of course, but she would know that it was not a certainty at all; she is definitely observant and nosy enough for that insight into him.

"Yes," he says instead, nodding, and it's not even a response but it is the only one he is going to give and he assume she knows this, too, like she knows everything else.

Without further ado, he closes the door behind him.

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The same afternoon, his daughter receives him in the large drawing room she uses for her own private audiences.

It's a handsomely decorated room by now, certainly more gaudy than when Loghain last saw it - and for a brief moment he wonders about the new King's priorities, before reminding himself that he is detached from this awful place now, his body is a separate entity, his blood no longer running through this house.

The relief hits him like a blow, every time.

"Warden," Anora says, softly. It has been a long time since they spoke.

He has missed her, he realises now.

"Your Majesty," Loghain greets her, bending his knee. There are chamberlains and ladies-in-waiting - and a marshal who Loghain is convinced was around even when Maric sat on the throne - surrounding them. Loghain undoubtedly understands the need for this display; it is not yet a year since he was going to hang for high treason. He is surprised he was summoned at all. But given the title they have granted Elissa, he figures this, too, is a step towards involving the Order in the everyday dealings of the governing of Ferelden. Anora never did accept his fall from grace.

She looks calm and relaxed despite the formal scene. Last time he saw her the shadows were darker, greyer, kept firmly hidden beneath her composure, of course; they were always there, however, visible to someone who has seen her face in so many variations over the years. Rising again, Loghain catches himself wondering if the bastard son is treating her better than Cailan did, then he pushes those thoughts aside since they, as always, endanger his defences.

"I have read your proposal," Anora says, folding her hands in her lap. "I assumed it was your idea?"

"It was." Loghain nods. "And what is your verdict, Your Majesty?"

"I will grant you some land for this," she states, nodding back at him. "The Grey Wardens have served Ferelden and its monarchs remarkably well. This is a small price to pay."

Loghain observes her, waiting for her to go on.

"There is a freehold just outside Gwaren."

"The one near the Brecilian Passage?" he asks, the image of it surfacing in his head – he has ridden past that small village more times than he cares to think about.

"That is the one, yes." Anora reaches for a vellum on the table to her right, glances over it quickly and hands it over to Loghain. "It is now property of the Grey Wardens. My husband will also grant you the gold necessary to restore and expand the farm as you see fit."

Considering they are currently dependant on Orlesian money – Warden money, Elissa corrects him in his head, but he ignores her for the time being – this is at least some resemblance of improvement. Even if they are being bought, made vulnerable through another version of dependence.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Anora looks at him, smiling behind the royal appearance. "Of course, Warden."

"The Commander will be pleased," Loghain tucks the vellum into the inside pocket of his cloak.

The marshal gives him a badly concealed and very impatient scowl, suggesting the Queen has other appointments before the day is over and that he is somehow blaming Loghain for outstaying his welcome, if he ever had any.

"I shall send a few soldiers there immediately to prepare for your arrival." It's not a question and he wouldn't be able to answer it if it had been, because their delay will be due to the fact that they are going to hunt a lunatic witch in the dark, or at least half-blindly and based on no more than scraps of knowledge.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he says instead, for the second time in this short audience, and prepares to take his leave.

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Despite the cloak and his hurried pace, the drizzle manages to dampen his shoulders and hair on the way back to the teyrn's estate, a smell of wet dog surrounding him as he steps into the entrance hall. It doesn't get better as Dog appears, excited to see him and equally damp from being outside in the garden.

Loghain rubs the dog's neck, while struggling out of the cloak. He saves the vellum from being accidentally snatched away by the servants who instantly begin to swarm him, taking the discarded clothing.

"Ser Cauthrien was looking for you, General," one of the maids says, folding his cloak over her arm. It's not the girl who found him in Elissa's bedchamber this morning; this one doesn't look some someone who would have blushed quite that intensely. "She is in the drawing room upstairs."

"Very well." He nods, gesturing for Dog to follow him, which he does with a happy bark.

Cauthrien is indeed waiting for him in the drawing room, by the fireplace; she is wearing a blank expression, as though she has terrible news. She most likely has not, he realises, but she finds his company wearing, requiring preparation. It's an expression that she cultivated the months before Ostagar – through gritted teeth and reluctant obedience and those looks she gave him, at times even worse than Anora's overbearing gaze - and refined during Loghain's year as a regent.

"Cauthrien," he nods, taking a seat by the fire as well, grateful for the warmth.

"You are wet." She doesn't move in her chair, but she crosses her legs and looks at him, then at Dog who curls up over Loghain's feet. "And the mabari smells."

Dog protests tiredly and only once, before settling. He must have been outside hunting other animals since Loghain left for the Palace - Elissa has spent the day with the Wardens, scouting along the city gates for darkspawn and possible undiscovered entrances to the Deep Roads from which the creatures can rise.

"It is raining." Loghain raises an eyebrow. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." Cauthrien looks down, reaching into the sleeve of her tunic to grab hold of a scroll – he has seen a lot of those today, he observes, wishing for nothing else but a hot bath and a sizeable meal – that she then spends another moment fidgeting with. He is unaccustomed to see her doubt herself; Loghain wonders if anything has occurred.

"Here," she says, suddenly, before he has time to ask. "This is the name of a contact in Val Royeuax. Elyon. A former chevalier."

"A chevalier?"

"He's neutral enough." Cauthrien has regained her usual demeanour now, watching him with her arms folded across her chest. "We have an accord of sorts. He will deliver information in exchange for gold."

"Of course he will," Loghain sneers, thinking that she has gone mad now, finally snapping under the strain he has put on her. "And that costly information will of course be nothing but Orlesian rubbish."

"He serves the Wardens," she persists. "The Empress stripped him of his lands and titles after a dispute. If anything he would be ready to side against her."

"And he would give me information?"

"He would."

"Are you suggesting that he would give me information that differs from the information I receive from the Commander?" He feels a little stab of doubt as the sentence is spoken.

"It is not my place to judge that."

Loghain rubs his forehead, grimacing into his hand.

"Do I have any reason to doubt her?"

Cauthrien hesitates for a brief moment, giving him a pointed glance. "Mere trust is a weak foundation for a nation."

He frowns at his own pompous words being used by her, almost in mockery, but then he catches himself before he says something about it.

"I merely figured you would want a source," she says.

"Why?" Loghain asks, the question breaking through the layers of their conversation, the heavy collection of thoughts in his head. He wonders why she is giving him this information, why she is offering it now, what she truly thinks of the Commander and he wonders, more urgently than he would like to acknowledge, why and if he would need this.

She snorts. "Why not?"

"Cauthrien." He hears his own voice cut through the room like the edge of a sword, harsh and merciless. "What are you not telling me?"

Something passes, swooping through the silence and slices it open in fractions and pieces. Loghain leans forward in his seat, feeling unsettled and anything but grateful for this possible source of information. Barring a few messengers here and there, he truly has nothing left from his old circle of contacts, nor has he considered a new one, given how measured his time is and how rarely the Wardens will find any use for the sort of information his former sources would provide him with.

"The Order is unstable," she says eventually, uncertain all of a sudden. "I honestly believe the Commander is loyal to you. And to Ferelden. It is my genuine opinion, for what it's worth. But the Warden business in Orlais... loyalties were bought and sold all the time. The Commander is inexperienced. She's young."

Not that young, he objects in his head, but Cauthrien catches his gaze and he falls silent before even beginning to speak.

She holds out the vellum for him to either take or dismiss and Loghain draws a bracing breath, before tearing if from her hand, shaking his head at the same time.

"She has so many assets," Cauthrien says, as she's rising to her feet. The look she is giving him now cannot hide the concern stirring beneath her words. "I want you to have one, too."

He ought to thank her, he supposes; before he can, however, she is already gone.

Left alone by the fire, Loghain mulls over the offer, skimming the concise notes Cauthrien has written for him. There's a dull sensation somewhere along the brink of his mind, a sensation of having betrayed a trust although he cannot justify this to himself in any sensible manner so he decides to ignore it, grinding his teeth.

And it is a good thing he knows better, that he acknowledges the absolutely ridiculous notion, because otherwise he could swear that Dog is giving him a disappointed look.