A/N: I should probably mention that I have no intention of writing a straight novelization of Awakening (or much of a novelization at all, actually). Liberties will be taken with storyline and timing and dialogue and the plot will tie in with my own. This story will also, of course, from now on contain spoilers for Awakening.
It has been a desperately long day
In fact it has, Elissa thinks as she rubs rubs her temples and paces the floor of the throne room, been a desperately long day to crown a desperately long week. Ever since the departure from Gwaren she has been in motion - either riding or battling - and tonight they have fought for hours without rest, pushing back the invading darkspawn. It appears the Vigil is safe for the moment being. Hopefully it will remain safe until she can figure out where the darkspawn have slipped in and managed to gain ground, or at the very least until tomorrow when there's daylight to guide her and the soldiers.
If there is anybody left to help her, that is.
"Commander, the dwarf is having a meal. He seems exceptionally well given the circumstances." Seneschal Varel re-enters the room and gives her a brief, polite nod. "The mage and the prisoner have both been brought to a spare bedchamber."
Elissa nods, shuffling her previous notions of the new recruits in her head. She had not expected Anders to survive; he had proven himself a good fighter and seemed a decent enough man not to give the templars the pleasure of hanging him, but she had not exactly counted on him becoming a Warden. On the other hand, she had never in her life considered the possibility of Oghren becoming one either but it figures, she thinks with a sigh, that the dwarf can survive anything as long as it's in liquid form.
As for Nathaniel Howe, she has not yet formed any words to define her feelings for the fact that he didn't perish during the Joining. He is a dark, bone-hard knot in her chest – the way he had tilted his head and stared at her, the near-desperate protests when he learned of her plans, the expression in his eyes as she had explained to him that she was not giving him a choice in the matter. Nobody against their will, her own voice echoes in her head. That's what she had said once to Loghain before she left for Orlais and they had made plans for the recruiting. Unwilling soldiers cause a stir they can't afford. But things change, she tells herself now. For good or ill, Nathaniel Howe is a Warden; he is paying for the sins of his father and there is no real justice in that but somehow Elissa can't find it in her to care.
"And Mhairi?" Among the thoughts about the woman who has been Elissa's sole company for several days, there is a thin wire of grief. Mhairi – a strong and capable knight with a sharp mind - would have been a welcome companion in this place.
"Her body has been taken care of."
"There will be a lot of bodies to burn," Elissa observes glumly, shifting position. She should have arrived sooner, of course, there is no denying that. Her arling has suffered immensely already, the hurried journey had revealed as much and she had not been able to stop thinking of her father's lectures on governing the freemen and farmers as they rode past far after farm where the fields were burned down and the only signs of life had been wild animals. But this is the endless guilt reserved for the ones in charge, she reminds herself in her most sensible tone, and therefore meaningless to wallow in. At least right now.
"Yet we drove back the darkspawn, Commander," Varel says as though he can read her mind.
"We did, at that." She gathers herself, squaring her shoulders and meeting the seneschal's gaze. "You have acted commendably, all of you. I'm impressed-"
She is interrupted as the main doors open and Alistair slinks in, looking over his shoulder as though making certain he isn't being followed.
"My healer tended to the injured soldiers," he says as he crosses the floor and gives Elissa a glance that is difficult to interpret. They haven't spoken since the ill-advised adventure to the Deep Roads entrances and his sweeping in tonight in his cloud of knights has left her slightly confounded.
"We are most thankful for your help, Your Majesty," Varel replies when she doesn't and adds, after a glance at Elissa: "I will check on the survivors myself, make certain they have what they need."
"Thank you," Elissa nods to Varel who excuses himself and leaves.
She takes a deep breath, still trying to ease the headache by making her fingertips press down along the sides of her face. Her head feels too big, almost swollen inside, and she is reminded again of the fact that she had been hungry on the way here, which was several hours ago. All that is left of the hunger now is a hollow nausea.
She wishes Loghain was here, too, in a strangely abrupt twist of that trail of thought. Or perhaps it's not so much strange as it is deeply worrying that the trace of him is running deeper than she is willing to let it, wrapping itself around her very needs. He would be an extra voice of reason in the turmoil, a trusted friend among strangers and tonight, she thinks with that wildly inappropriate flutter in her stomach, he would also be a welcome distraction in the face of all this death.
"I had no idea the Howes had such a fancy keep," Alistair says, looking up at the ceiling and taking in the extent of the throne room. "I mean, it's huge."
"A lot of it are fairly recent additions."
"You don't say."
Alistair sprawls in a chair near the side door that, if she remembers correctly, leads out into a corridor and not into the armoury. Walking up to him Elissa feels heavy and slow, as though tonight has added new weight to her body. A pound for each corpse, perhaps. Or perhaps it's merely the injuries trapping her in this sensation. Apart from the usual scratches and bruises, there's a wound underneath one of her pauldrons; it's sending increasingly strong jolts of pain through her side, spreading down her back and chest. Elissa winces as she tries to reach it without drawing too much attention to her doing so.
"I thought you were leaving tonight?" she asks, as she manages to undo the fastenings of the metal and slip a finger beneath, regretting it instantly as the tunic is soaked with what smells like infected blood. Blasted darkspawn poison.
"Change of plan – we're leaving in the morning. My knights didn't want to travel when they saw the approaching thunderstorm." He gives her a half-smile. "Valiant as they are, they cannot protect me from lightning and rain. I need to make it back to Denerim without a scratch on my royal flesh, after all."
The gilded cage, she thinks, trying anew to ignore the burning sensation in her shoulder. He's certainly travelling like a king these days – she had caught a glimpse of the carriage he came in when she scouted the edges of the grounds one last time. It seems so far away, a ludicrous, absolutely unthinkable option for herself, yet all that separates her path from Alistair's is a few days of political intrigue back in Denerim before the Landsmeet.
Her own journey here had been spent darting through dangerous passages that were chosen on Loghain's advice and left her with the conclusion that either he has not seen the roads for quite some time or he has a firmly rooted confidence in Elissa's competence and endurance. Granted, his advice had been solid as ever and they arrived a day earlier than they would have, using the safer roads. There had been bandits and darkspawn of course, but in small numbers and without much purpose – the most perilous part had instead been the mountain passes and then the marshes, wide and vast and teeming with the kind of things that make people so willing to believe marshes are haunted places.
"It's late, isn't it?" Elissa asks, feeling Alistair's concern as he looks at her. She doesn't understand why until she notices she has, habitually and without registering it, removed the pauldron and stands with it in her hands. Shrugging, she puts it away on a table.
"Yes," Alistair nods. "Or very early, depending on how you see it. Me, I'm willing to call it early."
She smiles faintly. "It's definitely late."
It is rather odd even if it somehow makes perfect sense to have him here at what feels like the beginning of something – yet another beginning after two years of brutal endings – since he had been there when she was a brand new Warden. Elissa's smile deepens as she looks at him in his chair, his eyes bright but tired. She had found him endlessly frustrating during that journey from Ostagar to Lothering: his suspicion of Morrigan, his attempts at humour and his self-absorbed bloody grief over Duncan when Elissa had been forced to swallow her own misery and make plans for their survival. His friendship had certainly demanded some getting used to.
She wonders if she can still have it, at least some form of it, or if they have grown too far apart.
"Three new Wardens." Alistair looks at her, scratching his arm through the thick layers of his surprisingly fancy clothing. It takes a king to wear embroidered tunics under armour, she thinks with a mental eye-roll. "And all in one night."
"Are you considering rejoining our cause?" she asks, walking away from him and up to the well-stacked bookshelf. It's lived-in, this place. For the moment she will pretend it's the work of the Orlesian Wardens, not the remains of the Howes, telling herself that soon enough the keep will carry new marks and traces, its contours blurred by new inhabitants.
"If I could, I probably would," he says and there's an open thread of longing in his voice. "I've rather missed this darkspawn killing part."
"They've stayed away from Gwaren all summer so I can almost say I agree," Elissa says, deciding she will need to find a potion for the pain as the frenzy from the battle is beginning to leave her blood and take the wonderful numbness with it. "How is Denerim?"
"Calm as well. Between you and me, I would say it has been boring."
Elissa lets one of her fingers run along the backs of books lined neatly in front of her, scrapes her nail softly over titles suggesting a rather eclectic mix of historical chronicles and romantic legends of knights as well as a volume of the secrets of Rivainian cookery.
"The Orlesian Wardens set out for Highever before I left to ride here," Alistair adds, which makes Elissa spin around, momentarily oblivious to the ache the sudden movement causes in her shoulder.
"Highever? Why?"
"Oh." He raises an eyebrow. "I thought you knew. The darkspawn have hit Highever very hard recently. Fergus called for help."
"I didn't know anything about that. He hadn't told me." Elissa sighs. It's a foolish, childish emotion unworthy of a Warden-Commander but she feels like the little sister again, trudging along at Fergus' heels, wanting to be part of his big brother secrets, the same kind of indignation at not being initiated welling up even here, as a grown woman. "Bastard."
"The situation is under control, last I heard." Alistair looks at her, getting up from his chair and walking up to where she's standing. "He probably didn't want to worry you since you have other duties."
Elissa snorts. "He should worry me! Darkspawn is my concern, not his."
"You're not the only Grey Warden in Ferelden, you know." He says it quietly, in a tone that makes Elissa hold his gaze for a moment, waiting for him to continue but he doesn't.
She steadies herself against the frame of the bookshelf; her wounded shoulder feels like it has been set on fire and Alistair sees her struggle too, but he knows her too well to mention it. Instead his gaze wanders over the books, stopping at a large red volume that he pulls out.
"Can I... er, can I have this?"
Elissa peeks over his shoulder at the title – An Unabridged History of Fereldan Heraldry – and frowns. "Honestly? I had no idea you even liked to read."
"Well. I don't. Not much, anyway. But it's not for... well, for me." Alistair suddenly looks awkward, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. "I mean, it's a rare volume. We – the palace doesn't have it."
"Help yourself," Elissa says, suppressing a tired grin. "I hope Anora likes it."
Alistair's ears flush at that, but he doesn't offer a response so Elissa generously lets the subject go. It's difficult enough to be witty in his presence, even without the pounding sensation in her body, the way it manages to utterly cloud her mind. She's about to gather herself and go in search of a potion when she feels the surge of pain sweep her away entirely as the support from the shelf disappears and her head goes blank.
The next thing she knows she is in Alistair's arms, grasping at his tunic to regain her balance, her arms thrown around him and his arms strong around her as he carefully steers her to a chair.
"Thanks. I'm fine," Elissa tries, in an attempt at wriggling free.
"No, you're not."
"I just need a potion, Alistair. I swear it."
"Elissa." Alistair's voice drops to a serious note. "Sit down."
"Kings have no authority over the Warden-Commander," Elissa mutters, but relents when Alistair's hands guide her downwards, until she's sitting and he is stooping over her. It is rather nice to feel solid wood framing her, she must concur silently.
"We will have to pretend you are the arlessa of Amaranthine then, just for tonight," he says.
"Yes, look how well that turned out for you."
Grimacing, she glances up at him. His face is so familiar and so changed; she has managed to forget how he used to be able to convince her of anything simply by being kind to her the same way he is kind to her here in the place. She all but reaches out to touch him, squeezing his shoulder or letting the back of her hand brush over his cheek like she did back then, often when she had no words to match his. There's a new streak in him since they were last this close to each other, however, tones of maturity and composure in his gaze, a certainty in his words and gestures.
"There you go," he says, softly. "A nice chair. Best invention since the sword."
Elissa takes a moment to just breathe, calming herself. It does seem to make it all a little better.
"Your room has been prepared, Commander," another voice says, coming from behind Alistair. It's the seneschal who has returned, Elissa realises after a second of confusion. "I will fetch the herbalist for you immediately."
"I'm not in need of...," she lets her voice trail off as Alistair pointedly holds her down in her seat by placing a hand on her injury, sending a hiss of almost unbearable pain through her blood. Bastard.
"You have been travelling for several days," Varel says, in that strangely reassuring, dry tone of his. She is already fond of him, if only for that little thing. "Not to mention that you have almost single-handedly carried out a counter-attack against the invading darkspawn here tonight. I would say this merits a hot meal and a night's sleep."
"There are dead everywhere. It reeks of death in here. I need to get the keep cleared out and-"
"Tomorrow's work, Commander." Varel folds his arms across his chest.
Elissa feels her mind protest but feels too how her body relents, softening willingly against Varel's words and the inherit promises of them. Eventually she nods.
"Fine," she says, keeping the grunting displeasure out of her tone. "But before I do anything else, I need a messenger who can ride to Gwaren."
"Of course," Varel says immediately; she watches him head out again with an energy that is impressive and slightly surprising for someone who has kept up the defence of the keep for as long as he must have done. Perhaps he's seen the healer. She certainly hopes so.
"Good." Alistair puts his hand over hers on the armrest.
"What is?"
"You. Sitting down."
She smiles. Her eyes are getting tired and the vision blurs, but it's not as alarming as it was moments ago; through the haze she can see him quite clearly and he looks like he is smiling back. "Thank you, Alistair."
"For what?" He sounds amused, his voice gentle.
"Well." Elissa manages a little shrug. "You know."
Alistair chuckles at that. "You truly have such a way with words. I'm blown away every time!"
"Go to bed, Your Majesty," she mumbles, longing for the same thing herself now that she has allowed herself to feel it. She hopes for the sort of nice, wide beds she remember from Highever castle and the same kind of large pillows. But she could probably sleep on the stone floor at this point.
"I will, at that," Alistair says and removes his hand from hers. She still feels warm from his touch. "Good night, then."
"Good night," Elissa echoes.
And then she sinks back in the chair, eyes closed, welcoming herself home.
.
.
.
.
These past few weeks have been remarkably dull, Loghain concludes as he sends Iera out of his – or rather Elissa's - office and down to the slowly growing stables to assist the knights. She has proven herself the least annoying and most forward of the new Wardens as well as willing to learn, which also means she is insistent on being entrusted with more duties than Loghain is prepared to give her. For a few days now, the dwarf has been following him around, seemingly brimful of ways to show her eagerness to be of use. If he found it annoying at first, it is quickly becoming downright trying.
Enthusiasm has long since ceased to impress him, especially since it is more often than not a cover for inaptitude.
With a sigh, he leans forward in his seat, turning his attention to today's accumulation of letters and notes. The second letter from Elissa – the first had arrived rapidly, with a messenger who had darted into the grounds and scared the soldiers on watch duty half-witless – is on top of the pile.
As he breaks the seal he feels a small stab of something as equally trying as Iera's quest for usefulness, but for very different reasons. It might very well just be the uneventful grind of Gwaren, but Elissa has stayed in him, in a rather alarming fashion. He can almost fool himself at times to think he is sensing her, as though the shadow of her in his room is still present and somehow manages to level time.
Which is a ridiculous bloody notion. He shrugs it off and opens the letter determinedly, beginning to decrypt the scribblings inside.
She writes, just like last time, of talking darkspawn and growing chaos along the main roads and settlements as well as in the wilderness. The darkspawn all seem to have a standing order of capturing her, while the nobility – just as nasty and far less simple to outsmart, Loghain thinks with a sneer – is rumoured to be plotting against her. It leaves a restless irritation in him, not being there. His advice is of little use with several days' journey between them. Even if he might merely make a dire situation worse through his presence in the region of Howe's staunch supporters and sworn enemies, he would be where things happen instead of here, rendered passive against his will.
I have given Lord Eddelbreck my word to aid his freemen and protect his farmlands. My father called him friend, I hope I will not regret trusting that as a good measure of the man's credibility. He is the master of Feravel Plains, and by all means a powerful man, which I hope shall further my support in the region. What is your opinion of him?
Loghain can't deny that she's entangled herself in a bit of a mess with that choice, however sensible it is in the long run. Eddelbreck is honest and decent, two traits that have never won any conflicts.
Loghain sits back, rakes a hand through his hair and continues reading.
There seems to be a passage leading to the Deep Roads from the cellar in the keep. We are headed down to investigate it further come tomorrow – the dwarves here are mad about their explosives and have been delighted to get a chance to test them. The passage is supposedly caved in, but the darkspawn must have found a way to use it.
All stories I hear from people around here tell the same thing – there's a new form of darkspawn evolving, a different kind. They seem capable of strategy so my guess is that they can figure out how to open and close old passages, too. I've sent word about these findings to Alistair and my brother.
I want you to come to Amaranthine, Loghain. With the situation unfolding the way it does, you are better suited to help us here. I have already ordered Hawise to travel to Gwaren and take over your current responsibilities.
Elissa.
Loghain folds the letter, definitely in agreement with the order to go to Amaranthine sooner rather than later which is what they had decided before they knew anything about the events there.
Gwaren fares well, there is no doubt about that: the ranks are growing, the rebuilding is under way and the life here has gradually taken on the shape of daily grind, its routines settling down and becoming fixed points. It would be simple for Loghain to hand it over to Hawise, he decides, pretending in vain there is no other motivation beside the growing darkspawn threat for him to go to assist Elissa.
It's a bit too late for those kind of defences to be rebuilt, of course. Too late to convince himself – or her, Maker help him – that he is indifferent or passionless as he has given in to his own desires now, allowed his feelings to surface. Not that he is inclined to set about defining what those feelings are or may become if he doesn't put an end to it.
He has his limits, still.
Good for you, Maric says snidely in his head. Nothing beats the pleasure of a firm limit.
She's too young, Loghain protests. Even now. Even with the memory of her touch and her scent, the memory of her taste that keeps him company during the nights when the snoring that thunders through the walls is startling him awake - he is nothing if not aware of the very real fact that she is too bloody young.
Too young for what? Maric retorts.
And Loghain has no answer so he cuts off that line of reasoning entirely, returning to his duties.
The second letter in the pile is of a more unusual nature, he notices immediately as the seal breaks. It is the first response Loghain has received so far from Elyon, the chevalier from Orlais who is said to serve the Wardens. It's been a long time since his request for information – long enough for Loghain to have dismissed the man as a fraud or an idiot – but here it is, proof of his existence, if nothing else.
His letter initially tells the same thing as Elissa's: there is a growing belief among Wardens and ordinary people alike that states that the darkspawn have changed. Like Elissa, Elyon writes about unusually organised attacks on strategically important locations and like Elissa, he says that the impression is that they are searching for something specific rather than mindlessly raiding the surface.
It's the second half of the letter that truly worries him; Loghain re-reads it twice.
Lately, the Order is in distress. A large group of Wardens – well over fifty - has disappeared mere weeks ago. They set out to track unusual activity near a mountain pass and never returned. Large forces of chevaliers were sent after them but they returned empty-handed. While this alone is no cause for alarm – Wardens disappear all the time, after all – the rumours in the ranks state that it was a voluntary escape. It is now a commonly held belief among some of the fractions of the Order that Wardens are collaborating with the darkspawn, down in the Deep Roads. It seems unlikely that so many Wardens can be taken against their will.
It also appears the First Warden is calling all Warden-Commanders to a meeting – not in Weisshaupt, which is reason enough to suspect there is something out of the ordinary going on - but in Val Rouyeax. As you may know, he rarely leaves his fortress. There are many political implications of such a gathering, of course. We have yet to see the First Warden arrive, however, which is puzzling.
Because of this thought meeting, The empress is busy reaching out in diplomatic endeavours. She does not take kindly to being outmanoeuvred.
Loghain reaches for the tea on his desk but quickly puts the too-cool cup down again, and leans forward on his elbows. The words below him on the tabletop blur in that surge of frustration this entire situation evokes in him. It makes him feel trapped, left at the mercy of whatever scraps of information this contact can offer – and forced to assume that said contact is offering truths rather than fabricated lies serving some scheme of his own.
To be at the mercy of Orlesians. He grimaces to himself.
And the heart of his discomfort is the knowledge that there is so remarkably little he can do. There is a helplessness in it that he cannot recall having felt since he was a very young man, if ever. He has always taken charge, no matter the circumstances. Right after the Joining Loghain had been distinctly aware of his alienation from the rest of the Wardens, the role as a stranger in his own country marking him and his decisions during those weeks and all the months afterwards. It had been a slow, tiring trudge at times – but he had been in a position to act, to chose the shape and meaning of his actions.
Now he is writing letters; he is a man of action forced behind a desk, while the lines he is meant to defend are falling apart around them and he doesn't even know why, let alone how to prevent it from happening. There is a bitter taste to this, to forfeiting his only task.
As a general he has never, for better or for worse, been in favour of waiting the enemy out.
Before he even reads the next letter – Anora's, brief as usual and boils down to the fact that she wishes to see him in Denerim if he has the time - he has formed the course of action in his mind.
"Iera," he calls as he heads down the stairs.
She is sorting through the armour in the stands in the hallway, hanging up a breastplate properly before turning around to look up at him, curious and somewhat excited.
"Yes?"
"Tell Fendrel to prepare my horse for departure. And find the mabari." Loghain eyes her, going over his impressions and opinions of her once more in a hasty final evaluation of her, before he adds: "I will ride to Denerim today. You are in charge here until Hawise arrives. Understood?"
"Yes!" Iera nods, fervently. Then she catches hold of herself and smiles. "I mean, yes. You got it."
Loghain nods back, curtly, before turning on his heel and ignoring the feeling that he is making a rash decision.
.
.
.
.
With all the additions ordered by the last arl, the Vigil is larger than Highever castle, Elissa observes, as she stands on one of the spacious balconies attached to the larger bedrooms on the second floor. It's such a wasteful way of alienating the commoners, her father says in her head, in one of his rare comments about Howe that weren't painstakingly neutral. But to each his own, pup.
It's barely morning outside. The raw air of late summer – ripe and heavy and cold at the same time, carrying a promise of decay, of transformation – and the slight wind makes her huddle under the blanket she's wrapped in.
Sleep has proven to be somewhat of a mystery, lately.
Elissa is only grazing the surface of the Fade, it seems, floating above it without being grounded in the heavy, treasured oblivion of sleep. And if she succeeds, she wakes to strange nightmares of Broodmothers and dragons that seem to melt into each other and all of them are talking, nonsensical words aimed for her but she doesn't understand what they're saying and snaps out of her dreams sweaty and worn down, tangled in her sheets.
Perhaps, she thinks, it's the keep itself. All the ghosts of this place playing tricks with her mind.
She leans over the bannister and looks down over the courtyard, over the large grounds that will be full of people in a few hours and over the gates and stone walls that look deceptively impenetrable in all their might. Yet most of her weeks her so far have been filled with endeavours to strengthen them, fortify the stone.
She has never liked Vigil's Keep.
Her father had forced her to come here a few times as a girl, humouring the dull Howe children in their stiff, peculiar home. Elissa had found Delilah childish and shy, fonder of dolls than swords and Thomas - the horrible little fool who always made scenes - was nearly insufferable. They had played kings and rebel down here in this courtyard, she recalls, and Thomas had started shrieking like a banshee when Elissa conquered his spot of land, then sat off chasing her with his much cherished practising rapier until he tore a sleeve off her dress. She had returned that offence by throwing the rapier down the well and smacking Thomas' face so hard he walked off with a nosebleed.
What a little spitfire, Howe had said, indulgent and amused while her own father had berated her all the way home.
The memories of this place rise in her with a sharp taste of bile these days.
When the chill becomes too much, she returns inside but decides it's hopeless to lie down again. Slipping into a longshirt and leather trousers, Elissa sneaks out in the corridor and down the stairs. Vigil's Keep is less overbearing when it's quiet like this, when the empty spaces in its many rooms seem natural rather than alarming.
Unfortunately, she is not alone this early morning. On her way to the kitchen to collect something to eat, she runs into Nathaniel who is carrying a plate of bread and cheese himself. According to Oghren, this is not an unusual occurrence – he claims Anders sleeps like a baby and snores like an army of dwarves whereas Nathaniel is often seen anywhere but in his bed. Then again, Elissa thinks with an inward sigh, Oghren has not been sober for many hours straight since he became a Warden and his judgement isn't something she would put a lot of trust in.
She observes the man in front of her without slowing down her steps and as Nathaniel steps to the side to avert a collision, he looks back at her. She comes to a halt. In the corner of her eyes, turning to face him, she notices he has stopped, too.
"Commander," he says, in a clipped tone.
"Nathaniel." She raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't you sleep at all?"
"I could ask the same of you, Commander." That barely well-mannered tone again, that makes no secret of how very little he thinks of her. Not that he has any particular reason to sing her praise, Elissa admits. She is the Duncan in Nathaniel's story and she cannot fault him for hating her for that. But Nathaniel is slyer than she ever had the chance of being; Elissa is aware of how he looks at her. How he builds defences between them with equal parts reserve and – she suspects – a burning desire to plot her death. On Anders' half-serious advice, she is still most definitely watching her back. A Howe is a Howe.
"I sleep," she says dryly. "No need to worry for my well-being."
He seems to struggle with the desire to scoff at that – like he seems to want to scoff at most anything she says or commands. Somehow the Nathaniel in her recollection is different than this even if she can't claim to truly have known him at all. Nathaniel was never a part of their childhood games and in her memory he is forever the sullen older brother, too sombre for Fergus' taste and too concerned with being caught to actually do something interesting.
As a grown man, he is much the same.
As a grown man, he has lost everything and needs both scapegoats and excuses. She is almost alarmed at her own lack of pity for him.
To the victors goes the spoils, I suppose, he had said when she first spoke to him after his Joining. He had meant the smattering of his family's honour, their debris and belongings that she has sold or burned and Elissa – blind to all reason at the accusation of being victorious when her life had been wrecked to ruins - had shoved him up against the wall and promised him that if he ever spoke that way to her again, she would drive her sword up his arse.
Death threats are decidedly not a good way to make friends with your Wardens, she thinks, glancing at Nathaniel who is holding his plate and returning her gaze with a hard glint in his eyes. While it had made Oghren laugh when she told him, she can hardly claim this is a good enough outcome to be worth it. It shouldn't be worth it, either way. Yet every time he raises an eyebrow in disbelief as she tells him about his father's crimes, every time he tries to convince her – and himself – that there were good reason for the slaughter, Elissa feels her mind flare up in white-hot rage, lashing out against him.
It's just so difficult with Nathaniel.
Elissa takes another step towards the kitchen when he clears his throat pointedly, as a way of drawing her attention.
"I hear Loghain is expected shortly," he says; he's looking at her as though he has asked a question, his eyes challenging.
"He is," Elissa confirms, still feeling Loghain's name in her body where the new possible meanings of it has not yet settled and always cause a stir. He is there, at the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach, a presence in blood and thoughts and she feels oddly protective of it – of him – as she guards herself and closes around her secrets.
Nathaniel doesn't let her off the hook, however. His gaze is dark and demanding, the apparent composure in his face nothing more than badly hidden fury. She wonders briefly what their fathers would make of them, if they could see their children now. Elissa who is past grief, hardened and tired and Nathaniel who is nursing his family's wounded pride like a scar from a prestigious battle, hiding behind it to avoid the weight of it on his shoulders.
Two doubtful heirs to the long line of family pride and honour that war and rebellions had twisted beyond recognition before they were even born.
"There is one thing I don't understand, Commander."
She sighs. "And that is?"
"Why Loghain is different," Nathaniel says, simply and clearly in a way that suggests he has been pondering this before. "Loghain condoned my father's crimes. He seized the lands of those who disagreed with him and started a civil war. From what I heard, he had his men slaughter opponents in the north. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"And yet his actions do not bother you?"
"When have I ever said such a thing?" Elissa frowns, pressing down the flurry of thoughts this discussion brings, the sensation of small daggers aiming for her heart and her mind at the same time. It is highly unnerving.
Nathaniel is quiet for a second, leaning against the wall. "He is a trusted general, is he not?" he half-asks eventually, already knowing the answer. "You have made him your second in command."
"Wardens do not act as judges," she says, rather condescendingly. "He has done what he has done. Now he is one of us."
"Is he a different man then because he drank from the chalice? Is it that simple?"
In her head at times, she asks herself the same question and never finds an answer. It had been that simple when he was Ferelden's greatest general and his life was hers to use as currency in the final battle against the Archdemon. The cold facets of her brain had measured him against all scenarios she could imagine and drawn conclusions and decisions based on that. Loghain had been an asset, another body between Ferelden and the Archdemon and a skilled warrior who had surprised her by offering not only strength on the battlefield but also an understanding that she could scarcely imagine possible. He had seen her life for what it was and without many words or unbearable gestures he had made it a little less terrible, simply by being there. There is something in that – right at its core – that she can't even put into words. And he had shifted the scales somehow, making her question them.
Everything changes but everyone stays the same, her mother used to say. In the end you are only the sum of what you have done, those ineffaceable lines in your history and how you carry them, how they run through your life.
"He doesn't have to be a different man." Her voice is firm, betraying nothing of her doubt. "The Order values you for what you do, not what you are."
Nathaniel shakes his head; his expression goes sour. "You would have made a fine teyrn, Commander. It's all tall tales and empty words with you."
"What are you really playing at, Nathaniel? Speak plainly or be quiet."
For the first time this morning, Nathaniel doesn't meet her eyes when she's talking to him. He is staring at the floor for a moment, before he looks up again.
"Did you offer my father a possibility to set things right?"
"I did not spare Loghain to offer him redemption. This isn't the bloody Chantry." Elissa can her the acid in her words, spitting them out like curses.
"Did you offer my father the same choice?" Nathaniel presses on, the corners of his mouths twitching in the stern grimace.
Elissa shakes her head. "He gave me no chance."
"Would you have done so if he had given you one?"
"No." She looks at him, straight into his eyes, empties herself of malice and sarcasm and offers him a moment of absolute truth. He nearly startles as she locks their gazes. "Never. Your father was nothing. Even if I had been willing to overlook what he did to my family, he would have been of no use to me."
"It's all about usefulness then?" Nathaniel looks somewhat taken aback with her harsh pragmatism. He may be his father's son, but Elissa is no longer her father's daughter.
"No." She shrugs. "But you are asking me what the difference was between two men who have committed monstrous crimes. And I gave you my answer. Loghain, for all his faults, is a great man. Your father was not."
There's a pained shadow mingled with something even darker and more dangerous floating across Nathaniel's face as he snorts. "Thank you for being honest, if nothing else. Commander."
"Of course." Elissa squares her shoulders as she turns on her heel and walks away. "Any time."
A/N: And as always, thanks to CJK for beta and to all of you for your response and encouragement that keep inspiring me to write, even when RL is busy.