"Dispute not with her: she is lunatic." -William Shakespeare, Richard III

Days of silence followed their departure from Highever. She had little to say to Duncan and once or twice had even considered dropping a large stone on his head while he slept and she sat by the fire until the sun rose, kept awake by her despair. She entertained these thoughts like someone who was reputedly insane would; they knocked on the door of her mind and she cautiously let them in, offering them cakes and mead before finally announcing they had overstayed their welcome.

Rather than murdering the man who saved her, she passed the time by dealing with the torn remnants of her fine dress as best she could, tearing the majority of the hem off around the ankles. She wished for a sewing kit, but she dared not open her mouth and ask Duncan for one and she doubted she could sew anyway; her broken knuckles were swollen and black and even opening and closing her hands caused her tremendous pain. She made no mention of this as she travelled with the warden, only staring regally forward whenever he made mention of her injuries.

The same routine followed day after day until they were tearing up camp one morning and Duncan was the one to speak.

"I wasn't in Highever for long, but I was there long enough to hear of you." He said, rolling his bedroll neatly. "You know what they say of you, don't you?"

She shot him her customary distant glare and went back to struggling with her own bedroll: She was poorly suited to living outdoors. She was covered in spider bites and disliked the greasy texture her hair had developed due to the fire.

Duncan ignored her silence and went on as if she had said, "Why no, Ser, I haven't any idea what they might say of me around Highever."

"They call you The Mad Cousland." He chuckled as if he had told a clever joke and tied the perfect bedroll onto his pack. "I'm starting to think they're wrong. You aren't mad: You're a damn mute. They should have called you Cousland of the Silent Sisters."

The Silent Sisters are dwarves, you complete fool. She thought, shooting him another stubbornly proud look as he stepped over to her and into her space, nudging her out of the way and setting about handling her bedroll.

"I am capable of that myself, Ser." She said blackly, making a grab for the bedroll.

"So you didn't lose the ability to speak." Duncan said, yanking the roll away from her reach and neatly rolling it within a matter of seconds. "We need to travel quickly, Elissa. If we leave in the next fifteen minutes we can reach Ostagar by mid afternoon. We have much to do while we are there and precious time to do it."

"I am the Lady of Highever, Ser, it is custom that you address me as such." She argued with the haughtiness of someone who was fully aware of the fact they were covered in days old blood and in need of a good bathing and a meal – she was only arguing for the sake of it at this point and she knew it; Duncan was the only available option for venting her spleen and that was good enough for her.

He laughed again and shoved the bedroll into her arms, ignoring her gasp of pain as her fingers clenched around the bundle automatically before she could stop them.

"A warden relinquishes all titles. Get used to your birth name; you will be hearing it more often." He flipped open his own pack and dug around. "Sit on that stump over there."

"Why?"

"I'm no healer, but you will be useless to me if we don't tend to your hands. I'm no fool. You are stout in spirit, Mad Cousland, but I can see how much pain you're in, despite how well you think you hide it."

She inhaled sharply and as a point of defiance she attempted to strap the bedroll to her pack with fumbling, broken hands. She failed miserably.

She understood with resignation that she had a duty now and Duncan was right when he pointed out that she had wanted to become a grey warden to begin with. With this in mind she stood from the pack and sat on the stump and allowed him to apply a poultice to her swollen knuckles and bind them with linen.

"You blame me for what happened to your family." He said turning her hand gently so that he could wrap it properly. "I can't change what you think of me in that respect, but know that Howe was going to betray you regardless of whether I was there or not. I cannot prepare you for everything that you will face as a warden, and no doubt it will take time for you to adapt to this life, but the wardens are a brotherhood: We look out for each other. If it puts your mind at ease any, know that I will have your back if you will have mine." He tied off the linen and stood. Elissa experimentally flexed her fingers and was pleased to find that they already felt better due to the poultice applied to them.

"And what of Howe?" She whispered.

"A grey warden's first duty is to defend against the Blight, but there will come a time when the Arl will be called to justice for his treachery."

She was silent for a time, appearing to be mulling over her thoughts: Duncan's words were like cold broth served to an imprisoned man, but an imprisoned man was happy for nourishment, regardless of quality. "I am not The Mad Cousland." She declared. "I am not mad… at least… I do not think I am. I do not feel mad. I loathed when people called me that. Fergus tried to keep me from hearing them, but I know they said it when I wasn't present." She properly fastened her bedroll to her pack this time and hoisted it over her shoulder; the fabric under it was stiff with dry blood. "Does it give you pause to have someone with the reputation of being mad join the grey wardens?"

Duncan laughed earnestly, almost warmly in fact. "Dear lady, if you think you're the most uncertain candidate I've ever had, you had best think again." He rested a hand on her shoulder. "We take all sorts into the brotherhood: People with reputations far worse than yours. With the wardens, you will be given the chance to learn what honour means. To fight for it and to uphold it… and you certainly won't be doing it alone."

She nodded rather solemnly, fearing for herself and for those around her; it was difficult enough living in a castle full of people who had to contend with her fits of delirium… how would a force of battle-trained men handle it?

"It's just over that ridge there." Duncan said, waving his finger towards the hills. "We should set off. As I said, we have much to do."

Elissa followed Duncan's footsteps through the narrow paths and treed forests, keeping a wary and inexperienced eye out for any danger. As they walked, Duncan told Elissa more of the history of the Grey Wardens, and although she knew much of it already, it was somewhat calming to listen to someone else speak over the tumult of anxiety that roiled in her mind, constantly jabbing her with accusatory questions.

This was commonplace for Elissa; getting utterly trapped and lost in a sea of never-ending negative thoughts. One came, and then another and another and soon they were all queuing up to take a swing at her delicate psyche.

Duncan stopped walking when he noticed she had halted, swaying on the spot where she stood, her face suddenly gone very pale.

"Elissa, are you okay? – "

Her only answer was the shake of her head and she turned to the side of the pathway and emptied the contents of her stomach on the road. She held her hair over her shoulder with one hand as she continued to vacate her insides. Finally she stood and wiped her mouth on the soiled sleeve of her dress with far more dignity than her current situation called for.

I could cause the saddest poet to weep would that know the feelings that I do. She wanted to say, but she kept her words to herself and passed by Duncan, continuing down the road ahead of him.

If there was one thing she was not going to do, it was complain. Complaints resulted in questions more often then not, and questions begged for answering, and she did not dream of having to explain herself to anyone.

A schooled and courtly woman, however, she managed to keep her feet when she found herself a short time later, explaining everything to King Cailan himself.

It appeared to take the monarch more than a second glance to realize who Elissa was through the grime that coated her, initially remarking to Duncan only the observance that she was a woman and therefore a peculiar choice for a recruit. It took a proper introduction from Duncan and Elissa standing a little taller and holding her head just the slightest bit higher for the King to recognize the face that he had been presented with on canvas before; it was no black mark in anyone's book that Elissa was at one point up for consideration to become Cailan's Queen-consort. Naturally, Anora Mac Tir, having a more sensational background was the preferred choice and thus, the woman chosen. Elissa bore no ill will to either party; choose healthy stock to breed royal babies she opined. Healthy stock she was not and that fact was likely not overlooked when her name came up as an option for a noble bride.

"My Lady." Cailan chuckled, his friendly eyes lighting up, pressing his lips to the back of her hand despite the dirt. "You must forgive me. I failed to recognize your fair face at first sight. Your portrait does your true beauty little justice."

"Does the filth and gore that coats my visage slip past my King's sight, or might he simply choose to see past it?" She replied – banter and a sharp wit was the lifeline of any noble involved in stately affairs.

Words had power when one willed them to, and being able to wield them with efficiency and poise was a talent that was instilled in Elissa from an early age.

"Only a liar would attempt to convince you to believe that a hot bath and some new clothes would take away from your current... allure, but it is no lie that leaves my lips when I say that I am genuinely pleased to finally lay eyes on Teryn Cousland's daughter."

Elissa's lip curled pleasantly; downright charmingly in fact. King Cailan certainly knew how to speak the words that would please a woman, and she didn't doubt for a moment that was the only way he knew how to do such a thing, based on his handsome, well sunned face, golden hair and strong looking hands. If that was the case, Anora was indeed a lucky young bride.

And of the Mac Tirs...

She tilted her head politely in the direction of the plate clad general standing next to Cailan.

"Teryn Loghain." She acknowledged the man with the faintest downward tilt of her forehead after reminding herself that she was a grey warden now and was no longer called to curtsey at the men. "It lightens my heart to see you are here and well. My mind fancies that a man like you would be most sought after to lead during a Blight and somehow, here we stand."

By this point she had nearly forgotten that not half an hour ago she was on her hands and knees by the side of the road, being sick and quaking with fear: Swords and armour and brotherhoods were unfamiliar territory for her but people... speaking with them and presenting some outward illusion that she was frail and delicate... that was as natural as breathing.

"My Lady." Loghain said, acknowledging her greeting. "My most true and heartfelt sympathies. The loss of your family is an act of treachery that will not be overlooked. Teryn Bryce was a good man."

"Indeed he was." Elissa said. "My thanks." She changed the subject at the sudden mention of her family. "Fergus – have you seen him? Has he been told?"

"Last reported, your brother and his company were still out scouting the wilds." Loghain rested his hand on the pommel of the grand sword at his hip. "Should they arrive before nightfall, I will have the gate sentries send him your way." He answered in a rather droning, monotonous voice that seemed to drip with disinterest and Elissa couldn't help but wonder exactly how true end heartfelt the man's sympathies for her family truly were.

She studied the abrupt lines and sharp angles of the general's face as Cailan and Duncan embroiled themselves in an argument regarding the handling of the Blight; their words quickly went over her head and she found herself glancing around the camp; smoke from multiple fires rose above the trees surrounding them, the 'clink' of hammer on anvil could be heard somewhere close by, and despite the sad truth that many of these men would die tomorrow, there was singing and merriment to be heard around the ruin.

She was brought back to reality when she realized all three men were waiting for her to say something. She felt foolish, imagining how she looked, staring glassily off into nothingness while they spoke of important matters.

"My apologies, Majesty, Sers... my mind is often led astray like a fool into a forest of faeries." She smiled delicately again at her own expense, "Though I am told this aids me in observing a great deal of things that most would miss. I have yet to decide if this is a blessing or a curse..."

Duncan, looking rather amused was the first to speak. "Once you've finished following your faeries... and I suggest you make it quick – you may find some fellow recruits around the camp. There are two others, and of course you'll also find one of my most newest recruits, Alistair, over up that pathway over there. Join him and the others and visit me by the fire before nightfall. As I said... we haven't much time."

Cailan shot her another dashing grin, "However, we would be cruel to expect the Lady of Highever to walk around camp in a tattered rag: I am afraid you will not find a hot bath in a place such as this, but the river is just beyond those trees, and privacy is not difficult to find. You will need suitable clothing as well... as striking a maiden as you are, you are now called to be a grey warden and must arm yourself as such. I shall have something well-suited to you sent to your tent."

Duncan looked rather disapproving of the indulgence, but seemed to think better of voicing his disagreement. She bid the men farewell and wasted little time finding the tent set aside with her, quickly locating a scratchy wool towel and setting off for the river that Cailan had mentioned; the opportunity to bathe had presented itself and though the lack of hot water indeed dampened her spirits slightly, she couldn't help but think she might feel a little better once she scrubbed away the physical proof of Howe's betrayal that marred her skin.

She took her time walking up the banks of the river a ways, finding a well-treed grotto of sorts where current was stilled and the water was clear. Her feet squelched in the mud as she discarded her haggard silk shoes on the grass and inched into the water, inhaling sharply as the frigid snow-melt nipped at her toes and ankles and gooseflesh erupted all over her body. She lifted a foot from the water and wrinkled her nose at the distinct line of pale flesh that met with a shade of dark brown and grey that was yet untouched by the river. She slid off the ornate sword belt that held her family's blade and rested it gently on the grass before pulling what was left of her dress over her head and discarding it in a much less reverent heap nearby.

With resolve, she filled her lungs with air and drove forward, splashing into the water until she was deep enough to dive headlong into its depths, persisting although every nerve in her body seemed to be shattered all at once.

She hadn't thought that such cold was possible. Had she known, she might have never complained about a hot summer day again.

Elissa finally surfaced, standing on the slippery rocks under her, desperately trying to gain her footing as they scratched her feet and bruised her ankles. She shivered violently and all she wanted to do was sprint back to the shore as quickly as her feet would allow her. She looked down at her glistening skin and knew this would not be practical until she scrubbed away the stains and the stink on herself.

She started with her hair – once lovingly tended to, brushed twice daily by her handmaidens, washed weekly with fine Antivan soaps that smelled of lavender, and styled each morning with intent and great care – was greasy, matted, dry in places and practically soaked with oiliness in others. Her fingers caught in the slick bramble as she tried to work out the blood and the sweat as best she could, but gave up after a fashion because her ears had gone numb and she wasn't making much progress with the grease or tangles. She sighed, glad she had at least rinsed away the blood and soot.

She did her best to clean her skin, knowing that the stale smell of sweat and the sweet smell of smoke would linger despite her best efforts, but at least she could see the light freckles that covered her shoulders and with effort, the dusty brown tinge her skin had developed was gone. Verging on clean as well as hypothermic, she slipped her way back to the bank and wrapped the towel around her, still shivering quite hard. She understood now why Fergus looked so wretched whenever he returned home from a long period away.

Standing on the bank, she wrung out her hair, feebly attempting once more to comb her fingers through it in an effort to tease it back into some sort of order; it wasn't happening. She wrapped herself in the towel again, dried the remainder of her body and loathingly pulled the stinking, ruined dress back over her head to cover herself before tucking the towel and her sword belt under her arm and setting off back down the river, undeniably cold, but feeling renewed regardless.

The favour of King Cailan had not been missed by her and she wondered how much of that had to do with their near-betrothal and how much it had to do with his reputation for being a benevolent and caring man. He looked at her with fancy in his eyes, but much of her told her that he looked at many people this way. Birds sung around her and the sun heated her damp hair and she remembered Duncan's disinterested look and that caused her pause; perhaps she would be forced to relinquish all titles, but should it be call for her to also relinquish all station and bearing as well? Was she expected to become nothing more than a foul-mouthed, poorly mannered man? She didn't want that; if Elissa Cousland had nothing else in this world, she had her words, her temperance, and her cunning to use them. Someone with such gifts could not be expected to happily stroll about a battlefield, cleaving off heads with a broadsword, right?

Right?

She lifted a fir branch that drooped part way over the pathway and stepped out of the trees and back into the well-lit camp. She attracted strange looks as she wandered through the small city of tents and campfires; fleeting, curious glances that didn't indicate recognition of any sort, but only the acknowledgement that there was someone new within their surely well-acquainted fold. She ignored the eyes that followed her with a well-practiced mask of indifference; these people didn't know who she was. They didn't deserve to know who she was, so the longer she could remain insignificant to them, the better.