They part ways at the Hafter River when they return to it, a few days earlier than Elissa had anticipated when she planned the journey. Of course, she thinks glumly as she reorganises the scant packing to suit the new course of action, she had not planned on Loghain nearly dying in Kal'Hirol either.
He is going back to the Vigil now, still recovering from the injuries but considerably better off than last night when he had been all but unconscious, balancing on the edges of reality; she half-suspects he is angry with her for having witnessed that, or with himself for letting her. Even so, there's a little flush of warmth and unsettled, unfinished thoughts at that memory. One day when she feels particularly brave she might finish them, these swirling floods of fragments and words waiting to be strung together.
"Will you be alright?" she asks him when they're out of earshot, walking slowly towards some sort of invisible boundary where she will leave him and return to the others.
With the urgent impression of being thrown into something rather enormous, only underlined by the recent discovery of the conflicting tribes of darkspawn, Elissa has decided they can't afford to waste time on unnecessary business at the keep – instead they are heading for Amaranthine to resupply and then immediately picking up on the trace of darkspawn in the Wending Wood.
"I have managed to survive two wars," Loghain says dryly.
"That's no guarantee for anything," Elissa points out, battling the urge to touch him as though that would convince her more than his words that he will be fine, that he is doing well and that the lingering guilt for almost causing his death can rest, finally. She doesn't know what upsets her most – that she had to make the decision or that she nearly lost her head over making it and she wants to tell him, wants his reassurance.
He catches her gaze. "I suppose not. The Vigil, however, is barely an hour's walk away."
"Fair enough. Keep an eye on Oghren, will you?" She stops, beginning to realise that she can no longer put off their parting any longer. Soon they will see the Vigil loom large in front of them, its features breaking through the thick clouds. "I have a feeling either Warren or Hade will push him onto an outstretched sword if he destroys something in their shop again."
Loghain raises an eyebrow. "I am not going to stop them."
"Fine." Elissa shrugs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I will be back as soon as we've investigated the traces."
They both nod. The others seem small from where they are standing, way off in the distance and occupied – or pretending to be occupied – with minding their own matters, so Elissa briefly lets one of her hands brush over Loghain's arm in a gesture of goodbye. She notices the corners of his mouth twitch slightly at that; before she has turned around to walk away, he holds her gaze a second.
"Be careful," he says.
"I have managed to slay an Archdemon." She tries to mirror the dry coolness of his voice but fails with a quick grin.
Loghain snorts as he's turning on his heel and Elissa watches him leave with a strange gravity weighing her down, an oddly hollow sound among her thoughts.
It's a chilly day, a reminder of the early autumn just like the leaves on the ground and the treetops becoming naked are signs of the ever-moving time around them. It waits for nothing.
"All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal and the right to shoot lightning at fools," Anders explains to the others as Elissa reaches them. He holds out a plate for her, loaded with cheese and meat.
"You're aiming low," Nathaniel says, picking apart his slice of cheese.
"Right." Anders reaches for another piece of dried meat. "What do you want then? A statue of yourself in the middle of Amaranthine?"
Sigrun chuckles at that, throwing back her head, and Nathaniel goes quiet. Elissa smiles experimentally at him, feeling uncharacteristically interested in keeping this group together, mending their differences and difficulties. Naturally he doesn't return the smile but at least she has made the effort.
"They are talking about their grand plans for the future," Sigrun explains and takes a swig of her water flask.
"Well, I am, at least." Anders smiles at her. "The others won't share."
"I wasn't aware I had a future," Sigrun shrugs.
"Fine," Anders says. "You're excused then."
Elissa takes a seat among them, occupying herself with food to avoid the question.
She's spent her entire life being certain of everything but what she wants to do with it, she thinks, stumbling over the insight as though it's the first time it strikes her. Escaping responsibilities in Highever hardly counts as a dream, and neither does her current objective of staying alive long enough to solve the darkspawn issue but those are her desires. To bring about some sort of order to the nation and try to make a lasting impression on the Grey Wardens because even if she joined them kicking and screaming, she doesn't like to leave things badly done. Perhaps that is a sad record of dreams, but she has never been good at dreaming.
I could get used to this, you know, Alistair used to say as they were sharing a moment together after battle or during early mornings in camp when the air was crisp as ice around them and nothing felt impossible. You, me, battles and darkspawn.
Elissa had been careful to never let her own thoughts roam that far because it had been so very easy to picture it, a sort of domesticity in the midst of all the insanity that was her life; a simple and uncomplicated happiness with Alistair who is one of the least complicated people she's ever met. She had seen it with him – it happens sometimes that she still does, that her mind or heart or whatever it is that directs her in such silly ways, lingers among the feelings of peace and quiet only small things can offer. A cup of perfectly made tea with no honey. A gaze; shared, private laughter; a hand in the exact right spot; a way of being involved and included in someone else's thoughts.
Certain things don't change and she wants the same things now, she realises, skimming over the very edges of these thoughts but stepping back as soon as they threaten to unwrap themselves too much. But it's no longer Alistair she wants, if it ever was.
It's no longer uncomplicated and sensible, that mess of twisted desires and hopeful, gasping little words that resemble questions and answers all at once. At times she thinks she ought to hold them together, the things that storm and swarm inside her; other times they merely terrify her.
Shaking her head, Elissa quickly finishes her meal and gets to her feet.
"Come on," she orders, not able to escape the feeling that she's ordering herself more than she orders the others. "We have a lot to do before we can return to the keep."
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The first thing that awaits Loghain at Vigil's Keep when he reaches it, is a letter. It's delivered by the seneschal himself, which is cause for some surprise until Loghain opens it, watching the message unfold before his eyes.
Loghain,
You are hereby being summoned to resume your service as a Grey Warden in Montsimmard, Orlais. Because of your previous involvements in the diplomatic affairs as well as your history, the Order considers this arrangement necessary and we expect your cooperation. All practical details have been arranged.
Regards,
First Warden Haimund
In just as few words as that – a couple of straight-forward, impersonal sentences – he reads a whole world full of changes for himself and his life. It seems abrupt to an absurd degree, this carefully aimed blow to the entire Fereldan order; for a second he is thrown back in time, the instant hatred and suspicion so close under his surface that he falls into it without a second thought. This is not meant to benefit them. This is a provocation.
"The Orlesians are expected shortly," the seneschal says and Loghain turns his head, momentarily confused before he remembers the times have changed and he has nothing at his disposal now. "They sent a Warden messenger to announce their arrival," he adds. "You are being escorted to Montsimmard."
Of course he is, he thinks bitterly, the information still not settled in his mind. As it snaps into place, he feels a searing rage seep out of it, a frustrated sensation of being a tool used for someone else's reasons and the indignity of being shipped off to Orlais like a bloody slave. It blends with the recent knowledge that something is amiss in the Order and that Wardens are disappearing – he cannot deny the need for further investigations there, has even considered asking Elissa if they are going across the border to see for themselves if what the letters and rumours spoke of is indeed true.
But not like this. Not in this inane fashion.
Orlais. Loghain bites back a scathing comment, reminding himself that nothing of this is the seneschal's fault.
"Very well," he says stiffly and looks around, searching for a direction leading out of this situation. There is, of course, no such thing to be found.
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The Orlesians arrive before Elissa, a small group of them showing up at the Vigil's doorstep as though they have been waiting nearby, lurking in the shadows. They probably have at that, Loghain realises as he's observing the four Wardens who enter the keep and wondering whether it's a compliment or an insult to him that they expect him to put up such a resistance. He opts for the former.
He's accumulating enough anger over this to make him nearly forget everything else, so when Elissa does arrive, dishevelled and tattered like she's been fighting for her life, it takes a few seconds for his mind to sort through the notes this strikes in him.
Walking up to meet the group out in the courtyard, he notices that her face is grey with exhaustion.
"We were captured," she says, tautly.
Loghain frowns. "Captured? By darkspawn?"
"Yes."
"He was different," Sigrun interjects, looking troubled and equally worn out. "The one who captured us. He was making experiments. Sodding darkspawn shouldn't make experiments."
When Loghain lets his gaze travel over the others, he notices a new face among them.
"This is Velanna." Elissa nods towards the newcomer - a scantily clad elven mage who gives Loghain an uninterested nod back. "She's a new recruit."
Both Anders and Sigrun seem unimpressed with this, but neither of them says anything about it and Loghain is hardly going to pretend to be interested in whatever reasons they have for their disapproval. He waits impatiently for the group to scatter.
"I need to speak to you," Loghain says, walking with Elissa as she's leaving the Wardens in Varel's hands.
"Yes?" She begins fidgeting with the fastenings of her armour as they move, turning her head only slightly to look at him.
"I'm being sent to Orlais," he says without preamble, not wanting to delay the information any further.
"You're -" Elissa looks up from her hands that are sprawled over the buckles of her armour, with dried darkspawn blood under the nails and in every crack in her skin. "You're what?"
"Montsimmard," Loghain clarifies.
"What?" She asks again, shaking her head now. Her half-unfastened armour makes a clattering noise as she discards the breastplate and carries it in one hand, using it to gesticulate her surprise. Loghain feels, more than ever before, how little he wants to go away. In the middle of all the insolent bloody madness of forcing him to Orlais is the hard little core of her, fortifying his antipathy with an intensity that manages to catch him off-guard. He doesn't want to go; he doesn't want to leave her.
"I suspect that they think I might interfere with the rebuilding here in Ferelden."
"They said that?"
Loghain shakes his head. "No, it was implied."
"But you're my Warden! Why wouldn't you interfere with the business here? And I give you orders." As the emotions that are swelling out of the words fade away with a little gasp in the air around them, Elissa gathers her composure and clears her throat. "Let me talk to the Orlesians, see if I can interfere. They have no right-"
"The order came from the First Warden himself."
"Oh." She lets out a breath, sounding defeated, her shoulders sinking down.
"Perhaps they are right," he attempts, half-heartedly. After two full days of infuriating attempts at discussion with the fools who are here to fetch him, two days of that balance act he is so ill-suited for, trying to express his disgust and disapproval while remaining reasonably civil, Loghain simply has no vitriol left. He feels a quiet sort of anger and frustration that translates into a resignation intertwined with the knowledge that he cannot rage against his own hard-earned fate.
When he yielded at the Landsmeet he had somehow expected this – a future as someone else's puppet, a brutally ironic way of atoning for his crimes – and it had not happened. Instead he found an opportunity to act, to set right some of the thing he had done wrong, to help build something; regardless of his feelings about being sent to Orlais, he has been given so much more than he expected.
And of course, this is precisely the reason he still battles the urge to furiously and futilely refuse being escorted away.
Elissa is very quiet for a long time. They have stopped walking and stand outside the inner gates, several feet away from everyone else and remain silent apart from a few heavy sighs scattered over the moment that stretches out between them.
"This is not making sense," she says eventually, thoughtful now and calm in an icy way that is telling him she is furious. "They are planning something."
"The Order is in disarray, as far as we know," Loghain agrees. It seems only minutes ago since he arrived here and told her about the reports of what allegedly goes on in Orlais, but it has been nearly a fortnight."I doubt the reason for my being sent there is quite as simple as they make pretence of."
"Don't go then."
"Elissa-"
"I mean it." Her voice is closed, hard. "Don't go. I propose that we sort this out in Ferelden and then we both go to Orlais, investigate the situation there."
He can't deny the temptation of that offer, nor the sensibility of it – with the current situation and the droves of darkspawn amassing around Amaranthine and in the rest of the north it seems foolish to regroup their forces in this way. Not that he has ever suspected that Orlesians are capable of strategy and sound warfare. Brutal force has always seemed to suit their purposes much better and been more their forte and it appears the Wardens are not much better.
"I doubt the First Warden's orders are something to be trifled with."
She groans, a low, weary sound rising from the centre of her. "And I would get the blame for it. If you didn't go there. Ferelden and I."
Loghain nods.
"The Orlesians are already here," he adds.
"You're being escorted?" She gives a sound that ordinarily would sound like a laugh. Now it's a harsh, empty noise. "Well. Of course you are."
"Yes."
Their eyes meet as a guard apologetically squeezes herself past them to go inside and Elissa shuffles a bit closer, her exhaustion looking even worse up close. Loghain notices a long scratch running down her throat and a strange bruise around a wound on her wrist. When she notices his glances, she raises the injured wrist.
"The darkspawn who captured us took my blood," she mutters. "And my things, incidentally. Took us a while to find all of it – I think I lost my protective amulet. Andraste's arse, I loathe being taken prisoner."
Loghain reaches for her hand by instinct, wanting to check the wound. As he does, Elissa gives him a look that renders him transparent for a second and as she notices that, she smiles – briefly, gently. For a while, Loghain doesn't trust his voice so he inspects her wrist instead.
"When are you leaving?" Elissa asks as his thumb traces over the edges of the spot where the darkspawn must have tapped into her veins.
"At first light tomorrow." He doesn't look up; there is a hard trace of determination at the back of his mind, running between the things they don't say and will probably never say about this. "I would suggest you speak to the seneschal; he has had plenty of issues with the lords and ladies while you were gone."
"I will." She nods, snapping back to duty and posture.
He looks at her without saying anything else, releasing his hold of her wrist before someone sees them. Elissa stands quite still, too, takes a few steps away; then she turns around, puts out her hand and clutches hold of Loghain's fingers. She grips them hard, frantic, as someone would clutch at something blindly in pain or panic. For a few moments she stands like this, without saying anything, and he doesn't pull away.
When she has left, Loghain exhales, feeling each breath flooding in an out of him as weights in his chest.
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The supper that night is had mostly in silence, in scattered groups spread out in the dining hall. The Orlesians keep their own counsel, occasionally Loghain has noticed them speaking to Varel or Garavel, the captain of the guards, but most of the time they keep to themselves. Tomorrow, of course, he will be their company. At that thought he has to forcibly restrain himself not to down a whole goblet of wine in one large swig.
Loghain sits between Elissa and Sigrun who are both eating very little. Elissa, glum and composed, doesn't even drink which she usually does whenever she's too upset or too nervous to get any food down. Like Maric, Loghain has thought on several occasions, and like most of the generals and commanders he has ever met who couldn't find enough solace in religion.
"So, this might be my last meal." The dwarf pokes at the meat on her plate without the spark of her usual enthusiasm, before looking up and cracking a grin again. "At least it isn't sodding nug."
He has almost forgotten about the Joining, he realises, and for a second Elissa's gaze is blank too, nothing in it mirroring what Sigrun is talking about.
"You will have a hot meal afterwards," she says eventually, as she seems to return slowly to the present. "If you aren't too sick."
"Right." Sigrun drives her fork through the last piece of boar in front of her.
"I will come for you and Velanna once the ceremony is prepared." Elissa wipes her mouth and shoves the half-full plate away. "And don't you dare die."
She's gone before Sigrun has replied, so the dwarf turns to Loghain instead, a fascinated expression on her face.
"I think she will drag me back from the Fade if I perish," she says thoughtfully, reaching for her mug of ale. "So I suppose I shouldn't."
"No," Loghain agrees, thinking this odd recruit is exactly what Elissa needs in her ranks and possibly also as a friend because Maker knows she hasn't got a lot of those. He thinks it, he realises, like a man who prepares for his own demise and wants to set everything right. Tie up the loose ends. That insight twists something inside him even further, darkens it. "You shouldn't."
Sigrun smiles brightly as he, too, leaves the table.
The rest of the evening moves quickly, as though time is rebelling against them. Loghain watches the Joining with the rest of the Wardens, avoids the Orlesians and as Elissa goes to tend to the newly joined women – who both made it, even if the mage had struggled immensely with the taint and nearly lost the battle – Loghain goes to finish his packing.
It's a peculiar thing, packing for a journey that will almost certainly end in his death. He has no illusions of being capable of the impossible and whatever the turmoil in Orlais, he is scarcely going to make a difference on his own. What they can hope for – what he does hope for when he hopes at all – is an insight into the situation there. It doesn't mitigate the feeling that he is paying a high price for very little, or the dread of being taken away from what it truly important here and now in Ferelden.
With a heavy sigh, he closes the last of his bags and places it on the floor with the rest of them – a small collection of saddlebags containing bare necessities.
You are leaving. Dog sits down in the doorway, turning himself into a massive heap of imposing wardog.
Loghain confirms this with a nod.
She doesn't want you to leave, Dog says disapprovingly. She is a warrior and you are her kin. She wants to protect you.
"I... am aware of that," Loghain mutters back, crouching down so he is able to rub the mabari's ears. The dog, however, isn't easily swayed. He pulls away, decidedly displeased with the fact that Loghain is leaving. Reasoning with mabari isn't a simple feat regardless of the subject and reasoning with a mabari imprinted on Elissa is naturally even more difficult, Loghain thinks, smiling slightly because the fact that he still does – not to mention that he is here in this scenario - is so absurd. And there's a stab at something half-ignored inside him at the realisation that his departure upsets her, that he is important to her, that in spite of all sense and reason, she is considering him kin. The flurry of emotions that thought drives up from the corners of his – rather dusty – heart makes him sneer at himself.
"You be a good dog now and take care of her," he says, digging his fingers into Dog's thick fur.
Dog looks insulted, as though Loghain suggests he doesn't normally. It is nothing compared to how Elissa would look if she had heard that redundant appeal. With a sigh, Loghain rises to his full height.
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Elissa is about to go to Loghain's bedchamber – finding that she cares very little about propriety tonight - when he suddenly stands outside her still open door. His frame looks odd there, she thinks dimly, he is not usually seeking her out. In fact, this might very well be the first time. And the sight of him drags out the unfinished thoughts lurking in her, causing them to land in her chest with a horribly heavy sound.
She has spent so long declining all desires and dreams that it seems almost cruel of him to be here, reminding her.
"They're both recovering," she blurts, as though a sudden concern for the new Wardens is why is stands there.
"I know." He inclines his head slightly. There is a sombre streak in his eyes tonight, darkening his features. She swallows a hard knot of things she wishes to blame someone for – things beyond his control, beyond her control, things that drive them apart. While they know very little of the current situation of the Grey Wardens in Orlais, Elissa saw enough there to suspect the worst and her imagination bursts with it, this dance of images and fears.
"I was... you are done preparing?"
"Yes, I am," Loghain says but remains in the doorway which irritates her although she can't say why; she steps out of the way so he can walk inside and when he does, after a second of hesitation, she all but slams the door shut behind him.
When he's in the middle of the room he stops, searches for her gaze, and Elissa looks at him with a sense of standing on the verge of something. If he leaves now without saying anything else, she thinks as her hand - seemingly without her cooperation or approval - reaches for his arm, if he leaves now all of it will cease to evolve here and now and the shape of it, of the two of them, will be this. Everything beyond it is unknown, its very borders uncertain and unexplored and she drags a deep breath as their eyes meet.
There's a ghost of him buried deep within her memories: the man from the myths and the statue of Fereldan rebellion and honour, its face hard as stone and immovable as the very ground beneath it. And then there's another man, very much alive, only a pair of strides away and not nearly as righteous as the legends claim - not as dangerously handsome either, Elissa thinks with a little smile, remembering some of the more laughable stories.
He is summer and restoration and campfires tinting his hands with scents of fire and earth; maps smelling of ink and old parchments and his movements, full of blade-steel and mastered strength. He is a low, rare laughter that ripples through her, that speaks to her of mercy and punishment and preconceived notions; he is unforgiving and unforgivable and absolutely impossible and yet somehow a spot of something as rare as hope in her.
"I need you here, Loghain."
"No," he says softly. "You don't. You are more than capable of handling this on your own. I hate going to Orlais, but at least I can leave Ferelden knowing it will be safe in your hands."
"That's not what I meant."
Loghain gives her a glance as though he is suggesting that perhaps this is what she ought to mean; Elissa averts her eyes. Her fingers are aimlessly tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, softly touching the warm skin beneath it, brushing over one of the spots where she imagines she can feel his blood rush through his body and into her. The pulse in her picks up pace at the nearness of his, the pull and tug of it that she had once shown him back when she was urging him not to leave her, but for different reasons, the dark thread wrapped around them both.
"Elissa," Loghain says then, says it strangely, in a tone she can't remember having heard before, a sound ghosting around a tenderness she had never thought possible, not from him.
She looks up at him, feeling a bit lost because she isn't good at this, words don't magically form themselves in her mouth as she wants them to. Everything she wishes to say stay underneath her skin, inside her mouth, at the back of her tongue and mocks her and her silent voice.
"I care so much about you," she hears herself say, at last, realising she sounds near anger as though she is confessing it against her own will. "I know that's not... it's not... well-"
"Sensible?" he offers, wryly.
"Yes."
"Maker knows that it's not sensible." He raises a hand to her shoulder; she steps closer, relaxing a little under his touch. "But I care about you, too."
"You do?" She has to smile when she hears the surprise in her own voice – genuine surprise, at that.
Loghain, amazingly, smiles back. His smile is very brief and thin, but it's a smile and it's hers.
Closing her eyes for a second, Elissa feels a swirl of relief and gratefulness, an odd combination of things rattling inside her. If they were different people prone to pretence, they could soothe each other with false hope and ludicrous speculation now; they could let the impossibility of a future overshadow everything they would have to ignore to have one together, shut out the truth and the world and pretend this is all they need. But she has never been comforted by illusions and Loghain offers none. He offers this and somewhere in the fragments of her mind, she suspects he does so only because nothing will hold them to it, because tonight is outside of time.
"Your friendship has been the most important of my life," Elissa says; she hadn't thought she was going to say it but now that the words are spoken, they become true. Even worse – they grow once they leave her mouth, spinning themselves into enormous glaring truths hanging over their heads and she almost can't bear to look at Loghain again. When she does, she notices that he looks at her, straight into her eyes.
"You will always have it," he replies and there is no room left for anything but honesty. She feels his fingers on her jaw as he leans in to kiss her and she cups her own hands around his head, her fingers in his hair as he deepens the kiss with a force that sends a faint gasp through her.
It's such a relief to be in his arms again, she feels almost light-hearted despite it all as Loghain's arms circle her and she leans her forehead against his chest. He smells of departure, she thinks illogically. There's an empty, fleeting scent to his skin, as if he's already half-way gone. Her arms around him hard and fierce, the length of his body pressed against her own so tight she thinks they may dissolve all remaining lines between them, crush them under the weight of this but he is going to disappear at first light and the shapes of her nails on his skin are futile against that.
They kiss for a long time, kisses that feel like fire, draw and take hold like fire, and Elissa moves her hands over Loghain's arms and shoulders thinking she must remember to lock the bloody door as his lips graze the soft skin on her throat. Thinking too that she must remember him, burn him into her hands.
Loghain has the warmest hands she has ever felt, she thinks later, as his palms spread over her back like flames, sending flushes of that thick, sweet need rising in her at the mere closeness of him; he has a voice that resounds deep and dark and a way of kissing her that makes her push him towards the bed, so unspeakably thankful that they are alone and that regardless of how little time they have, the time that they do have is theirs.
She raises her arms to wriggle out of her tunic, arching back into his touch again to reach for the seams of his shirt. Loghain helps her, tossing it to the floor as he kisses her again, his hands travelling over her back to unfasten the breastband and she shivers when the hairs on his chest tickle her quickly uncovered breasts. Then there's a quickening, maddening rush of anticipation along her spine as Loghain gives a low groan at the sight of her, a growing ache in the pit of her belly, spreading lower and deeper as he presses her up against him and she finally drags him down over her on the bed.
Fitting themselves against each other in the new position, kissing every bit of skin and muscle, fingers digging deeper and pulling closer, Elissa grunts when she can feel Loghain's hand between her legs, stroking her thigh through the frustratingly tight fabric of her trousers. He is propped up on one arm, his face so close to her own that she can feel his eyelashes on her skin when he kisses her and his breath is trickling down her neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake and then, before she knows it, she has her fingers ensnared in his thick hair while his mouth explores other parts of her body.
Oh, Maker, she thinks – or says, she is uncertain of which – and tips her head back, tilting her entire body to make it simpler for him to remove her last pieces of clothing.
She feels pleasantly, enticingly exposed under him, wriggling and arching and dragging him closer into her embrace with arms and legs; Loghain responds to that by placing his hands on her hips and his mouth over hers and then he's flipping them around, dragging her down on top of him in one swift motion mirroring other scenes that tingle at the back of her mind, burning hot under her fingertips.
Elissa smiles – at his predictability and at her own - raking a hand through her dishevelled hair as she's using the other for support, sinking down over him for a kiss, her fingers sprawled over his chest that rises and falls with a quickening pace, even more so as she moves further down and it becomes his turn to give in to jerking, involuntary thrusts. She maps him out with hands and tongue, branding and marking his shape in her bed, his lines in her memory. Whatever happens, she will have the image of him under her touch, of him so deep inside that his breath seems to be her breath and his scents bleed into her own, forever blurring everything before and after. Whatever happens, she will have this like a path of light in her mind, a thread of impressions and moments leading back to them, to this.
Everything that is him she knows now. His sounds and touches, the press and weight of his fingertips over every inch of her body; his outlines and angles and the planes of his broad back, his shoulders and stomach and long legs spread under her. The look in his eyes as she moves, as his hands push him deeper inside and her body pins him down; the open, almost grateful expression on his face as Elissa cries out, falling forward against his fingers and thrusting harder, faster. The helpless, rumbling groan right before he goes still inside her and the taste of his skin, the shape and curves of his arms in her cupped hands as he's panting beneath her and she's stretched out on top of him, breathless and done, completely sated and momentarily forgetful about everything else.
She slumps down beside him on the damp sheets, catching her breath; Loghain glances at her, his face looking as flushed as hers feels and his eyes still wide and somewhat bleary.
They lie there side by side, their breathing slowly decreasing into a soft rhythm and Elissa reaches for his hand without looking, presses it in her own as the moment tightens around them both, enclosing them. A faint hope wriggles out of her with the soft breaths, too fragile for almost-dawns and departures and Orlais; for a horrifying second she thinks she might cry. It's no use, she tells herself, dragging air into her lungs and breathes out, slow and measured, thinking it hurts but that it can't because she can't let it and this is what they have, what they were given.
This is how it is.
She steadies herself against thoughts of strategy and endeavours, against hard, cold facts. She keeps the crashing feeling at bay by counting the scars on Loghain's chest, tracing them along his sides and up over his shoulders. When that no longer helps, she rests her head on his arm and if he feels the held-back quivers of her body or the tears she eventually fails to bite back, he makes no mention of it.