Foolishness.
It was foolishness to expect that the fact would change simply because he wished it. Yet he found each time he thought on it that a small part of him wondered whether maybe, just maybe, wishing was enough. If he wished often enough, fervently enough, desperately enough then perhaps it would change and he would be pleasantly surprised.
The flicker of hope was snuffed out once more as Eamon stubbed his toe against the uneven flagstone in the centre of his study.
A knot of rage tightened in his stomach as he was forced to adjust his balance for the small stumble which followed. He had tried changing the length of his stride. He had tried changing the direction he paced in. He had tried to ensure that his foot fell on either side of the flagstone. With each new approach, there had been a brief moment where he believed he had found an answer to the audacity with continued to confront him. But his bruised toe spoke to the true success of each of those measures.
It was foolish to allow his temper to be riled by such a thing. Still he could not help but wonder what damned stonemason had permitted such a flawed example of his craft to be placed so directly in the middle of a room. It was evident that it was unfit for purpose and should have been cast aside in favour of another.
Eamon forced himself to take a breath as his pacing brought him within a few inches of the bookcase leaning against the far wall. He turned but resisted the urge to keep moving and instead drew his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
Perhaps there were circumstances beyond the control of the stonemason. The craftsman would have been under pressure to ensure that the order was fulfilled. He would have trusted to others to ensure that the blemished stone was laid in an appropriate location. Somewhere nonintrusive like near the wall or behind the door and then, surrounded by more perfect examples as it would have been, it would not have been unfair of the stonemason to assume that it would be overlooked.
Except he could not overlook it because it was in the centre of his blasted study.
Eamon allowed his chin to fall against his chest with a groan. He began to consider whether it would be possible to move the desk forward so that the flagstone was obscured. Hidden away from sight, he could perhaps forget that the floor of his study was a distorted failure of flawed workmanship.
Or perhaps he could address the real issue.
Foolishness.
He should not have lost his temper with Alistair. Too much depended on the younger man's trust in him and he could ill-afford to lose that trust over such an insignificant issue. He could not pinpoint the cause of his fury especially when he had known that Alistair had not slept in the room set aside from him.
Eamon raised his head and rubbed at his temples with a weary sigh.
The boy did not even have the guile to disturb the bedding in an effort to obscure the truth. And such was the fantasy that Ferelden had constructed around its two young Grey Wardens... no, around its King and Grey Warden... that the servants talked freely of the great love affair which continued between them.
It was not that he expected their infatuation with one another to have ended so simply. He was not so naive as to believe that one conversation alone would have been sufficient to convince Alistair to break off the betrothal. What he had expected however was a greater respect of his opinion. Perhaps that was what had offended him so.
Eamon walked to his desk and sank down in the chair. Even as his thoughts were distracted by the problems bound up in Alistair and his youthful passion, he was gratified to discover that the insulting flagstone had disappeared from his view.
What was certain was that the boy was besotted and it would only make their inevitable separation from one another more difficult. Eamon had no doubt that the Orlesians would realise the worth of the youngest Cousland. Her father would have tolerated nothing but the best from his children and that was even before Eamon took into account the additional qualities implicit in a Grey Warden. No, the Hero of Ferelden was aptly named and prudently valued.
Not that such an argument was helpful to his current predicament. Yet for all her abilities and qualities and Maker knew what else, she remained just one woman. And what was one woman to a man who had the choice of the best Ferelden could offer him?
"Eamon?"
But sometimes one woman could be everything.
"Isolde."
She took a few cautious steps into the room, her drifting gaze around the room reassuring her that he was indeed alone. "I expected you to join me for midday meal, my dear."
"I have had business to attend to," his hand gestured towards some stray papers.
"You are looking poorly again," she ventured, "perhaps you should rest."
"It is nothing," he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet in an effort to convince her by the movement alone that he remained resolute in his ability to serve King and country.
Isolde shook her head with a worried frown, nearing the desk. "It is clear there is something preying on your mind, Eamon."
He sighed and he felt as his shoulders hunched. "I spoke rashly with Alistair earlier."
"It does not seem to have affected his mood. He is in the city speaking with people according to the gossip."
Eamon started as panic surged through him. "On his own?"
"No, with some guards and the Antivan elf." Emboldened by the privacy offered in his study, Isolde made no effort to contain the disdain that came so easily to her tone when she referred to those she considered unworthy of her attention.
"Perhaps my words did some good," he mused to himself, turning over the new information in his head.
"Then hopefully he will hold you no malice."
Isolde offered him a smile of encouragement and he found that the edges of his mouth began to upturn in response. His wife had her flaws but Isolde had forever been a source of comfort and support to him. His devotion to her had matured into a steady beat but he remembered the impetuousness and rashness that she had prompted in him as a young man and he knew.
He knew Alistair could not be trusted. He could not be trusted to see beyond his own desire or the betr... necessity of the compromise Eamon had orchestrated.
The revelation should have been shocking but Eamon found that a sense of calm descended over him. Wishes were unnecessary when the immediate future was so clear to see. Alistair was a flawed part of a larger whole but his presence remained imperative. All that remained was to limit the impact of the consequences.
Actions began to crystallise in his head and foremost among them was Anora. She had to be executed before Alistair discovered the agreement with the Grey Wardens. Otherwise it was possible that Alistair could be convinced that she offered an alternative that simply did not exist. He would draft her execution order this afternoon.
That left only one especially pressing matter. Blinking, he realised he had dropped his gaze and was staring once more at the uneven flagstone. More than that, Isolde stood to one side of it. When she had approached the desk, she had side-stepped it without so much as a hesitation. She was familiar with both it and the potential hazard it presented.
She had side-stepped. He would stand aside.
Too much had been risked by his family for the Arling of Redcliffe and he was damned if he would allow it to be stripped from him in a fit of petulant rage. But for him to suggest the transfer of power to Teagan would arouse suspicion. No, the seed had to be sown by another.
"Isolde," he made a point of keeping his eyes cast down on the desk, "I fear this is becoming too much for me."
There was a silence and he found himself wondering if she had heard him but then came the response he had hoped for.
"What do you mean, my dear?"
The Dalish had set up a small camp a little way beyond the city walls. Sentinels kept a close watch over the encampment and had sent word to the Keeper at first sight of the group of humans. By the time Alistair reached the entrance, Lanaya was already there to greet him in person.
"Warden," she leant forward with arms crossed in front of her and bowed her head. She straightened and dropped her arms to her side with a faint smile. "Or is it King?"
"Alistair would do," he responded sheepishly.
The smile became more pronounced and her posture became more relaxed. "I understand the pressure you are under, Alistair. I do not wish to make this transition more difficult for you."
"Do you think you could spread the word?"
Lanaya only shook her head before her smile faded into a more serious expression. "What do you wish of the Dalish?"
"I just wanted to see how your clan was after the battle."
"Our sorrows are no more important than any other," the Keeper took a half step backwards and held out her arm towards the large camp fire a little way behind her in invitation. Alistair made to step forward but the surge of tension which rifted between his guards and the elven sentinels stopped him in his tracks.
He looked to Lanaya but she offered no suggestion and he had the disconcerting feeling that he was being tested. He had no concerns for his safety among the Dalish but with Eamon's words still fresh at the back of his mind, he was reluctant to dismiss the guards as easily as he might have done only the day before.
"May my men join us?"
Lanaya tensed and Alistair knew he had made a mistake.
"What about Zevran and Oghren?" he backtracked hurriedly.
"The companions of the Hero are always welcome," came the terse reply.
Ignoring the demotion she had given him, Alistair turned to the guards and signalled that they remain at the outskirts of the camp. The tension multiplied among the men at the command but none objected outright.
As Alistair fell into step with Lanaya who had begun to walk towards the fire, Zevran and Oghren followed a few paces behind in silent acquiescence. The sentinels remained at the edges of the camp where they could keep watch over the human guards.
He felt the tingling sensation on the side of his face as Lanaya eyed him in the manner of someone evaluating whether she had made a very large mistake. "Our presence here is a strain on the resources of your city."
Opting for honesty over tact, Alistair nodded. "Yes."
The muffled snort succinctly conveyed that it was the wrong option and it was with a sinking feeling that he recognised the signs of disappointment. Worse still, her disappointment was entirely in him.
"Then we would wish to be granted leave to return to our home."
He had no real power as either Grey Warden or King to deny the request and he was puzzled as to why Lanaya had insisted on asking him. His next question tripped from his tongue as surely the only natural response. "Are you ready to leave?"
The surprise which streaked across her face erased a small portion of the disappointment. A small flutter of satisfaction warmed him as he realised that he had somehow found a right answer amongst all the wrong ones.
"With some provisions, yes."
"I'll see what can be done then."
The Keeper came to an abrupt halt and spun to face Alistair. He stumbled to a less than dignified stop in front of her while Zevran and Oghren, having kept a few paces behind, both succeeded in coming to a more natural standstill.
Surrounded as he had been by women who were not backward about coming forward, Alistair recognised the telltale signs of a woman weighing up whether to speak her mind. He was yet to encounter one who, having embarked on the process, had ever decided against it and he braced himself accordingly for the onslaught that was sure to follow.
"It has been some time since the Dalish have found a friend in the humans."
Understanding that this was simply a prelude and that his response would temper the entire direction of the conversation, Alistair took his time in finding what he hoped would be an appropriate acknowledgement. Finally he settled on, "I hope to prove a worthy friend."
Her face cleared and the elven woman rewarded him with a genuine smile. "As do I, Alistair. Friendship grows with time and patience. I hope we will have both for one another."
Relief flooded through him and he found that he was grinning. Hastily, he rearranged his features into an expression that was more refined and simply nodded towards her.
"Perhaps once your coronation has passed then we may arrange further talks between us," she began to move towards the camp fire once more.
Alistair chose not to focus on the question as to whether he was to have a coronation at all and instead turned his attention to practicalities. "You would be welcome to attend."
"Such an invitation does not come without complications," Lanaya's tone hardened a fraction but she seemed to accept that he had not intended any slight. "However if we remain nearby then we will gladly recognise your sovereignty over the humans."
She turned her attention to a small group gathered around a cooking pot resting on some hot embers near the fire. Her language morphed into the fluid language of her people as she communicated her requests. One of the group ran off in the direction of a tent while the others busied themselves with setting out bowls and ladling out the contents of the pot.
"If you have time then we would welcome all three of you to eat with us," Lanaya turned back to him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "However I am certain that if you remain then Sarel will wish to have further details of your story."
"Isn't talking about my great feats a prerequisite for a King?" he grinned.
"Keeper," Zevran stepped forward and bowed to her before addressing Alistair directly. "If I may, I will take my leave to speak with the Templars about Shale."
Alistair nodded. "Come and find me later."
Zevran acknowledged the request before spinning on heel and heading back in the direction they had come. Both Lanaya and Alistair looked to Oghren in silent question.
The dwarf grunted and jerked a thumb at Alistair while addressing the elven woman. "If it's a story you're wantin' then this pike-twirler's no good to you. He'll take all the glory for himself. Me on the other hand, I'll tell you exactly what happened."
Lanaya looked amused and gestured that Oghren should take his place beside the fire. As the dwarf made his way to claim a bowl of stew, she threw a glance towards Alistair.
He shrugged with a resigned acceptance. "And when he's done, I'll tell you what actually happened."
"Here."
A small wooden cup was pushed into Elissa's hands. The rough grain of the wood had long since been worn down by the countless fingers which had wrapped around it before her and she experienced a brief moment of comforting connection with those nameless others. Whether they had seized on the object in haste, happiness or hope, she was linked to them all through the small object in her hands.
Such a tiny inconspicuous detail and yet it offered an instant of respite from the stifling panic. Surely no demon would pay attention to such a small but complex detail. A demon could not understand the solace that could be taken from kinship with another being simply through one unremarkable object. Since a demon existed outside of conventional time and space then it would not appreciate the sense of continuation that was forged in holding an object which defied the rules of mortality to which she was bound.
But it did not have to so long as she did. That tiny inconspicuous detail, one that she knew she would have overlooked in any other circumstance, was as treacherous as her own mind. It offered promise where there was none.
A trickle of wetness ran down the back of her hand and she discovered that her hands had begun to shake and it had allowed some to swill over the edge. She fought to still the tremble and the water ceased to reach the top of the cup although the surface continued to be disturbed by the tremors. Staring at the water, she caught the distorted reflection of a face looking back at her that she did not recognise.
The cup slipped from her grasp and crashed to the ground. The wet slap of water as it hit the flagstones before spreading out was accompanied by the musical clatter of the cup as it skidded across the floor.
"What are you so frightened of, dear one?" The arm resting across her shoulders tightened in a protective gesture.
Elissa made no effort to acknowledge either question or touch and instead focused on the small puddle which now spread at her feet, making sure to keep the angle so that she was unable to see anything but the reflection of the ceiling. On the periphery of her vision, she caught a movement and her head jerked up to see Liahn rifling over the contents of her table in search of a cloth.
"Leave it."
She heard the words but did not recognise the monotone they were spoken in.
"There is no sense in allowing..." Liahn spoke over her shoulder but was interrupted again by that voice.
"It doesn't matter. None of this matters."
It was her. It was her voice.
Liahn swivelled on the spot and focused on the two women sitting on the bed. There was a cloth in the mage's hands but she made no attempt to move towards the spill.
"Of course it matters," Leliana murmured in her ear.
The Bard spoke with a harmony of various chords blended into a perfect cadence and which only served to emphasise all that was wrong with her own. Timbre, rhythm, modulation; it was all wrong.
Elissa tore her gaze from Liahn and allowed her head to turn so that she was almost nose to nose with Leliana. The faint scent of the herbal balm that was smoothed onto the woman's skin was more noticeable than she could remember it being and she belatedly realised that there was no bandage covering the charred skin of her cheek.
"No, it doesn't."
"Tell us why that is, Warden." Liahn took a step towards the bottom of the bed.
She forced herself to look back at the mage. She had been searching for someone who could help her make sense of the fear that was corrupting her rationality. But to find that someone who could alleviate her distress only a matter of strides from her room was yet one more coincidence. It would not surprise her to discover that Liahn had some knowledge of her entrapment. Perhaps Liahn was the demon itself; overseeing her delusion while maintaining a discrete distance.
"Let us help you," Leliana coaxed.
"You can't."
"Have faith in us, dear one."
A strangled laugh escaped from her and she pulled away from the Bard. Finding her feet, she ignored the coldness of the water against her soles and staggered away from the bed leaving a faint trail of footprints which faded into barely noticeable smudges within a few steps.
She came to rest against the far wall and leant her forehead against the cool stone as she closed her eyes. "What use is faith in the Fade?"
"An odd question for one without magic in their blood to ask, Warden."
"Is it?"
A heavy sigh greeted the question and she heard the rustle of robes. Elissa whirled round but Liahn had only moved to perch on the base of the bed. Ignoring the silent question Leliana attempted to communicate through the tilt of her head, Liahn focused her attention solely on Elissa.
"Warden," she smoothed the cloth out on her lap while she spoke, "why would you be concerned about the Fade?"
"It seems you already have an answer."
"Yes but I do not know why you would have come to such a conclusion."
"Prove that I am not." It was intended as a defiant challenge but there was a desperation behind the words which served to lift the flat drone of her voice into a trill.
Even as Liahn kept her stare trained on Elissa, she folded her hands before resting them neatly in the centre of the cloth on her lap. "I cannot do that, Warden."
"Please," the plea was heaved from somewhere deep within and pushed across her lips with some of the last shreds of sanity she had.
A flash of helplessness contorted Liahn's face. "Elissa, there is much I could both do and say to prove that you are not trapped in the Fade. It is whether you would allow yourself to be convinced which is the problem."
"That's a cheap answer," she snapped.
"Very well," the mage looked down to her hands and paused to gather her thoughts. "If you were trapped in the Fade then you would have no awareness of the event. It would not even enter your consciousness to consider the possibility and," the mage anticipated the retort on the tip of Elissa's tongue, "if somehow it did then you would not be able to entertain it with as much conviction as you are demonstrating now."
"I became aware when we were in the Tower."
"You could argue that the events at the Tower are a product of your delusion." Hearing the outraged hiss that escaped from Leliana, the mage turned to her with a small shake of her head. "If I did not acknowledge the possibility then she would believe I was attempting to mislead her." Liahn looked back to Elissa and she leant forward a little as if to emphasise her earnestness. "However the truth is that the demon was sustaining the desires of you and your companions as well as countless others. It was not as powerful as it thought."
"No." She found that she had backed against the wall and was now pressing herself against it. "That's too simple."
"Dear one, why do you believe that you have been trapped in the Fade?" Leliana intervened before Liahn could respond.
A dry tongue ran across her bottom lip and her eyes darted between Leliana and the mage. She was unsure why she hesitated but defending Wynne's secret meant more. More what, she was unsure. But whether it was simply an ingrained habit or proof that a small part of her was persuaded by Liahn's argument, she knew she could not let herself simply blurt it out. At least not just yet.
The concerned frown on Leliana's face smoothed into an impenetrable blankness as she reached the conclusion which had prompted the sudden reticence from Elissa. Ignoring the fact that Elissa had not answered, she turned to Liahn.
"A demon thrives on the vices of its host, yes?"
"A simplistic way of looking at it but yes."
"Then is it possible for a demon to replicate something other than what the host either knows or desires?"
Liahn chewed on the corner of her lip as she considered the question but eventually nodded slowly. "It is not impossible although it would seem impractical not to adhere to what already exists in the mind of the person."
Satisfied by the answer, Leliana focused once more on Elissa. "I cannot give you faith, dear one but you must see that you are loved. Either this is a result of your desires or it is a manifestation of what already exists."
"I don't understand."
"Such a simple desire to be loved does not speak well for this reality you believe you are separated from. Why would you wish to return to it?"
Elissa tensed but the Bard carried on without stopping.
"If however this is a delusion based on what already exists then you know that your friends would do anything to bring you back to us. What is the harm in existing here until that time?"
Unsure whether the implausibility of either argument revealed their weaknesses or ingenuity, Elissa blinked. Faintly, she managed to ask, "can you hear yourself, Leliana?"
"Or you can accept that you are safe and where you should be," the blank expression melted into a wan smile and her voice softened. "You have much to bear, dear one but you must stop looking for demons where there are none."
Before Elissa had a chance to respond, Liahn peeled the cloth from her lap and rose to her feet. She took a small step around the puddle towards Elissa and held out the small square of linen to her.
"Come now, Warden. Enchanter Wynne would not approve of such a mess."
Credit where it was due, Oghren could spin a tale. It was interesting to hear the journey from the perspective of another and Alistair had found himself enthralled by the dwarf's narrative though he had objected to some of the more colourful descriptions. Oghren had only grumbled to himself and passed over the offending detail without offering any revision. Still, Sarel had seemed satisfied with the account and with time wearing on, Alistair had gladly taken his leave from the company of the elves.
He had intended to return to Eamon's estate but the walk back to the city gates and through the various districts granted Oghren more than enough time to convince him that to speak with the Dalish but not the dwarves would be taken as an irreparable insult. Conceding that there was some truth to the argument, Alistair had allowed Oghren to persuade him to visit the small regiment of dwarves who had appeared to have taken up residence of the Gnawed Noble. Nothing like embracing a stereotype.
However it became clear that whatever the opinion of the citizens of the city, the dwarves were singlehandedly ensuring the economic stability of at least the city brewers and his entrance into the tavern was greeted with a mixture of roars and pounding of tankards on the tables. Not wishing to enquire whether they were acknowledging him, his title or this was a generic welcome extended to any patron capable of providing a tab for their drinks, Alistair only grinned.
The handful of higher ranking warriors towards the back of the tavern rose and gestured that both he and Oghren should join them. Settling down, he found a tankard unceremoniously pushed into his hands.
"Your health, Warden," came the gruff chorus as they raised their tankards in his direction.
"And yours," he returned. Mindful of the disapproval that would no doubt greet his drunken return to the estate, he only swallowed a mouthful of the ale. It had taken a while but he had eventually accepted that he would never drink even one dwarf under a table, taint or not taint. He had no wish to get into a competition with an entire regiment. Not that it wouldn't be fun to try.
Somewhere in the midst of drinking and bawdy talk which followed, he was able to discover that the dwarves intended to leave within a matter of days and were simply waiting for their armour and weapons to be repaired by their two blacksmiths. At the mention of their names, two dwarves hollered in the direction of the table and Alistair wondered just how adequate those repairs would be. Sensing an opportunity to placate some of the city blacksmiths, he offered their services but was greeted with guffaws. He adopted the route of discretion and let the offer slide, content to accept the word of the dwarves instead. For all the corruption of their politics, and who was he to comment on politics, and the harsh reality of their caste system, the rough and ready attitude of the dwarves was a welcome experience that he found he genuinely enjoyed being immersed in.
However when the sixth tankard of ale was forced into his vicinity, he decided that discretion was the better part of valour and announced his retreat. Not entirely unexpectedly, various comments questioning both his parentage and masculinity abounded but he was permitted to leave without much further humiliation. He must have earned a greater amount of respect than he had realised.
Escaping into the street and deprived of the company of Oghren, who had hastily reclaimed his abandoned ale, Alistair wandered back towards the estate. He had intended to walk purposefully but apparently fresh air and six ales were enough to give him a slight stagger that he was doing his damnedest to hide and his guards were doing their damnedest to ignore. Andraste save him, tipsy on the job. He wondered whether he could persuade Eamon that it was a clever political manoeuvre.
Passing through the gates of Eamon's estate, he dismissed the guards to their other duties and trudged up the stairs to the main doors. The thought that he now had to go and find Eamon in order to work out what he had done to offend the man helped to sober him up. But as he headed through the main hall, he was greeted by the sight of Isolde.
Swallowing the groan that leapt to his throat, he bowed towards the woman and offered a cautious greeting. "My Lady."
She dropped a perfect curtsy in front of him and he had to resist the urge to drag her up by the arm. "Your Majesty."
The brief consideration that he request she call him by his name was quashed by a small yet very unattractive part of him which enjoyed the reversal in fortune between them. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Eamon confided in me that he spoke out of turn with you this morning."
"That's one way of putting it."
"Please, Alistair..." His pettiness didn't quite extend to correcting her slip but only because she seemed genuine in expressing her defence of Eamon. "...he will not admit it but he is still suffering from what happened at Redcliffe." Alistair stiffened as he waited for the wave of accusations which he expected to follow but Isolde may no further reference to the fate of her young son. "Eamon knows he was wrong to speak in the way he did. Please, do not judge him."
"I haven't judged him," he protested but thought better of adding the observation that the man had left no time in which to judge him.
"Then I hope you may consider my request."
She was wringing in her hands as part of her agitation and he regressed to the young boy who always seemed to be on the wrong side of that agitation. Defensively he snapped, "what do you want?"
"Allow Teagan to become Arl of Redcliffe."
"What?" Startled by the request, Alistair could only stammer. "B... but... that has nothing to do with me."
"It is in your power to do so," she argued earnestly. "Eamon will not willingly admit to me that he is unwell but I can see the effect it is having on him. He will respect your decision. Besides you will wish to have an advisor at court who is not distracted by his own concerns. Who better than Eamon?"
"Well, I know." It was an intriguing feeling to find that he agreed with something Isolde said but he was struggling to keep pace with the turn of events. He studied the woman in an attempt to gain a greater handle on her motivation. "What are your wishes, Lady Isolde? If Teagan becomes Arl then you will lose your title of Arlessa."
"I have already lost my son," this time her voice was tinged by a bitterness which cut through him as though it were his own loss. "I do not wish to lose my husband."
"Alright," he conceded. "But I'm not sure that I can insist on anything until after my coronation."
"But you will speak with Eamon?"
"Yes."
The woman dipped at him again. "Thank you, your Majesty. He is in his study."
"I suppose now is as good a time as any," Alistair acknowledged with no small amount of reluctance. "Do you know if the Warden's are still speaking with the Elissa?"
"She was not in her room when the servants took her some food. I think she is with the Bard."
"Right." If she was with Leliana then he could trust that she was settled for the moment. He would speak with Eamon as quickly as possible and then visit both of them.
Alistair dodged around Isolde but a thought came to him and he turned back to the woman. "Would it be possible to have a barrel of ale brought up to one of the small reception rooms for this evening?"
"Of course," Isolde nodded. "Would you like some food prepared also?"
"I suppose so if there's spare going. Thank you, Isolde." With that he took his leave from her and headed towards the study with the tread of a man walking to the gallows. How in the Maker's name was he supposed to broach the question of Eamon's capacity for governing when his own was under such scrutiny?