They should have lost one of the older Wardens instead, Elissa thinks, grimacing at the pile of scrolls on her desk.

They should have lost Ada or Hedin or the veteran soldiers Loghain had recruited - anyone but Adrianna, who truly was one of the best fighters they have come across all year. Adrianna who was barely older than Elissa, at that, and ought to have been important to the Wardens for many years to come.

But of course, nothing is fair.

Elissa writes Adrianna's name in the journal where they chronicle the Wardens, their recruitments, Joinings and deaths, chronicle them as though this would place their marks in the world, make them part of the circle of life going on outside of their ranks. A family tree for those who never had families or whose families weren't defined by name or bloodlines.

Adrianna had been killed during their second excursion to seal the Deep Roads entrances a few days earlier and her absence has left an unexpected gash in the small group, a tear at their illusive safety.

Yesterday had been a day of burial, of scrambling together a ritual suited for Wardens dying in battle, which she had never previously considered the need for. Hedin, to his credit, had made no mention of her perplexed shrugs and questions and the burial fire and the following ceremony had been moving. She had pulled through.

Today, however, is a day of appointments and paperwork, the first day when the titles attached to Elissa's name are forcibly there, present in an almost tangible way, as though they are becoming physical shapes with voices and minds of their own, sitting on her shoulders and observing her work. They offer very little praise, so far.

After breakfast, Elissa meets with the envoy from Amaranthine who informs her of the situation there and asks her to sanction the seneschal's latest suggestions for Vigil's Keep. It's an appointment kept brief but that still leaves a lingering taste of bitterness in her mouth. This is the future, a persistent voice says in her head. No running away for you, my lady Warden.

At noon Elissa has a meal sent up to her chambers – boar and stewed cabbage – and eats it while going through the first pile – marked urgent – of letters and inquiries. People turn to the Grey Wardens with the strangest things, she is reminded of as she reaches the other pile – marked as non-urgent, for simplicity's sake – and crumbles up a letter from a man who seeks aid in tracking down some precious gems said to be common in the Free Marches. She tries to imagine Loghain's facial expression as she, serious-faced and commanding, would explain to him that they are to make a quick detour to collect jewels for a nutty old man. It makes her grin, thinking about it.

Loghain is outside in the courtyard, she knows, allowing the trail of thought to go there; he is outside dealing with a small crowd of potential recruits and she can hear him through the open window by her desk, discern his voice in the flurry of metal and commands. She would know that voice anywhere. It's deep and stern, heavily marked by thirty years of leadership and only rarely – and privately – broken up in warmer notes. There is nothing warm about it today.

Elissa leans forward, looking down on the double lines of soldiers and knights who are present to prove their capacity with a sort of wistful longing rising in her. She wants to be down there in the sun and heat, surrounded by dirt and swords and the scent of battle instead of here, feeling like the little girl in Highever who begged in vain for permission to become a knight. She wants to be there, by Loghain's side and decide who is worthy and who is not.

It's a lovely day. Summer has tightened its grasp of them; over the last fortnight every tree seems to have blossomed and the air is no longer chilly, not even breezes from the north and the sea.

The potential recruits look hot and bothered in the unforgiving sunlight, most of them are wearing only undershirts and trousers by now. It's a rather pleasant sight, Elissa admits to herself, a blur of metal giving off shimmering reflections and a cluster of strong bodies used to the rhythm of fighting, dancing around each other in a familiar if slightly odd routine.

It is deep in her, that rhythm; it's built-in and growing steadily, intertwined with the way she moves, the way she thinks, the way she desires.

Rising from her core, spreading through blood and bones it is part of her, has become her and even from this distance she can't deny the appeal of the scenery, a little jolt of excitement landing in the pit of her stomach, as her gaze travels over the men and women and then to Loghain, in front of them all. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves and the fabric of the shirt is sticking to his back, plastered against his skin in the heat. As he raises his sword, one of the soldiers steps forward and Elissa finds herself still looking, fascinated. Yet again she is the little girl in Highever who later became a young woman who had both resented and desired the knights and footsoldiers for doing what she wasn't allowed to. She'd stand and watch them, as well, leaning in and shifting her weight as she offered some words of encouragement, giving them the coy noblewoman they seemed to take her for. It had amused her endlessly to join in, disarming the opponent with the element of surprise the first time, later with her swordmanship.

If she could be down there now, she would berate the soldier for letting Loghain overpower her completely before even starting the duel. There is simply no sense in admitting defeat beforehand, not even if the opponent is Loghain Mac Tir. Especially not then.

Shaking her head, Elissa returns to the paperwork until she is interrupted a moment later by soft footfalls, and finds the mildest, most terrified of all the maids in the household standing beside her desk, curtseying.

"You have a visitor, Commander. May I show her in?"

Elissa rises from the chair and greets Cauthrien who is barely recognizable as Cauthrien since she's not wearing armour but a tunic and trousers. Idle days and the earliest stages of summer seem to be rocking the very foundations of the earth, Elissa thinks, vaguely amused.

"Commander." Cauthrien nods.

"Ah, yes," Elissa says. "Good. I wanted to talk to you."

"Yes. I gathered as much from the invitation." Like Loghain, Cauthrien has a voice that carries several different flavours all at once, making it difficult sometimes to know if it is sarcastic or genuine, composed or uninterested.

"We've finished the search for entrances to the Deep Roads, as you know," Elissa begins. "At least for the time being. "

Nearly a week's delay in their plans and the loss of a fine Warden aside, it has been worth it, Elissa decides. Having sealed three passages leading underground they have at least done something and Alistair has directed plenty of men out into the wilds, with the specific mission to guard the discovered, now closed, entrances and keep their eyes open for new ones.

Cauthrien looks at her for a second, as though evaluating her answer. "Ser Adrianna was a good warrior; it was an unfortunate battle."

"Loghain seems intent on replacing her before we leave Denerim," Elissa says, gesturing towards the courtyard.

"Are we still set for departure tomorrow?"

Elissa walks up to the window, opening it even further. The room smells too much of indoors, a musty air sinking down over her.

"Yes. There is a slight change of plans, however," she says, looking over her shoulder. "I want you to go to Highever with my brother. I would like you to participate in the defences of the Coastlands, such as they are."

There is a little flicker of light in Cauthrien's eyes – a spontaneous, instinctive agreement or protest – before she composes herself and merely nods.

Cauthrien should be a general or a commander, of course, like she had been merely a year ago. Everything about her – her body, her voice, her posture – still remembers the details of that life, it's impossible not to notice. But she had been on the losing side in the civil war and therefore, Elissa reminds herself, it is not strange that she is here, being commanded.

"Yes, Commander."

"The Wardens will be there, and the King will send as many soldiers as he can afford, as well. You won't be alone."

"I see."

Through the window Elissa watches another soldier draw his dual swords in front of Loghain and again she wants to stand there and correct, wants to meddle. They all respect him entirely too much. He is a great fighter but he is not bloody indestructible, she berates in her head. Like all men he is made of flesh and blood, not legend and myth.

Elissa herself had been running on the sheer rush of power from having held the Landsmeet in her hands, never allowing herself even a second to catch her breath or looking back and she can still hear Alistair's low, urgent voice in her head – let me fight him, please.

In the courtyard, Loghain barks something at his opponent and Elissa notices that Cauthrien, too, watches the scene with a spark of interest in the normally quite unreadable eyes.

"They are much too respectful," she comments evenly, folding her arms across her chest. "And sloppy. They are merely irritating him. He punishes reverence and arrogance alike."

Elissa has to grin at the apt summary of the sometimes hopelessly frustrating lines one has to avoid crossing to gain that man's respect.

Elissa had initially tried to use Loghain's strength against him, back in the devout silence of the Landsmeet chamber. Had tried to make herself small and quick, to wear him out – he was unaccustomed to daily battle and more than twice her age, after all – and it might have worked, would perhaps have worked, had she not lost patience mid-fight and decided she wanted to win through the strength of her swordarm and endurance of her movements rather than some trickster routine. The Landsmeet, as she remembers it, had held its collective breath at the shift, the sudden change of pace. Most of them had probably assumed it was the end, that the teyrn had bested the Cousland girl, like they expected him to, Warden or not.

But there had been a brief moment, caught up in the blurred lines of fear and hatred and fury and some odd trace of disappointment – she had asked him to step down gracefully, had genuinely hoped he would – when he looked at her and she looked at him, before they both readjusted their weapons and continued, face to face, sword to sword.

You fought forever, Leliana had told her afterwards, although to Elissa it had seemed like mere minutes between the look of mutual understanding and the final gesture of victory when Elissa had knelt, one of her knees roughly pinning Loghain to the floor and the tip of her sword resting against his throat. And his eyes, the way they widened in realisation and – of all things – respect, before settling into a gaze that seemed to say go on, do it, I dare you.

"At least he won't bring any broken reeds into my ranks," Elissa says, scratching the back of her hand and letting her gaze fall on Cauthrien.

"Indeed."

"You must have been young when he recruited you?" Elissa half-asks, feeling transparent for a moment as though the echoes behind her words leave imprints all over her. It has never been clear what Loghain is to Cauthrien, and Elissa has never imagined asking – or even wondering – about it before. Now the scattered strands of thoughts and impulses in her head all seem to linger around that very question, spinning themselves around it.

"Fourteen years." Cauthrien shifts position slightly, leaning one shoulder against the stone wall near the window, not looking at Elissa as she replies. "But I told him I was seventeen."

"Did he believe you?" Elissa has a feeling she already knows the answer.

"Hardly. I was just a scrawny little brat."

"What about your family, did they not object?"

Elissa's question is met with a scoff and she thinks she's made one of her usual clumsy errors by assuming everyone has her own experiences. Some of us did not grow up in a castle, Leliana says in her head, voice torn between amusement and reproach. For all Elissa knows Cauthrien's parents might have been dirt poor commoners thankful for a bit of coin in exchange for their daughter.

"My worthless father spent his days letting the crops go to waste by drinking and tormenting his cowering wife," Cauthrien says, harshly. "I would not call him family."

"And Loghain took you away to Denerim."

"He did." Cauthrien gives a sharp-edged smile and continues, uncharacteristically unreserved. "He saw to my training and education. The teyrna, Loghain's wife, employed my mother in Gwaren when I told him I could not leave her. For all his faults, Commander, Loghain is far from the heartless monster you may believe him to be."

Elissa realises the firm and final touch of Cauthrien's voice reminds her of the way Alistair would speak of Duncan, allowing no room for objections or doubts because his own image of the man was so fixated it had no open lines, no blanks to be filled.

"I don't think I have ever believed that," Elissa says, thoughtfully.

And it's the truth, she realises when she thinks about it. She had wanted Howe to die like a dog, crawling before her; she had wanted Loghain to repent, regret, put at least some of his horrible deeds right by proving that he was still the man her father spoke of as a hero. Her hatred for Loghain had always been inseparable from frustration and disappointment, tinged with the faintest touch of sadness.

She had borrowed his name in Highever, had dubbed herself the Hero of River Dane among wooden sword and skinned knees and the Landsmeet, her own words in that room, had left a trail of pain leading back inside her, through memories and childhood games.

Outside, there is a slight pause in the activity and when Elissa leans out to reach the open window, she notices that Loghain is glancing up at her, as though he has felt their attention. She meets his eyes, wondering for a moment rather stupidly if he has heard their conversation. Pulling the window shut, she breaks the gaze; from the other side of the desk, Cauthrien is watching her, too, and between them both, Elissa can feel her own skin heat up, prickling, shivering.

"Right." Elissa looks down at the mess on top of her desk again, trying to go over the last couple of days' worth of planning in her head after having returned her body and mind to the present situation. "You shall go to Highever with the knights. I doubt the teyrn's entourage is ready to depart already, however. I will inform him of the situation and he will be handling it from there."

Cauthrien inclines her head, ever so lightly. "Was that all, Commander?"

They are both moving towards the door as Elissa nods back at her.

"Yes. The darkspawn attacks are your priority, of course," Elissa says; she opens her voice to let the concern slip into it, which makes it soft and the tiniest bit unsteady. "But I want my brother safe, no matter what. I trust you to see to it."

Something softens in Cauthrien's expression as well, at that order. They have both stepped outside their own defences today and the understanding between them is a mutual, quiet one. A shared understanding, an acknowledgement of the other woman's temperament and disposition, making what they have admitted to each other in private all the more important.

"Understood."

"Good," Elissa says. "Thank you."

.

.

.

.

Most soldiers, Loghain concludes, are absolutely useless.

Not in an army, not where others can mitigate their failures and given mistakes, not where strength is counted in numbers and you can slip into the crowd of the ranks and disappear until you either die in battle or have learned to fight well enough. In the order of the Grey Wardens you have to be strong enough to save yourself straight from the beginning, in possession of the willpower and the physical endurance to withstand the transformation into the enemy.

The potential recruits today wouldn't be able to fight a bloody cat without failing.

He would lie if he said he regrets leaving the recruiting in Denerim to Hedin – for as long as the elf can still be of use – and then to Hawise who is said to arrive within a couple of days. It will be a welcome change of pace, regardless of their reasons for departing so quickly and in so small a group. And it will mean a nice absence from the insipid ranks of too-eager soldiers who cannot wait to embrace their demise during a Joining.

Having double-checked their provisions and supplies as well as the packs, Loghain makes his way downstairs.

In the drawing room, he finds that most of the other inhabitants of the estate have gathered, along with generous servings of food and ale. He enters and there's a pause in the noise of conversation as they turn to observe him.

Loghain has spent enough time with them now for this not to be considered out of the ordinary, he realises. Though he is still, without doubt, an unwanted guest in many ways, his presence is no longer a chill through the very air. As he steps into a room the conversation falters a little, resembling a candle before a brief gust of wind – a moment or two of hesitation, a head turned - and soon returns to the normal drone. It makes things simpler.

The Wardens are involved in a private discussion, it seems, voices low and indistinguishable; the loudest source of noise rises from Elissa and the teyrn who are debating something. Both of them look up as they see Loghain.

"There you are," Elissa greets him from the sofa by the window. "We were wondering if you would come down."

"Drink?" Fergus asks, holding up his own goblet as to illustrate his question.

Cauthrien seems to fall in surprisingly well with this company. He has never known her to be a very outgoing person nor particularly interested in social gatherings, but she does look at ease in her armchair, managing a mug of ale and a piece of dried fruit. When he looks at her she gives a brief flicker of a smile.

Loghain sits down in the sofa, nodding as a maid hurries forward to offer him a mug of ale.

"Anyway," Elissa turns back to her brother. "Stop bothering me."

"The teyrn is concerned about his sister's safety," Cauthrien informs Loghain, glancing at him over the rim of her mug.

"He doesn't worry. He is merely being patronising." Elissa downs the contents of her mug and holds it up, awaiting a refill, Loghain assumes. "His Grace is terribly conflicted about his sweet, unspoiled little sister getting into compromising situations out there on the road."

Fergus's face cracks up into a wide grin. "If your preserved maidenhood was indeed my worry, dear sister, it seems I am at least ten years too late, doesn't it? Your youth was nothing but an endless compromising situation, as I recall it."

"You can talk, I suppose." Elissa scoffs, leaning forward to grab a handful of grapes.

"I would suggest you bring a mage with you, at the very least," the teyrn argues, half-serious now. "A healer."

"There are not enough mages to spare." Elissa rolls her eyes. "But Wynne has refilled my assortment of potions and herbs, let me assure you."

"Your sister has spent the last two years taking care of herself in the wilds," Loghain says, not entirely sure why he has to say anything in this ridiculous debate, but the irritating thread of the conversation – the implications and incredulous assumptions of it – jars in his head.

"Loghain's right, you know." Elissa gives Loghain a wry smile before glancing at the teyrn who sighs, and leans back in his chair. "And we have Dog."

"I cannot believe you still call him that." Fergus shakes his head, his voice warm and teasing.

"Well, it is his name."

"Oh, certainly."

"Is isn't his real name?" Cauthrien now, looking more at the teyrn than anyone else. Loghain is struck by the way her eyes take him in, noticing that Elissa, too, is aware of this. It is a rare thing to find in Cauthrien, such open display of interest in anything. Loghain can't help but wonder what has swayed her and feels a pang of irritation directed at Fergus Cousland.

"Fergus-" Elissa warns, frowning.

Her plea is ignored.

"Ah, no, that is indeed not his name," the teyrn begins, folding his hands in a mock gesture of a bard telling stories by the fire. "Elissa had wanted a mabari since she was able to walk, more or less. I'm certain you can imagine how persistent she was in her attempts at persuasion."

Loghain has no problem imagining just that. Not only has he raised a stubborn child himself, but he has served long enough under Elissa to know the amount of determination it takes to go against her will. For Bryce it must have been utterly impossible.

"I got Dog when I was eight or nine years old," Elissa fills in, her voice a bit too sharp to sound as amused as her brother undoubtedly is. Loghain has the distinct impression he is putting on a show for Cauthrien, which irritates him even further.

"And what did you insist on calling him until father loudly forbade you to?" Fergus asks pointedly and unnecessarily, given his own eagerness to reveal the name.

"Fine," Elissa sighs, extending her gaze to all of them. Loghain can't recall any other occasion when the commander has looked embarrassed before, the way she does now, suddenly shifting uncomfortable in her seat. It seems an odd reason for it, considering. "I named him Maric. But he couldn't be called that, of course, so it became Dog."

Stifling a laugh, Loghain finishes his serving of ale while Cauthrien chuckles quietly into her mug and Fergus reaches out a hand to squeeze Elissa's shoulder.

"You were so in love with King Maric, do you remember? All those paintings you made of him, rescuing maidens that looked suspiciously like yourself," he ventures, still grinning. "The dashing King and the fat little raven."

"Andraste's sodding sword, I was a child." Elissa narrows her eyes. "And he didn't save me. We fought dragons."

"You were hardly the only one with those particular fantasies, at any rate." Loghain snorts, putting down his mug. He has definitely not forgotten dashing King Maric and the hordes of women – and quite a few men – who would embarrass themselves and their regent through all sorts of undignified displays of their devotion, at any given chance. For the first years after the rebellion and the years following Rowan's death, it had almost been uncanny, the adoring public sometimes forming a mob they had to escape.

"Indeed," Cauthrien adds, the corner of her mouths twitching as though she wants to say something more, but holds her tongue. She has, Loghain remembers, never displayed any warmer sentiments towards the king other than what duty demanded of her. In any conflict between Maric and himself that had somehow made its way outside the throne room, she had been firmly on Loghain's side, often to a rather awkward extent and with an alarming ferocity. Then again, Maric had not regarded Cauthrien as much of an asset, either, regardless of her efforts and achievements. They had always seemed to clash against each other.

The conversation dies out a little in a shared, faint amusement lingering between them. Loghain looks at Elissa who returns the gaze with an expression in her eyes that seems to land somewhere between exasperation and gratefulness. Loghain himself feels uncomfortably reminded of how young she is, which is a knowledge that mingles badly with the reluctant and not very fatherly affection the brief story ignites. Yes, blame the story, a sarcastic voice in his head remarks. Loghain firmly shuts out the thought and averts his eyes.

"Now, now," Fergus finishes the foray into their childhood arguments. "You are not going to pout about this, are you?"

"Pout?" Elissa shoots him a sudden smile, much brighter than any of the annoyed ones she has offered thus far tonight. "When have I ever done such a thing as pout? I shall merely sit here and feel grateful I once managed to get my hands on those crumbled drafts you littered your bedchamber with. You know, when you courted Lady Catherine from afar. Ah, the sonnets you created. And the world will never know."

Loghain hides his own smile behind the refilled mug of ale, glancing over at the teyrn who clearly needs a moment to replace the horrified facial expression with a more sober one.

"When are you leaving tomorrow?" Cauthrien's sudden question is directed at Loghain, he understands, after a second of confusion. He is getting tired of forced domesticity, it frays his mind and wears down his already rather thin patience for small talk and social behaviour.

"As early as possible, I should think," Elissa answers in his place, putting down her mug on the table and snatching a dried fig.

"Yes," Loghain agrees. "How long will you be staying in the city?"

Fergus, straight-faced again and in command of his own voice, looks at Loghain.

"We should be going back to Highever well before Summerday, if everything goes as planned," he says.

"And I should be going to bed." Elissa rises to her feet and after having said her goodbyes, she gives him a glance that usually means she wants to speak with him privately, so Loghain follows the procedure, only with less elaborate goodbyes.

They walk in silence up the stairs to the corridor where both their private chambers are situated and Loghain is about to speak when suddenly Dog catches up with them and there's a little turn in his thoughts, a slight flip of names and new knowledge at the sight of the dog running up to them, eager to see them both. Loghain leans down to scratch Dog's head.

"So," he says almost despite himself. "Maric?"

"Don't even..." She grunts a little, receiving an affectionate lick across the back of her hand as Dog notices her mood. "Why is it so funny?"

Since he has no wish to answer that he merely shakes his head, pretending to be involved in a conversation with the mabari. Maric the Mabari. At least the dog's namesake would have had a good laugh, had he known. Loghain can picture it all too well, can almost hear the sound of Maric's surprised amusement ripple through the room.

"What did you want to talk about?" Loghain asks instead, straightening up. Dog scampers off to bump his head into the door to Elissa's chambers, pushing it open.

"I just wanted to ask one more time if you reckon this is a bad idea that will have us both killed?"

"Well, we will have to wait and see," Loghain says before the irritated concern in her gaze makes him add: "But I would certainly say it is the most reasonable alternative. We should manage to stay unnoticed and keep off the main roads. Our concerns will be darkspawn and bandits, but that is not too cumbersome a prospect, is it?"

"No." Elissa looks at him for a while, a shade of surprise crossing her features before she smiles. "I suppose not. Good."

"I assume the reason for the inquiry is because you think this is a bad idea?"

"Not at all, actually." Elissa steps out of the way as Dog comes back from his brief visit to the empty chambers. Her hand on the door drums slowly against the wood, fingers tapping into a rhythm as she speaks. "I have a feeling we might just survive this, too."

"Ever the optimist," Loghain says, dryly.

Despite the serious nature of their mission, he feels largely unburdened tonight, part of him relieved to go regardless of what their journey will mean or where it will take them. It has been almost a year and he still feels the same kind of conflicting impulses about the new fate, grim as it may be.

In many ways, it is freedom.

After the rebellion and ever since, he would look ahead and see himself in that war room, beside those fires, bent over the same maps for all the years to come, until death. And he would have done it and not have minded it because only utter fools mind duties they cannot forswear, but he still can't deny a vivid, poignant satisfaction at the recurring realisation that duty can change, even if Loghain himself can't.

"Goodnight then," Elissa offers, half-way inside her chamber; her shape in the shadows still oddly distinct, as though he has become so used to it by now that it's a natural part of his memory. And it is, he admits.

It is there, a palpable mark in his long stretch of history, possibly the only mark that isn't twisted and grey because of time and deeds. She is there, deep under his defences by now – deeper than he imagines she would care to find out, a lot deeper than he would ever admit, especially to her.

"Goodnight," Loghain replies, shuffling his thoughts and readjusting them to at least resemble said defences.

A/N:

Thanks as always to my beta CJK and to all of you who encourage this story in various ways. It is very much appreciated.

I understand there was a case of alert fail for the last chapter, hopefully this will meet a better fate.