Dragon Age 1. Lost Love

_My first fanfic... Not entirely sure where this idea came from. I'm actually an Alistair fangirl, so forgive me for his angsty-ness here; I wanted to explore a darker sider of his persona, a side he seemed to show just a bit when he got very angry with my PC. Oh, and I'm a Loghain fangirl, too, so this is what you get :)_

_Bioware owns all. I own nothing but my imagination and the curious ability to talk to these different characters in my head. _

_Feedback is most appreciated!_

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><p>He found her.<p>

He always had a knack for doing so; it was how they kept their relationship a secret, at least, in the beginning, when it had mattered that the secrets be kept. She would volunteer for first patrol, or wander away from camp on the pretense of checking her snares-she didn't even have to look in his direction to know that he would come for her, that he would find her.

He claimed it was the taint that linked them, that it allowed him to _feel_ her direction. He could feel the pull of her blood and know exactly where she was located, as well as in what direction she was heading. She understood this, could feel the same subtle tow in her own veins when darkspawn were nearby. But she never felt such things from another Warden.

She tried. She tried to sense his approach, closed her eyes and tried to figure out where he would appear. Despite her skills, however, the hunting and tracking she had been doing since she was a child, he still usually managed to surprise her. She would round a dead tree and he would be leaning against the stump, lips quirked in that smile that she found so wildly attractive: it was half arrogance, and half embarrassment, boy and man all rolled into one expression. At other times, he would simply steal up behind her, his arms catching around her middle, his breath warm against her neck. She told him it was dangerous to do, that someday she would mistake him for a darkspawn and skewer him. But he only laughed at her, his touch tender and timid.

Secrets and mysteries didn't matter now, of course. The Landsmeet changed everything; there was no going back.

He was a King.

And she betrayed him.

The camp was quiet the evening after she did it, morose even. Where once there was laughter and companionship, now there was only a disconsolate pall that hung over their shoulders like a heavy cloak. One of their own was gone, only to have been replaced by another, an outsider, a man who trusted them as little as they trusted him. And she knew the others blamed her for it; one or two of them openly voiced their opinions when given the opportunity. The rest expressed their discontent by simply refusing to meet her gaze.

It wasn't as if her decision had been easy. No. In actuality, it was one of the most difficult things she had ever done. Ripping her own heart out of her chest would have been less painful; at least her death would have been quick. Instead, she got the dubious honor of continuing, of _lasting_, enduring this weary path until the Blight was ended and the Archdemon lay dead at her feet.

Or _she_ lay dead at _its_ feet.

She was able to bear the sullenness of her company to a point, keeping her hands busy and her mind occupied with sharpening her weapons. The easy rhythm of red steel against whetstone was comforting, a straightforward task that made sense in a world that was turned on its head. When she chanced to glance up across the fire, however, and saw dark hair instead of blonde, the reflection of flames flickering back at her from ice blue eyes instead of warm amber, the stranger sitting in _his_ spot, the sheer wrongness of what she had done made her feel ill. She broke and ran for it, making good her retreat. She escaped into the comparatively friendly recess of the woods, and lost herself amongst its trees.

But he found her.

One moment she was alone, the forest still and soft around her; the next, he was there, silent and unyielding. Her heart slammed hopefully, painfully against her ribs as he appeared suddenly in front of her, his armor gleaming dully in the silver moonlight. The rest of him was shadows.

They stood facing one another, only a few paces separating them. She tried to see his expression, some trace of emotion, but there was nothing to discern. His only movement was the slight flaring of his nostrils, the breaths that coalesced in the cool air between them. He looked so different, so far removed from that curious mixture of confident warrior and playful boy he had been when she first met him in Ostagar. There was a gentleness about him then; it was not in the man before her now.

He was the first to break the quiet, and she winced at the raw ache in his voice.

"Why, Elissa?" he asked, "_Why?_"

She took a step away from him, recoiling as her hope died a painful, bitter death in her belly. This was not to be a happy reunion, then, with apologies and repentance. No, he wanted an accounting: he was here looking for answer, to demand them of her.

She didn't think she could give them.

"Because," she replied quietly, unable to meet his dark gaze as she made the attempt to explain, "Because it was the right thing to do."

"How can you say that?" He gestured angrily towards the south, towards the Blighted lands, towards the ruins of Ostagar and Lothering, and all the dead in between. "How can you say it when my brother's body lays on a funeral pyre, your _King_ deceived?" His voice rose as he continued, "How can you say it when Duncan's body lies broken and unburied?"

She swallowed hard, determined to hold her tears in check. If this was the way things were to be, the way he wanted them to remain, then he was not a man to whom she would show her tears. He was no longer a man with whom she could share her burdens.

"The death of one man does not justify the murder of another, Alistair," she answered, dismayed when her voice cracked on his name.

He laughed, a furious and fierce noise, nothing like any laugh she had ever heard him utter. She shuddered inside, her guilt a bile that rose in her throat.

_She_ caused this. _She_ had changed him, had been the driver and the catalyst, and her belief that it had been the right thing was becoming ever more slippery. She clung to it desperately, even as she felt it sliding away.

"How can you say that," he asked again, taking a step towards her, his tone lowering dangerously as he loomed above her, "When Howe's body lies rotting in the dungeons of his estate?"

At the mention of the deceased Arl of Amaranthine's name, the _snake_ that had plotted the deaths of her entire family, her guilt morphed instantaneously into ire, her eyes seeking his and catching hold. No more warmth there; the amber irises were wrathful, begging retribution.

She was not intimidated, found courage in her own resentment. "You go too far," she snapped up at him, unconsciously widening her stance for combat, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as if aching for the feel of a pommel, "Howe was a traitorous monster who killed out of avarice and a sick desire to see others bleed. His death was _personal_." She snarled the word.

"As Loghain's should have been for _me_," he shrieked, his cold façade abruptly shattering into searing rage, "_He_ killed _my_ family!" He smashed a gauntlet-covered fist against his breastplate with a clang that resonated around them. It was a sound of battle, an echo of war; it was a heartrending reminder of loss.

In the face of his hatred, the agony in him, her vehemence evaporated as quickly as it had formed and she squeezed her eyes shut, turning away. She knew well what it felt like; she was experiencing it now, all over again. He would never understand, she realized, never comprehend the sense in her actions, and they would never be what they once had been. He was lost to her, lost like so many, many others.

"It's not the same," she sighed, withdrawing, "You know this." The past year had quickly taught her that quitting the field was sometimes better than making a stand. That same hard won experience was now telling her this was not a confrontation she could win.

It was time to put this to an end.

He was not yet ready to allow her retreat. He reached out and roughly grabbed her arm, halting her flight. She felt his fingers leaving marks against her skin even through the drakeskin leathers she wore. "Tell me how it is not," he growled, forcibly shaking her in rhythm with his words, "Tell me how slaughter differs from slaughter."

He had never touched her in anger before, had never physically struck her or bruised her. Before tonight, she would have claimed he was incapable of doing so, that he would sooner have fallen on his own blade than do so. But he was different now, infinitely colder and harder, with a cruelty about him that startled her in its intensity.

Her defensive senses triggered, and she instinctively yanked away from his grip, her hands reaching for the blades at her back. "Intent," she spat at him, pulling her sword and dagger to fore in demonstration, "A man who kills for personal gain can_not_ be compared to one who does what he thinks he must to save a nation." If he really wanted a fight, if retribution was truly what he had come for, then he would have it.

"A nation he would've seen destroyed for his own pride!" he cried, his voice shaking as he drew his own weapon, whipping it violently over his head. It was his father's sword, King Maric's sword, the runed blade she had found at the ruin of Ostagar and given into his keeping. It was magnificent, and he wielded it now as he had then: with deadly efficiency.

She was prepared for him, and blocked his first blow, catching it between crossed sword and dagger. Silverite and red steel screeched against each other in protest, and he used his impetus to shove her backward as roared a battle cry in her face. She shrugged the shock off, however, having heard it during the heat of other battles. Using the strength in her legs as a brace, she managed to hold her ground, her heels digging furrows in the earth. Gathering herself, she pressed him back, pushing him away. But he only came at her again, this time with his shield, intending to bash her. This time, she took the hit, allowing her body to move with the force of it, and gained some breathing space as she rolled away from him.

They had fought together too many times before. A point had been reached where each knew where the other would be, no matter whether they were looking or not. It wasn't the same thing as the taint, as him finding her in the deepness of the forest; this was an intuition, beaten into them after hundreds and hundreds of hours sparring together, of watching each others' backs in combat. They were two autonomous entities that had merged to use a single awareness. Their communication was extrasensory, their responses flawless, and many a darkspawn had fallen before their inexorable onslaught.

Fighting alongside him had become an art, an intimacy, as personal an action as making love with him, and just as unforgettable.

Now, facing one another as foes, they were entirely equal. They were attuned to one another, one give, the other take as they fell back and feinted, advanced and assailed with easy grace. They circled an invisible center, two cunning predators searching for an opening or a weakness in their rival; there was no room for error, and neither wavered. They danced, wholly balanced, each knowing the steps to this routine intimately, following it precisely.

It was maddening, frustrating, and she wished for nothing more than an _end_ to it.

But Maker help her, it was all so devastatingly _familiar_ that she longed for them to continue on in this manner forever.

He was the first to hesitate, to falter in the established ebb and flow; she thought it was over when his shoulders bowed, the tip of his sword falling towards the dirt. She interpreted his stance and mimicked it, lowering her own weapons just a fraction.

He stood there, scrutinizing her through narrowed lids, his gaze still severe despite his weary countenance. His jaw clenched; she saw the muscle tense, and felt her own retighten in response.

He was not yet finished with her.

"Cousland," he spat her name as if it were a curse, "_Traitor_." He drew himself up, his eyes gleaming with a light that some may have called holy, but most would have named madness. "Going forward, that's what the name _Cousland_ will mean," he told her, his bearing every bit that of a King, "Everyone will know that your family is _nothing_ but oathbreakers and liars. You will be stripped of your title, your lands, your wealth, even your name. _Everything._ You are the last," he snarled, "And you end your line in disgrace."

Each word may as well have been slashes of Maric's blade on her body; they cut at her, ripped at something vulnerable deep inside her gut. It was as if she were back in Highever, back in the larder, watching as her father bled out on the floor, as her mother tried to hold the pieces of him together while gazing up at her in despair. She had been helpless to do anything to ease their grief or aid them in any way, inadequate and cowardly; she had run away when they needed her most, ran to the Grey Wardens, ran with Duncan, and swore imprudent vengeance in empty remuneration. And naught had changed with Howe's execution; her parents were still dead, her brother was still missing, her self-importance had created hatred in the man she loved, and she was alone_._

It didn't matter that her lands and her status were no longer her own. It didn't matter because she had already lost them all the moment she had ingested the darkspawn taint, and awakened from the Joining. Grey Wardens held no lands or titles, and there was no shame in it; but she had still been a Cousland in her heart, it had still _meant _something to her. And now that too was lost to her, lost as he was to her, like her parents, like everyone and everything she had ever loved.

The path she followed was but a farce, and she wandered a world in which she was lost to all.

What was a person with no home, no family, no friends, and no name? Could they still be considered a person, or were they but a ghost, an apparition to either flee or ignore? She felt the stitches along her poorly mended heart tear anew with the knowledge that he was right: she was nothing.

With a howl that sounded very much like that of a dying mabari, she leapt at him. She allowed her anger to take her, allowed it to drive her, and recklessly rushed him head-on. Her intention was to kill; she cared not whether it was him or her that fell.

She had underestimated him, having always valued the weight of actions above words. But he had always had a witty tongue; just because he had never used it to wound did not mean that he _could_ not. He gauged her reactions to his verbal battering and anticipated how she would respond to this alteration in their choreography, effortlessly dodging her thoughtless frontal assault.

He slid around her charge, his blade swift and keen. She felt the finely honed edge along her rib cage, splitting effortlessly through the tough drakeskin armor, slicing through her skin as if it were so much paper.

The pain was different, almost welcomed in its immediacy and its sharpness. It blotted out the sting of loss, and she hissed out a breath, unsure whether it was from hurt or relief. She sensed heat, felt him yet next to her, close, as if holding her up, supporting her as the friend he once had been. She perceived his moment of indecision, of unexpected reluctance: they hung suspended for a breathless instant, their bodies pressed ardently against one another, and the very world itself seemed frozen in uncertainty. A second later, however, he fell away, taking his sword with him, and she watched as an arc of thick droplets followed behind, shining black and wet in the moonlight.

She fell to her knees in the leaves, unable to hold herself up without his strength to bear her up. Her dagger and sword slipped from her hands unheeded. She gazed up at him, a great and powerful figure from her reduced vantage, his outline softened in the shadows. He was watching her silently in return, unsympathetic, the runes of his weapon darkened and running with her life-blood.

She drew in a ragged breath. "Finish it then," she said to him, feeling the tears she had earlier hidden now running unchecked down her face. "If that's what you really want, kill me and be done with it."

It was only reasonable, after all. He had always been a good man, was a genuinely decent man, and possessed an innate idea of justice, of what was right and wrong. But he had also been naïve, even ignorant, in the true ways of the world. She had taken it upon herself to change that, had recreated and reshaped him; she had coaxed him at first, then prodded him and plunged him into a life he loathed.

The result was the creature standing before her.

Where before he might have weakened or wavered, he now could be strong; he would not allow another to control him or overrule him. He could assertively temper the ambitions of a power-hungry queen, and resist the imitation-uncle who thought only of his own greedy aspirations. He could now recognize the more subtle machinations of all men in the court, the seemingly insignificant evils they committed against themselves and one another in their continuous struggles for dominance, and he would not be a pawn in their games.

He had always been a protector by nature, a Warden in every implication of the word, apt to jump to the front of every foray, his shield raised and providing a buffer for his companions. And now he could safeguard a country he claimed to love, as well as those who lived in it, just as staunchly and stoically, without the hassle of pity.

He was a King.

And she betrayed him.

If he required her blood in payment, it was only his by right, a claim _she_ had afforded him. It was a due that she was more than willing to pay.

He continued surveying her where she kneeled before him, his face blank of any emotion as he stood motionless. Her tears were nearly blinding her, the agony of her wounds intensifying with each breath she drew. She wanted nothing more than to seek solace in silent numbness, to have him sink his sword into her heart and end its torment.

She sucked in as much air as she could, releasing it in a final scream at him: "Kill me!"

Her command broke whatever spell he was under; he moved in her direction, putting his feet down cautiously, raising his sword as he closed on her. She welcomed his approach, lowering her head in supplication and closing her eyes. She was panting, her every gasp burning her as she waited for the chill of silverite against her neck, praying that the end would come quickly.

But Maric's blade would not touch her again.

His voice once again broke the stillness of the forest, and he was very near, the single word but a whisper in her ears. "No."

It was an effort to lift her head a second time, to gaze at him blearily through crusted eyes. He was only a few inches away, squatting down so that he was on the same level as she. His own gaze was hard and unforgiving, two amber gems that were as chilly as the wintry air surrounding them. Entirely gone was the man she loved; he was a stranger now, a construct of her own cynical design, and a man she had never met and would never know.

"Please," she entreated weakly, not sure anymore what she was even begging for. The taste of copper and ashes was sour on her tongue.

He shook his head slowly, unwilling to grant her even this small, final mercy. "No," he said again, bitterness like acid dripping from his tone, "You'll live as the traitor you are, just as _you _let live the traitor who now stands in my place at the fireside. It is a mockery _you_ permitted, and one you will suffer." Something flickered and shifted in his eyes, something small but very much resembling sorrow, as he shook his head once more and muttered in a low voice, "As _I_ suffer."

Her chin fell when he pushed himself up, her head too heavy to vertically maintain, but she listened to him leave, following the trail of his footsteps until they faded into the background noise of the woods. She knew this was the last; he would not find her again.

At some point, she fell forward onto the forest loam, but such was the anguish in her heart and the pain in her side that she barely took notice of the blunt-force shock. She drifted, floating in half-waking nightmares of torture and regret. She was semi-aware of an iciness seeping into her fingers and toes as she began to lose feeling in them, semi-aware of her life-force oozing out from the injury along her ribcage, but these things carried little significance and were not enough to draw her fully awake.

The sun rose at some point, but it brought no heat. The light only burned against her closed eyelids; she saw his tawny gaze in her dreams, the blighted emptiness of them reminding her of stories her father had told about the Silent Plains of Navarra. His eyes echoed the wreckage of that land, the desolation, and they froze her.

She wasn't sure if it was that same day, or many days later, when she felt a familiar tugging inside her. It was a pull very much like that of a darkspawn approaching, though milder. It started in her belly, and quickly spread throughout her entire system, following the sluggish pumping of her blood through her veins. Her heart stuttered feebly, and her mind called out for action against the danger, but there was little her muscles could do to react.

There was some slight surprise when she felt her body turned over onto its back; she had not heard any footsteps drawing near. She felt the discomfort of limbs being shifted that had not been moved in many, many hours, and a bone-deep throbbing started up in her side. The pulsation caused an involuntary groan to issue from her throat, startling her nearly as much as the presence of another person.

"Alive then," the individual in question rumbled deeply, his voice caustic and sounding almost disappointed by the assessment. There was a sneer in his voice when he muttered, "Barely, anyway."

She felt her chin tilted backward by a large, callused hand, and a small glass bottle was put to her mouth. A thick liquid was poured down her throat, and she swallowed mechanically. The taste of the poultice was foul but recognizable, and she felt the curative take affect almost immediately. It was like taking a shot of Ogren's strongest dwarven whiskey: warmth flared in her chest and tingled outward, gently washing away her physical pangs.

She sighed in relief and tried to open her eyes. Everything was fuzzy, out of focus, and the sun was ten times too bright. She squinted as a murky apparition leaned over her; it was a man with long dark hair, two thin braids dangling down in front of his ears to frame harsh, weathered cheekbones.

"Who did this?" he asked her, his words demanding, more an order than a question. She felt his hands on her shoulders, gripping lightly; his voice may have held anger, but his touch was considerate.

Her mind abruptly supplied a name: _Loghain_.

He found her.

She shook her head, unable to summon the strength to tell him, feeling herself drifting away on the current of warmth the poultice provided. She coasted on its tides, her nightmares temporarily relinquishing her.

When she peeled her eyes open for a second time a little later, she found she was being carried, cradled in his arms and against his chest like a child. She most likely would have balked had she not been so injured; she was not a woman who enjoyed the feeling of being coddled. At this moment, however, if she were to be completely honest, she would have admitted that she was not entirely displeased by his holding her; his touch was that of a man who knew what it meant to be a father, to be both provider and guardian, teacher and master. His hands were impersonal, if gentle, and she did not get the impression that he was cosseting her, nor that she should be fearful of him. He was carrying her simply because he needed her to move and she could not do so on her own.

He was not wearing armor, a discovery that brought pleasant disbelief when her cheek brushed up against the wall of his chest. She let it remain there, resting against a shirt that was soft and body-warmed. With her nose buried against him, she found that he smelled of simple things: sweet-grass and fresh churned soil, camp-fires and wood-smoke, cured rabbit furs, soap and clean sweat, and, hovering just beneath it all, the slight tell-tale musk of mabari hound.

He smelled of Ferelden, she realized, of _home_, and for a few moments, she was _there_; she was savoring the blissfully sweet feel of the caring embrace holding her close. For the arms carrying her were no longer those of a man who barely tolerated her, but those of a father, a friend, a man who comforted and supported her, who cared not that she was without a place or name in the world. She need not hide in dark, secret places; the sun was welcomed on her body, and she remembered what it was to be found, to belong.

With a soft, wistful breath, she settled herself contentedly against him, and diminished back into the Fade.

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><p><em>More to come, I promise! Next up is some one-on-one time with Loghain and exploring a little bit of <em>his _darker side... or maybe it's his lighter side...?_


	2. Lost Hero

_This chapter is somewhat of a surprise to me. It came out of nowhere... was definitely not how I saw the second chapter of this story in my head, but I liked where it was taking me. _

_Let me know if you feel the same :)_

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><p>She was disoriented that first night she awoke; instead of being under her own woven wool blankets, she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings that were stark and masculine. She grasped that they could not belong to Alistair with a strange mix of distress and relief; his sleeping area was kept in constantly varying stages of disarray. Laundry, armor, and assorted bits of weaponry were dumped wherever there was an open space, trinkets and toys he had found on their journeying interspersed among the piles.<p>

This space was glaringly plain in comparison: there were no clothes, no papers or journal, no trifles or baubles or otherwise little pieces of what made up a person's individuality. The bedroll on which she lay was mostly made up of finely treated animal skins or rough furs, and was clean and warm. There _was_ a large pack in the corner across from her, but it looked to be tightly tied, sealed off from unwanted intrusion into its contents.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, flinching when she felt a stab of pain race up her side. Shoving the blanket off herself, she found someone had removed her drakeskin leathers and replaced them with apparel more suitable for sleep: a coarse linen shirt covered her shoulders and torso, while a pair of men's trousers had been pulled on over her legs.

Gingerly lifting the side of the shirt away from her skin, she examined for a moment the festered, grisly scar that now ran under her right arm and down along her rib cage. No doubt attended to by magical services, the damage appeared to be largely healed. Even so, it still held some redness and irritation, and caused a good deal of discomfort when she moved her sword arm.

She had gained many scars over the past year, had come to terms with the fact that she would never again have the smooth, supple skin of her youth, so this new blemish did not impact her in any offensive manner to her vanity.

The possibility of losing the use of her arm, however, was cause for some immediate anxiety.

A passing, brilliant flare of grief nearly crushed her as she comprehended that she could very soon experience yet another loss, this one both more insignificant to her being and so much more imperative to her mission.

She experienced an impulsive, desperate need to see Wynne.

She stood, feeling instantly dizzy and nauseous as she did so. She had experienced enough blood loss to know that she was feeling the after-affects; she was going to have to eat something, and soon, even if her stomach rebelled at the knowledge.

She was standing in the same spot, swaying slightly from lightheadedness, when the flap at the front of the tent opened and he stepped inside.

He clearly did not expect her to be up; he hesitated in mid-stride, and one brow arched in what was likely a demonstration of his derision for her. "You are awake," he commented, a simple, flat statement of fact, as if he was talking more to himself than to her.

"I-" She took a step as she tried to speak, and lurched forward, losing her equilibrium as the world spun around her. She promptly crouched closer to the ground, feeling no steadier the less vertical she became. She could feel her gorge rising; her stomach clenched, her body seeking to retch the sourness outward, and she took several deep breaths to avoid doing so.

Maker, but she did not feel well.

"If you vomit on my furs due to your own stubbornness, _you_ will be the one sleeping in them," she heard him growl.

_His_ furs.

Very likely _his_ tent, as well.

There was naught that she could do to respond to his verbal prod, however, as she squeezed her eyes shut and endeavored to keep from doing just as he had said. She could sense his exasperated regard, heard him shift when she did not stir for a few moments.

"Infantile fool," he muttered crossly under his breath. He moved then, and she felt sturdy hands close around her biceps. "Lay back," he told her in milder tones as he used faint pressure to guide her back onto the bedroll.

Her stomach was still churning; once she was lying down, she curled herself into the fetal position around it, wrapping her arms about her middle. "Wynne," she grated out, hoping the healer was close by.

"Aye," he replied, "I will get her."

His grip held for just a second too long before departing, squeezing gently against her. The gesture was one of reassurance, and not something she would have questioned in another of her companions.

He was not just another of her companions.

She gave her mind something to ponder, deliberating about it as she waited for him to return, attempting to create a distraction from the spinning room and her aching side. The answer was not challenging: she supposed that he was making sure she would not spew bile on his precious furs while he ran for Wynne.

The tugging in her blood told her when he was one his way back, and she recognized the rustle of the tent flap; a few seconds later, two cool, dry palms cupped her cheeks, coaxing her eyelids open as an alleviating ripple of magic coursed along her skin.

She stared up into empathetic, experienced grey eyes.

"That should help a little," the mage murmured, her breath smelling of hops and cloves, and the many other unidentifiable herbs she worked with daily.

The older woman looked worn, weary and drained, and could only conjure a half-smile when she noticed Elissa watching her. "Sorry, dear," she said, speaking every word as if she meant it, "I would have been closer, but I honestly thought you would be sleeping for a few more hours."

As her sickness faded into the placid waves of healing incantation, she eased the hold she had on herself, her arms slackening from around her waist. A twinge persisted in her stronger appendage; though not as sharp as before, it was enough of a reminder for her to ask apprehensively, "My arm?"

The mage glanced down at her sword arm, took one hand from her cheek and set it over the heated weal on her side. Another swell of magic took the feverishness out of it, further reducing the leftover sting.

"Obstinate to heal," she commented earnestly to the rogue, "Too much longer without treatment, and there would have been little I could do to mend it." The enchanter skimmed her fingers over the younger woman's forehead, brushing away a few stray locks of hair; it was a maternal action and one that felt unusually agreeable. "You lost a great deal of blood, and had me very nervous that I would not be able to revive you at all."

"I'm not that easy to kill," Elissa returned, forcing a confidence into her demeanor that she did not feel.

"Who did this?"

It was the echo of a question she had been asked before; glancing over to where the former teryn was lurking, she found his blue eyes intent as he observed both women.

It was he that had asked.

Wynne scowled over her shoulder. "Do you wish to interrogate her when she only now shows signs of recovery?" the healer snapped defensively, "Clearly she does not know or she would say."

His gaze narrowed with obvious scorn on the mage, then contemptuously shifted to the rogue; under his glare, she felt a coil of wariness twist near her heart. Maybe it was his years, his knowledge and experience matched against her lack of them, but she could have sworn by the Maker that he grasped, at least to some degree, precisely what had occurred.

"She knows," he affirmed, crossing his arms over his chest with a decisive nod.

She felt her shoulders tense with the sudden realization that she had given away far too much of herself with one unassuming look. He had seen far too deeply inside of her; it was unnerving for a woman who thought her walls sturdily built, who had managed to fool almost everyone, including her closest companions and her own lover, into believing whatever she wanted them to believe.

_He_ was not so presumptive, not so trusting, and would not be so readily fooled.

Her troubled thoughts were pulled back to Wynne, who scoffed at Loghain's estimation as she returned her attention back to her patient. "Then maybe it is a matter of her not wanting to tell _you_," the older woman retorted, though a slight smudge of uncertainty passed across the healer's face where before there had been none.

"More likely that she does not want to say in front of _you_," he replied, not rising to the mage's bait in the slightest, his tone remaining disassociated; it was as if they were speaking of nothing more interesting than the weather.

She peered around Wynne to meet his eyes once again, finding that he had not withdrawn his scrutiny of her. "Your judgment," he continued speaking to the mage, though he did not look away, "Would likely mean a great deal to her, good or bad, whereas I am an indifferent party. My opinions, I'm sure, matter very little in her reasoning."

He was both right and wrong in his assessment; he was a grim, hard man, one who had ruthlessly walked away from a battle that had seen hundreds of his own people, including his king, mercilessly slaughtered by darkspawn. He had sent assassins to hunt and destroy the last of the Grey Wardens, had callously ordered Ferelden elves into slavery, all while staging a bloody civil war in which more of his country's people had been carelessly slain. He had been disillusioned and disastrously mistaken; there had been instances in which her hatred of him was nearly irrepressible, and many nights she had lain awake, imagining the multiple excruciating fashions in which his death could find him.

He was the betrayer, the rebel, the deserter.

He was the Traitor of Ostagar.

He was the Hero of River Dane.

He was the Savior of Ferelden.

As children, she and her brother had both listened in awe as her father spun stories of him, of how he and King Maric had pushed back the devious Orlesian usurper and reclaimed the throne for the rightful heir. Loghain Mac Tir had ever remained a larger than life figure in her imagination, a man who could achieve the impossible, no matter the odds against him. Her impressions had bordered on hero-worship; when she had been old enough to attend the Landsmeets with her parents, she had witnessed him from afar and perceived that what others called brusqueness in him was actually candidness instead, and that his disdain for the proceedings was, in actuality, an equal to her own uneasiness in having to be present there at all. She had seen a man who stood above the frilly obligations of the courts, a man more inclined and better suited to action rather than words, and her ideal of him had only amplified to greater volumes.

After all the crimes he had committed, he was _still_ the hero to her.

His pedestal had been taken, and his once sparkling image long marred with imperfections and fallibilities, but it was as he was kneeling before her, unafraid and accepting, that she had fully grasped the reality of him; there existed men that were virtuous and men that were evil, and still others that held both inside them. In her pursuit of the greater good, she herself had done things both benevolent and immoral, all while continuing to hold him to an impossible standard.

The truth was that Loghain Mac Tir was no different than anyone else: he was just a man.

But that was not wholly correct, either, because he was both a man _and_ a hero.

A man made himself, but only his people could make him a hero, and only _they_ could take that title away. He was a man who did what no one else could, who forged ahead where no one else would, and his people loved him for it. He made human miscalculations and mistakes along the way, but his people forgave him for it; his errors in the last year were already being forgotten, brushed away like so much dust.

A man died in minutes.

A hero lasted for generations.

For his faults, she despised and distrusted the man; for his victories, she badly craved the advice and approval of the hero.

She was not sure how much of these thoughts he could see, how much he already understood about her, but she thought she saw a small flicker of recognition in the blackness of his irises.

If he could see into her, she could see into him, in return.

His eyes turned yet more guarded, and he twisted his head to look away as Wynne asked heatedly, "Is it any wonder she would think so little of you? After everything you have done to her?" The mage touched Elissa's cheek once more, and she felt a last, lingering pulse of magic wash through her before the healer settled back onto her haunches, glowering up at Loghain. "You are an oathbreaker and a liar, Loghain Mac Tir."

The words were like a physical shock; they were the very words that Alistair had used against _her_, and she jerked in reaction, almost brought to tears by the aching in her memory.

She was pushing herself up onto her elbows as Loghain said, "Madam, you have no idea the oaths I have taken. Do not presume to know which of them I have broken." There was a deep weariness staining these words, though she could tell he was trying hard to conceal it beneath disinterest.

The mage opened her mouth to retort, but Elissa stopped her by reaching out and clasping her wrist. Wynne looked down at her, surprised by the interruption. "Enough," she told the older woman quietly, shaking her head. "That's enough."

Wynne hesitated, blinking in indecision.

She knew that the healer had been just as aggrieved by the losses at Ostagar as any of them had been, and was probably similarly distressed by Loghain's presence here; she would hazard a guess that the mage, who had been alive during the occupation and had heard the stories of the Savior of Ferelden firsthand, struggled with conflicting images of him, as well.

Wynne sighed and shook her head, disappointment settling on her shoulders even as she forced a slight smile. She patted the younger woman's hand, and deliberately responded, "Of course, child. You need the rest."

She nodded; it was as good a reason as any to terminate their argument. "I'd like to go back to my tent," she said, pushing herself up further into a semi-seated state, leaning against a few rolled up skins that served as a pillow, "If I can."

"No." He was deadly serious in this, his response immediate and leaving no room for rebuttal. "Until you tell us who the culprit is that attacked you, I want you guarded at all times. Since I have the largest tent, you stay here."

She began to protest, but a second sigh from Wynne stopped her. The mage frowned at Loghain, then regarded Elissa unhappily. "As much as I hate to admit it," the healer told her, crinkling her nose in distaste, "He _is_ right. This is the largest tent in the camp, and I'd prefer you were watched over until your arm is up to swinging a sword again."

Her fingers twitched in response, curling inward. Her anxieties about her ability to ever again affectively wield a weapon had never left, had continuously been gnawing at her since she awoke. She wanted to trust her friend's evaluation and have faith that the arm would heal, but self-preservation told her to be wary; another loss so soon after Alistair would be ruinous if she was not prepared for it.

She had little desire to stay in Loghain's tent, but arguing about it with both him and Wynne held even less appeal. She glanced back and forth between them before giving her acquiescence.

"If you need anything, or begin to ache or feel ill," Wynne told her, "I will not be far. And get some sleep, young lady," she ordered, slipping into the voice that any soldier would be quite familiar with, "It is the best healing magic there is."

She turned on her heel and walked from the tent, not acknowledging Loghain's presence again at all.

She tolerated his renewed cool appraisal with little interest, suddenly too forlorn and tired to care. She closed her eyes, unwilling to match him stare for stare; she felt him retreat a moment later and was relieved.

The reprieve did not last. When he re-entered the tent for a third time, the smells he brought with him made her mouth water enough so that she was obliged to drag her eyelids open.

He was standing above her holding a bowl in one hand, a hunk of bread and cheese in the other. "Now that you aren't threatening to puke all over my furs," he said dryly, "It would probably be best if you ate something." He did not make another move, however, until she gestured him forward with a wave of her hand.

He conscientiously stepped around her legs, handing her the bread and cheese while setting the bowl on the ground next to her bedroll.

"Ferelden stew," he grunted when she looked askance at the sticky substance in the bowl, "I'm sure you're acquainted with it."

And, indeed, she _was_ familiar with the bland, greyish paste that served as typical camp fodder. The stew normally held little flavor and even less enticement; its one redeeming trait was that it always tasted better after a serious injury, its hardiness being one of the best curatives for getting a warrior back on his feet.

As she dug in, Loghain went to sit next to the pack in the corner, untying it to pull out bits of armor. She watched surreptitiously from the corner of her eye as he laid each piece out in front of him, the design customary in nature. Once the ritual was complete, he pulled out a small vial of oil, along with a worn scrap of cloth, and began diligently cleaning each piece in turn.

His hands were no strangers to hard work; they were covered in multiple white scars, some large, others small and hardly visible. He held the heavy silverite parts effortlessly as he scoured, his fingers noticeably educated with the task at hand, his movements even and sure. The routine seemed intimate to him, one he had completed many times in this exact manner.

His repetitive gestures were peaceful, reassuring in a way that she had not formerly detected, and she sat entranced as his hands labored over the precious metal.

"You know how I got this armor, don't you?" he eventually asked, disturbing the serene ambiance and jolting her from her reverie.

She turned towards him, but he was fully absorbed with his chore. "I do."

"And do you know _why_ I took it?"

Everyone had their theories. Most assumed he had taken it purely out of efficiency; the armor was well-made, and enchanted against most forms of attack. Still others thought he had taken it as a trophy, an arrogant testament that he would display amongst the nobility as a reminder to them that he was no longer a commoner. There were a bitter few who hissed darkly that he had stolen the armor for his own morbid desires: Loghain Mac Tir, a man so consumed with hatred for the Orlesians because he secretly craved to be one of them.

"There are many rumors," she told him carefully, "But it would be presumptive of me to guess your genuine feelings on the matter."

"Of course it would," he sneered, the action breaching his pattern of monotonous responses, "Though that rarely stops people from speculating."

Unsure what to say, and uncertain as to where he sought to go with the conversation, she went back to eating, taking small, slow bites to ease her stomach. If all he pursued was argument, he would not get it from her.

"I took it," he said, carrying the conversation when it was clear she would not, "As a reminder."

She considered as she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. When she swallowed, she asked cautiously, curiously, "Of what?"

"Of our loss," he said, and he was once more in control of himself, aloof and distant, "Of _everything_ Ferelden has lost."

His declaration froze her solid, her muscles locking up in fear and shame as she unexpectedly heard Alistair's words of anguish resound in her mind and felt her own loss sweep through her. He did not notice her reaction; he was _still_ not looking at her, still cleaning that damned set of armor as if it were the only thing he had ever aspired to do.

She felt that same cold twisting in her chest, and wondered what he knew, _how_ he knew. Certainly she was not so transparent.

Her throat was tight, making speech difficult. "You _want_ to be reminded?" she rasped, not comprehending why anyone would choose such a thing. If she were granted one wish, it would be to crawl into a hole and _forget_.

If the Blight were not a factor, she might have done so.

His reply was sardonic. "It is amazing how the recollection of such things can keep you focused in war."

It begged the question if he was truly sane; she presented the contemplation to him, still sounding strangled. "That road leads to madness. Always being forced to remember and relive the agony -"

She paused and couldn't continue.

He was silent, his hands never faltering as they moved across the sheen of appropriated Orlesian armor. When he did speak, he was introspective and hushed, "Perhaps it did. It is not wise to live solely in the past."

He suddenly stopped polishing, the absence of movement so abrupt that she flinched. His blue eyes caught hers, held her forcefully. "Do you now wish to speak of who wounded you?" he asked her pointedly, low and brooding.

She did, she _did_ want to tell him, wanted to lay it out for someone, _anyone_ else to deal with. The man, the hero, it mattered not; her loss was too vast, too great for one person alone to bear, and she could feel it pounding down on her, threatening to squash her with every breath.

She stared into the depths of him, and felt herself begin to shake, small tremors running up and down her spine; the recognition she had discerned earlier was but a reflection of herself in his icy glare, and it shook her to the core.

She glanced away, averse to acceding with what she saw. She felt embarrassed and beaten down; any link between them was merely a figment of her guilt-ridden fancy. They were _nothing_ alike.

_Oathbreakers and liars_.

_You are nothing._

She heard the words echoing in her ears and she knew she was being dishonest; she was lying to herself.

Her appetite was gone, and she set the rest of her food aside; she plucked fretfully at the blankets, and took note when he recommenced shining his armor. Easing her body further into the bedroll, she hoped his attention was thus otherwise occupied for the remainder of the night.

The tent was quiet, despite the occasional soft squeaks of oily cloth rubbed over silverite and the clink of metal against metal. She could hear the cracking and popping of the campfire outside, and tried to differentiate amongst the sporadic murmurs of her companions. A bark of laughter could be heard now and again, and she felt her insides clench with old doubts and new regrets.

Sighing softly, she began easing tense muscles, compelling them to relax as she began with her legs and moved upward.

The hum of voices drifted into silence as the fire burnt down. She grew lethargic, her stomach content with food, her body mollified with healing magic. Even her mind calmed, lulled into stillness by the consistent simple sound of burnishing silverite.

She did not sleep, found it unnecessary in the tranquility surrounding her.

It was possibly hours later when he spoke again, and she was not sure if he was speaking to her, himself, or the Maker when he said into the stillness, "I'll not be wearing it again."

She waited for him to continue, her thoughts muddy with lassitude; when he did not, she rolled onto her side to see if he expected some sort of result.

The Orlesian armor was shining even in the murky shadows of the tent, every piece fastidiously oiled and laying out in front of him. He was kneeling before it, his expression guarded as he gazed at it. "As my commander, I'll expect you to replace it," he said, barely audible.

Perhaps it was her drowsiness, but his words were a revelation that she could not figure out. She sorted through all he had said, puzzling over what he just told her.

If what he preferred was new armor, she would get him a replacement; his motive for wanting one, however, was a complete mystery to her.

Unable to come up with any reasoning that made sense, she asked a sensible question.

"Why?"

He was waiting for her to ask; his reply was swift. "Because," he answered, his form still bowed before the pieces of armor as if he was praying at a grave, "The Hero of River Dane is dead."

There was faint whisper of relief in his words; she deemed it the Fade playing tricks on her.


	3. Lost Control

_Revamped this entire chapter... still not my favorite, but I like it a lot better now. Let me know what you think!_

**_DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing, Bioware owns all! **_**

* * *

><p>She had always been an energetic child, more inclined to rough war-games with her brother rather than remaining in her rooms to play with dresses and dolls. Any sort of forced inactivity had driven her into wild fits, a fact that amused her father and exasperated her mother.<p>

As a young lady, she had learned how to channel her reckless side; when she was required at court or amongst polite company, she stored her energy, secreting it away as she fulfilled her duty to her family. Once those duties had been seen to, she allowed it release; disguising herself as a commoner, she would practice her sword-craft with the regular soldiers or wander the crowded marketplaces of Denerim.

Sometime during her final departure from Highever, her craving for adventure had changed into an altogether different beast, becoming not so much _wanted_ as it was _needed_. She had been secretly, shamefully relieved by the tumult triggered at Ostagar, and the string of events that followed. As one of the last Grey Wardens left in the country, she was constantly either fighting for her life, or fleeing for it; both options left blessed little time for remembering her dead family.

Battling werewolves, undead, and darkspawn had come easy to her; challenges only arose when one or more of the party was injured in battle, requiring time to rest and heal. She often wandered far abroad from their camp during those times, hunting or scouting with her hound, unable to control her restlessness as she kept her memories at bay.

She had been called a fool more times than she could count, her friends little understanding what drove her. Alistair had often been hurt by her departures in the beginning, sulking for days after she returned. When he discovered how to find her, he simply joined her forages; she knew he never quite grasped _why_ she wandered so often, but he always enjoyed the time alone with her and she did not discourage him.

After he found her for the last time, she found herself incapable of roaming in reality while she healed. She therefore spent a great deal of time roaming the Fade, her dreams disturbing and full of vengeful kings, grinning darkspawn, and burning dragons. She would often shudder awake from them to find Loghain watching her, his dark gaze hooded. He never asked of what she dreamed; she wondered if he saw the same things when he closed his eyes to sleep.

When her arm and side were pain free, she jumped back into the routine of camp with relish, eager to return to the road and the battles that lay upon it.

She explicitly requested him as her opponent for her first sparring session, knowing that he would not moderate himself for her sake; where another of her companions might have pulled their attacks in difference to her wound, she figured he would fight with the same brutal tenacity that had nearly seen her defeated once before.

She was not disappointed.

Dueling with Loghain at the Landsmeet had been an act born of desperation and necessity; she had briefly considered choosing another as her champion that day but just as quickly discarded the notion. Choosing Alistair himself would have meant sure death for one of the men, and she had even then wanted to keep Loghain alive. Choosing another companion, however, would have signaled weakness in both her as well as the man who would be king.

There had really been little choice in the matter at all.

Knowing full well that failure on her part would be lethal, she had engaged him as such. Her every assault upon his person had been a risk, and she had used her quickness to keep well outside the range of his full might. In the end, it was only her youth that wore him down; he had not tired quickly, but he had also not spent the last months fighting demons and darkspawn. Once he began showing obvious signs of fatigue, she had darted in at him repeatedly, striking and dancing away until he finally stumbled and fell before her.

Sparring with him was completely dissimilar from their duel. She had admired the pure strength with which Loghain moved against her then. She now admired his competence. No longer was she allowed to sneak in against him; rather than chase her and wear himself down, he held back and waited for _her_ to move, guarding his flanks.

He had _learned_ from her.

The steps in their choreography steadily increased in tempo, each trying to outwit the other by changing the routine. Each exchange was a disclosure, an admission between one another as equals.

The other company members paused in their own bouts, leaning against sword and stave as they curiously watched her and Loghain rebuff one another.

Within the violence, there was precise caution. By unspoken agreement, they were both wielding their standard, non-blunted weapons. He had not donned his Orlesian armor; she had yet to replace it for him. Instead, he was combatting in a dusty pair of pants and a worn pair of leather boots. He had removed his shirt and was bare from the torso upward, his pale skin mottled pink in the chill air.

The awareness that she could run him through with little difficulty and less warning kept her attentive to the placement of her blades.

Using his massive upper body strength, he swung up and around to bring his sword down over the top of her. It was a move she could only ever envy in her femininity. Still, she was undaunted and primed for him, one leg stretched behind her to take the brunt of the impact, her shoulders square and stalwart as she lifted her own weapons.

She smiled; this was a strike he had used on her before, and one she knew how to deflect.

The shriek of silverite hurtling into red steel resonated up and down the banks of the Drakon River. The blow had the potency of a dragon behind it; her smile vanished as her strong arm buckled, instantly giving way beneath its power.

The screech of metal was harmonized by her yelp of fear as she watched his blade descend upon her unimpeded.

If not for his reflexes, her skull would have most likely been cloven into two equal portions. As it was, he checked himself at the last second, silverite whispering only just amongst the strands of her hair before being wrenched abruptly away.

She could tell he was shaken; he muttered an oath, pitching his shield in frustration so that it landed with a dull thud in the dirt a few feet behind him. He backed away as her companions rushed forward, each uttering their own cries of fury or fear at the scene.

Wynne immediately flooded her with healing magic. "That's enough," the mage snapped, and Elissa doubted that the woman was speaking only to Loghain, "No more sparring today. You need to rest or you will only cause more damage."

Elissa shook her head. "This proves nothing," she said, squashing the flutter of panic she felt. "I haven't practiced with it in days. It only needs to warm up."

Wynne scowled; a second, smaller deluge of healing magic ran just under Elissa's skin. "You are going to get yourself killed," the mage muttered.

"Not that easily," the rogue quipped in return.

Her friends backed up again as she waved Loghain forward. He hesitated briefly, staring at her, his blue eyes impassive; when he stepped towards her, it was without his shield.

The strove a second time.

Her arm functioned faultlessly until he came at her from above; it crumpled as their blades clashed. She was prepared for it, diving gracelessly away from the strike.

Everyone rushed forward; she waved them back, snarling. Her anger was fueled by her fear, by the thought that her arm had somehow been rendered defective by Maric's blade.

Once could be written off as a fluke. Twice was not so effortlessly ignored.

She took a few moments to reevaluate her stance and posture; she lifted both her blades, swinging them around in great, wide arcs. No pain flared in her side, nor did she experience any issue with handling the swords while they were elevated.

Hoping – _praying_ – that it was her own anticipation of the blow that had caused her arm to fail, she waved him forward to try a third time.

And a fourth time.

And a _fifth_ time.

She cursed as she dodged away from him on the sixth attempt, and he trailed her oath with another of his own.

"Your stubbornness is getting us nowhere," he growled, his actions jerky as he swiped at the braids in his dark hair. His shoulders were heaving and slick with perspiration in the weak, wintry sunlight.

She knelt before him, gazing up into his arctic countenance, her own leathers clammy with a cold sweat. Her doubt chewed savagely at her insides.

Her friends muttered and shifted restlessly nearby, but made no move to help her; she had rebuked them one time too many. Even Wynne did not offer any sympathy in the form of healing magic or otherwise. The mage's mana was nearly tapped by Elissa's persistence, and the older woman leaned wearily against her stave, too tired to even scowl in irritation.

Without the healing, her wound was starting to throb from the beating he was giving her.

"What would you have me do?" she beseeched him, hating that her breath hitched in pain.

A growl reverberated from him as he marched back and forth in front of her. He was too incensed to remain still, gesturing angrily at her weapons. "Why do you persist in fighting with red steel, wasting your strength on its weight? Dragonbone would be far more effective," he continued, reaching out grab away her dagger, "With your dexterity, you could wield two full blades instead of fatiguing yourself with this archaic method of sword and dagger."

She snatched the blade back before he could take it, hauling herself back onto her feet. "You're hardly one to speak upon the archaic, _old man_," she retorted.

His eyes narrowed at her slight. "Petty insults are not becoming," he said, curling his lips in scorn as he resumed his pacing.

She snorted, using one gauntleted wrist to daub the sweat impatiently from her eyes. "It's not my intention to be _becoming_ to you or anyone else." She held her blades aloft, crossing them before her in insolent defiance. "My motives for using these are my own."

He shook his head, the tone of his voice low and dangerous. "Flimsy sentiment for bits of metal will not win your war."

Her spine stiffened with indignation. The sudden roiling in her stomach made her want to vomit. "My war? _My war_? You son of a _bitch_," she spat, "If _you_ had done your duty at Ostagar, or had exercised even _half_ the wisdom you claim to possess in recruiting Rendon Howe to your cause, _I_ would not even be here!"

She was appalled when tears surged into her eyes, stinging along her eyelashes; she sullenly swiped at them, the catches on her armor scraping welts along her skin as she did so.

"Elissa – " One of her companions – she thought it might have been Leliana – murmured her name in sympathy.

She did not want their sympathy.

"Shut up!" she shouted at them all in abrupt fury, "Just shut up!"

He halted in his steps as if stricken, his eyes nothing but perilous blue slits. Gooseflesh rose along the back of her neck as the tang of ozone and menace hung in the air. She glanced at Morrigan, sure the apostate was summoning lightning, but the younger mage was only watching the proceedings with poorly masked delight, her hands empty of magical luminosity.

"So," Loghain muttered ominously, drawing her attention back to him, "It finally comes down to this."

She staggered as he rushed at her, smashing his blade at her vulnerable side. She succeeded in blocking only out of impulse; he pressed his offensive, brazenly exploiting his weight advantage, and she cried out as her legs wobbled. She crashed to the ground when they crumpled, her damaged side flaring in agony. Her sword and dagger tumbled into the grass with double muted twangs.

A honed point of silverite hovered in front of her eyes.

She heard her companions crying out with their own outrage; in less time that it took for her to draw breath, he had two bows, two staves, one greatsword, and one very large axe pointed directly at him.

He ignored them.

"If you can't defeat an old man," he condemned with a hiss, his face very close to her own, "How exactly do you expect to conquer an Archdemon?"

"I did defeat you!" she screamed up at him, her spittle flecking his cheeks, "I defeated you and I'll defeat the damned Archdemon as well!"

She punched at him with one taut fist, but he eluded her wretched effort to clout his chin by twisting backward.

"Just like you defeated the man who gave you this?" he asked, smacking her injured side with the flat of his blade, "Do you wish to speak of _that_ now? Or do you still wish to run from it?"

He did not strike her hard, but she still felt the ripples of pain running through her as she winced away from the blow. Her walls of self-preservation were crumbling, her doubts and fears pushing them outward. She was overwhelmed by the mass exodus and started to shake uncontrollably; she knew not if it was from dread or rage.

He backed away from her, leaving her trembling in the dirt.

When gentle hands tried to help her up, she smacked them away. "Leave me _alone_," she barked heatedly, "I don't need your help. I don't want it!"

She reached out for her sword, used it to lever herself onto her feet. She stood there swaying, terrified and burying it beneath layers of audacity and anger.

Loghain remained a few feet away, observing her efforts with cold calculation. "Running it is," he muttered.

She waved him forward. "C'mon," she snarled at him, "Show me what an old man can do."

"Elissa – " One of her companions again tried to interfere.

Again, she cut them off. "I told you to _shut up_." She had never spoken to any of them with such contempt, did not realize that she was doing so now. Her focus was only for Loghain, whom she gestured at again. "Come. Here. _Now_."

He stared at her; his gaze was sharp, missing little. He saw how her friends flinched at her words, how they looked at one another in bewilderment. The woman before them was not an Elissa Cousland that they knew.

"You are ill. I don't fight those that are ill," he finally said. His voice was quiet and no longer cross. He bent to retrieve his shield. "You need rest."

"Like hell," she told him, still trying to goad him. The further he withdrew, the more desperate she became. "Stop making excuses and show me how much of a man you really are."

His eyes flickered towards her, looked away towards Wynne. "Do you have something to make her sleep?" he asked the mage.

"Of course," Wynne answered, sounding confused, "But I don't –"

He cut her off. "I've seen this before," he told the healer, told them all, "In soldiers that have witnessed too many battles and too much death. They let it eat at them until they lose control." He gestured at Elissa. "She has nightmares but won't talk about them or what causes them. I imagine she speaks little of her family, or of the things she has done, and now she's lashing out at everyone, friend _and_ foe."

"What you say is true, human," Sten growled into the small silence that followed, "There are those of the _beressad_ who are equally weak-minded. They must be destroyed."

"We aren't going to _destroy_ her," Wynne snapped; her words were softer, more thoughtful, however, as the mage continued, "But yes, I've seen this too. There were many that came to Kinloch Hold after the occupation. The illness manifested itself at different times – we had men show up years afterward thinking they were going mad."

Elissa was ignoring their banter, watching Loghain; when he looked back at her, she thought she saw a glimmer of empathy in the depths of his gaze. He spoke, and though his words were directed at them all, she knew he meant them for her alone. "This will only get worse if you allow it. It is a sickness, and will kill you as surely as any other if left untreated."

He said it with the surety of a survivor.

Her fear peaked at his words, further inflaming her wrath. Without thinking, she threw her dagger at him; she flipped it deftly in her hand, hurling it just like Zevran had taught her. The blade flew truly, but he had seen her move and was much too fast. He ducked behind his shield; the dagger ricocheted off of it, thumping into the dirt at his feet.

That she had just deliberately tried to kill one of their party, one that she had placed under her protection – even if it was _him_ – was alarming to her companions. They all looked at her with mixed feelings of horror and disbelief; the only sound on the riverbank was her panting.

He slowly lowered his shield, looking to Wynne. "Get her to sleep – _without_ the dreams," he said calmly. "That's the first step." His eyes met hers again, and she knew there was more; he did not speak it.

When he turned and walked away, she wanted to call him back. She wanted to challenge him, to fight him; she wanted to beg him not to leave her.

So many others had left her.

Wynne and Leliana tried to move her, to take her back to the camp, but she shrugged them off. Her rage was burned out, leaving her empty. She did not shout at them any longer, but she did not want to speak to any of them, either.

She did not want to be near them.

She stumbled to the edge of the river, sinking down into the soft, wet loam. It was cold, freezing her even through her leathers; she barely noticed. She was already cold, already freezing from the inside out.

_I deserted my family, forsaking them to save their own namesake._

_I betrayed my king, deceiving him with the kindness in his own heart._

_I killed my hero, rending him apart piece by piece before the very people who created him._

There was no one left to find her, to help pull her back from the abyss; they were all either dead or changed, twisted to her own purpose.

There was no one left to save her.

She was no longer strong enough to save herself.

She pulled her legs up to her chest, and buried her face against her knees. The storm of emotion bore down upon her; it whipped at her, swept her away, until there were no more tears for her to cry.


	4. Found Trust

_If you haven't already, please take a look at Chapter 3 (Lost Control) - Totally revamped it._

_I've torn Elissa down, now it's time to start rebuilding. This is the good stuff! _

_Some very slight spoilers from **The** **Stolen Throne **here - **Bioware** owns all, I just like to muck around with their characters' emotions._

* * *

><p>Her companions were worried.<p>

Their glances in her direction were still full of suspicion, but it was a suspicion born out of concern; she had not spoken a word to anyone since she had returned to the campsite.

Wynne blamed her renewed pain – and the consequential tears that streaked the young rogue's face – on Loghain, throwing every invective she had ever learned at his head as she used the last of her mana to heal the younger woman.

Elissa did not correct her; the truth was far too convoluted, far too raw to try and explain.

He had not yet returned, and his pack was missing from his tent.

She experienced conflicting emotions at the thought of his permanent departure. She was relieved to have him gone, to not have to bear his knowing countenance a second longer; it was disturbing how deeply he saw into her, how effortlessly he did so. Yet she felt strangely wary and defenseless without his presence hovering nearby.

Wynne's magic eased her physical hurts, but it could do nothing to suture the gaping hole he had ripped open inside her. She was damaged, could taste the same bitterness on her tongue that had defiled her the day she drank from the Joining chalice.

As there was no cure for the taint, there was no remedy for the darkness that swirled within her now.

The healing energy itself was alleviating, however, surging and soothing just under her skin; she had plunged into its flowing depths, not denying the mage when a thick sleeping potion was poured down her throat.

When she awoke hours later, it was dark outside, firelight sliding along the canvas sides of his tent.

His spot was empty; he had not returned while she slept.

Her uneasiness at the discovery forced her from the shelter of the bedroll. She pulled one of his furs with her, wrapping it around her shoulders against the evening chill. She staggered to the campfire; many of her friends were gathered there, murmuring to one another as they soaked in the warmth of the flames.

They greeted her differentially as she seated herself on an isolated log to one side of the group. She did not reply. They tried to draw her in to their quiet conversations, periodically asking her opinion or outlook on matters; she heard them without really listening, and did not answer, staring lifelessly into the flickering blaze.

Her hound, Wolf, trotted up next to her. When his presence went unnoticed, he whined in his throat, laying his heavy head on her knee. The weight drew her eyes downward, and their gazes met.

_They worry._

The words were not spoken, nor did she hear them in the telepathic fashion with which some claimed to communicate with their mabaris. It was a sense, a feeling, a shared perception she could no more define than describing color to a blind man.

It was also a two-way street; she knew his anxieties, he knew her sorrows and fears.

He whined again.

She could not console him because she could not console herself, but she lifted one hand to rub at his ears; between master and mabari, it was enough. He closed his dark eyes with a canine sigh, his hind-quarters absently wriggling in the dirt.

They sat there for a long time, her leg slowly going numb under the heft of his jowls; her thoughts were stilled and stagnant. She resisted any urges toward contemplation. Her eyes rested on the fire, but her gaze was empty and far away; she had the look of a soldier who has seen her own death and could not understand why it was denied her.

The night progressed and the others drifted away until only Wolf and Sten were left. The great Qunari was an apparition in the night, his outline barely discernable as he soundlessly stood watch.

Her awareness was towed somewhat back into camp when Wolf's ears twitched, his head lifting to glance around the fire. She heard muttering, two deep voices speaking softly; another ghostly frame had joined Sten's. She could not hear what they were saying, but the Qunari disappeared into the night after they had exchanged a few words.

Changing of the guard.

The new figure hovered just outside the firelight; when he stepped forward, her heart clenched so tightly that she drew in a sudden, involuntary breath.

Loghain hesitated at the faint gasp, and they studied one another over the top of the flames.

Wolf whimpered, peering up at her.

_He is sad and troubled._

Startled, she jerked her gaze down to the hound, frowning at him. She had never doubted the dog's assessments before – he was astonishingly good at reading human mood and behavior – but she wondered at this.

_Sad_ seemed a ludicrous description of the normally stoic Loghain.

The man moved again, walking towards her around the fire.

She stiffened as he neared, and Wolf's muscles rippled under his fur as he detected her tension. The mabari bared his teeth, getting to his feet with a short bark, searching for the source of her agitation; tension meant preparation, and preparation meant battle.

"Easy," Loghain said softly, undaunted in his approach; she was unsure whether he spoke to her or to Wolf.

When he was near enough, he ran one hand down over the hound's haunches for a few stiff pats. "There now," he said, as the dog leaned into him, relaxing, "I'm not going to hurt anyone." He looked at her as he spoke, but his gaze was unreadable in the faint light. "I brought you something."

His pack was strapped along his back; he pulled from it an elongated bundle which he sat lightly at her feet. He then immediately drew back to the opposite side of the fire, settling himself on the ground.

The bundle appeared heavy but was actually incredibly light at she picked it up. She distinguished what it was; she had been around weaponry long enough to know what a wrapped sword looked like. Still, she blinked in amazement when she unbound them: not one sword but two, both of them brilliantly crafted dragonbone that glittered from refracted firelight.

Grasping one pommel in each hand, she raised them with ease; she had always been astounded at the lightness and precision of dragonbone blades though she had never owned one. A hint of blue shimmered along their lengths, and she brought them nearer to her face for inspection.

"Runes," he told her, noticing her scrutiny, "They are both infused with numerous Hale runes."

Hale runes, runes of physical resistance; signified by the old Tevinter symbol for endurance, they would summarily decrease the force of an attack against her, allowing her to retain her stamina against even the most brutal of assaults.

Meaning even an overhead blow would not betray her flawed sword arm.

She looked from the beauty of the blades to him, found him still watching her, judging her reaction. In subdued awe, her voice low with disuse, she asked, "Where did you get these?"

"From the dwarf," he answered, nodding in the direction of Bodahn's wagon.

Weapons such as these would not come cheap; she had not even known that the merchant carried items this valuable. "But – _how_?" she pushed, curious as to where he had found the coin to purchase them.

His response was simple – and profound. "I traded my armor," he replied, shrugging one shoulder.

She was dumbfounded. No matter what tale you believed about him or his reasoning for taking it, that armor was priceless to any Ferelden man or woman.

As if she were holding glass, she very carefully set the blades back onto the cloth out of which she had taken them, and began wrapping them back up. "I can't accept," she muttered.

"Yes, you can," he said, and his words were hard as he slipped back into command mode. "You will never live to stand before the Archdemon without them."

He was right, of course. Her own weapons had taken her far, but they would only perform as inhibitors with her current weakness. The thought of giving them up or selling them was not a pleasant one, but if she understood nothing else, she knew she still had a duty to end the Blight if she could.

He apparently had been developing his talent for reading her mind; he said, "If it is the thought of your own blades that forestalls you – "

"I know," she cut him off with a snap, suddenly irritated, "I shouldn't be so sentimental." He had sold his armor, after all, his badge of pride for having defeated the _chevalier_. Clearly sentimentality was not something he suffered.

He did not suffer from predictability, either. "What I was going to say," he continued, "Is that if it is the thought of your own blades that forestalls you then I will wield them. If you don't object, of course."

She snorted, shaking her head. "You? Fight in such an archaic manner?" she sneered, throwing his own words back in his face.

He did not rise to her bait. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, replying with a rusty chuckle, "I _am_ archaic, but I know the basics of the skill well enough. After all, I didn't always fight with a sword and shield."

Wolf nudged her hand with his nose, seeking an ear rub, and it gave her an excuse to look away. She absentmindedly scratched the mabari's head; when she spoke, her words were just as distracted. "My blades, they – they were Duncan's. They belonged to him." She shook her head, muttered, "We found them at Ostagar, buried in an ogre. That's where we also found –"

She stopped abruptly, loath to speak of what else they had stumbled upon within the ruins of that place.

Wolf whimpered; he remembered.

_The smell of death mixed revoltingly with the sick sweetness of the taint. Lots of dead things, some that came back to life and attacked us, hurt us. A king, hung and left to rot, left for the wolves. A body being burned._

_A new king mourned his brother, openly weeping next to the funeral pyre as his father's sword glowed dimly at his side._

Loghain waited, but when several minutes passed and she did not proceed, he said, "I had no love for Duncan, nor did he foster any for me. But the man had his honor and he was a marvel in combat. If you do not object," he repeated, "I will wield his blades for you."

She blinked up at him, tearing herself away from Wolf's recollections. She said, "I don't know how to use two full longswords. I never have."

"It's not all that dissimilar from wielding a longsword and dagger, especially with weapons as light as those," he told her with a nod at the parcel that still lay at her feet. "And you have remarkable dexterity. I can begin instructing you in the morning." When she shot him a questioning look, he arched one mocking brow and scoffed, "I have been drilling men in the lessons of war for decades, girl. Just because I _choose_ not fight with two blades doesn't mean I _can't_."

She sighed softly. There was nothing left to her but the Archdemon and the ending of the Blight. She would need to fight with her old vigor if she was going to see it through; if that meant learning how to manage double longswords, then so be it.

"I will also purchase you some new armor," she said, her words picking up where her thoughts trailed off.

"Indeed." He nodded towards the blades. "There was something else there. A smaller package."

She dug back into the cloth, found a small oiled skin wrapped around a few ounces of herb. It did not smell unpleasant, but she had never seen it before. She looked a question at him.

"It will help you rest," he answered, "Without dulling your senses. Hard to come by, that, but it helps." He scratched a hand along the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the next admission. "Trust me, I know."

When she said nothing more on the matter, he considered the discussion closed.

He reached into his pack for more supplies, laying the items out one by one in his distinctive ritualistic process. He was methodical; only when all was prepared did he begin his task.

He was making traps.

"I didn't know you could do that," she said, observing his practiced hands twist bits of leather and metal together.

"For hunting," he grunted in return, his concentration on his work, "The stew's getting a little thin."

She agreed that it was, unable to recall the last time one of her companions had slaughtered fresh meat for the pot.

Not one of member of her company had a forte for crafting any sort of trap, and the party had thus relied on the skill of its archers when it came to hunting. With winter wearing out her welcome, however, prey that was not snapped up by a starving predator was likely smart enough to remain well hidden; without the snares and lures to make the similarly ravenous prey an easy target for capture, pickings had become slim for the group. Leliana had purchased a few skinny conies in the Denerim marketplace when last they had been there, but that was weeks ago, back before the Landsmeet and Howe, and Fort Drakon and Anora; back before the entire world shattered.

The extreme turmoil of then contrasted against the peacefulness of this moment. She sat watching him labor as if in a Fade-dream, the comfortable silence in which they resided surreal in comparison to even this past afternoon.

After a few moments of idle deliberation, she came to a realization that jolted her: _she trusted him._

She knew he felt the burden of loss, knew he felt the crushing weight of its denial. He had endured them both for more years than she had yet lived. Using the knowledge he had gained in their bearing, he had laid waste to all her well-fortified walls in barely a few days. He had laid bare the true Elissa, the coward and the quitter. He had shown her to the world, to her friends – and then he had turned and walked away.

_But he came back_.

Rather than leave her to suffer, he had returned. He had done so with an apology she could understand, had proven he understood _her_. In so doing, he had somehow created a bond between them that was deeper than even the darkspawn taint that corrupted their blood.

She broke the silence by blurting, "I'm sorry, you know."

Wolf snuffled irritably at the interruption from where he was curled on top of her feet.

Loghain's deft fingers did not even pause. "I imagine we are both sorry for a great deal," he replied with dark humor, "Maybe you could explain just _why_ you are sorry."

"For what happened," she softly clarified, "At the Landsmeet."

"Again, something I imagine we are both sorry for," he returned in a low a voice. He did not look at her, and if his hands faltered at all, she did not see it.

"Did you – did you really want to die?" she stuttered out, half afraid to hear his answer.

If she concentrated, she could remember that instant as if it just happened; she could recall the look of serenity in his eyes when he had ordered her to end his life, recalled how that same look frozen into disappointment when she consigned him to the Joining.

She stopped concentrating.

It took him a moment to answer. When he did, it was as if he spoke to himself. "The greatest of fools can sometimes say the wisest of things, and the wisest of men can sometimes act like the greatest of fools," he muttered.

She tilted her head at the adage. "Which does that make you?" she asked.

Now he did glance up at her, but his eyes were too shadowed for her to see what was in them. All the same, one side of his mouth twitched upward in a wry semi-grin. "Why does it matter?" he asked, "They're the same thing."

She wrinkled her nose in a grimace; she had always disliked riddles. "But it doesn't answer my question," she grumbled.

He shook his head and said, "No, it doesn't." She saw his jaw clench as he reflected again; unable to stay idle for long, he returned to his task. "At that time," he said slowly, drawing the words out as he worked, "Yes. I wanted to die. There had been so many, many times when I should have been dead, and yet somehow wasn't. And then there you were, standing over me in all your fledgling glory, and I thought it had finally come at last."

"And then I spared you," she remarked, and her tone belied her melancholy.

"Yes, you did." He snorted a chuckle. "Regretting your decision, are you?"

"Only for your sake," she responded. She knew now what it was to long for her own demise and be deprived; she questioned herself, unsure whether she would have acted otherwise at the Landsmeet had she known it then.

"Do not assume that I regret it," he told her, unexpectedly severe, "Because I don't. If the Maker saw fit to spare me once more, I'll not pass that time bemoaning the fact. I learned a long time ago," he expounded, "That living is best abided one breath at a time."

_One breath at a time._

While not always easy, breathing was relatively straightforward; she could see the next breath, as well as the next few after that, and it gave her a focus. She lamented the fact that she could not see into tomorrow, could no longer see the path before her, but breathing she could do.

She was speaking the words before she even realized they were at the back of her throat. "I did regret it for a little while," she told him honestly, "Because – because of what happened with him. Alistair." She swallowed hard; she had started now and she was going to finish it.

He knew where she was going, and identified her need for composure; he did not raise his eyes as she talked, nor did he stop the steady exertion of his hands. Had she not been as familiar with him as she was, she might have believed he was paying no heed whatsoever to her.

She knew he was absorbing every single syllable.

"He always found me," she continued, her voice soft and introspective, "He said it was the taint but it – it was something else. Something special."

She reached down to play with Wolf's ears, needing the tactile reassurance of a creature that still cared for her. The dog opened his eyes, tilting his head to look up at her in curiosity. She spoke as if only to the mabari, as if they were back in Highever and she was telling him stories; she had often done so back when both girl and hound responded to the call of 'Pup'.

"He used it to find me the other night," she explained to Wolf, "And he was so _angry_ –I'd never seen him that mad. He said – some awful things. We fought," she whispered, her voice failing her, "I lost."

She drew in a deep breath, centering herself on each inhalation. They hurt, each one a burning agony, but it was an agony she could endure; she could survive a breath at a time.

"He wounded me – stabbed me, I think, right here –" she pointed out the spot for the hound, who whined in sympathy, "And then he – he left me."

She let the anguish wash over her, squeezed her eyes shut against its flood. She did not cry; she felt as if there were no tears left. The only sound was the snapping of the fire, a loud pop as a log died beneath the blaze.

She concentrated on each lungful of air, and knew she would not have to run from this particular memory ever again.

She blinked when Wolf licked her fingers.

_You are strong._

There was a distinct trace of pride coloring the hound's declaration; his lineage was longer and prouder than most kings, and his being proud of her was a truly royal award. She grinned feebly, and ruffled the fur along his shoulders.

"So, Maric's bastard may have more of his father in him than we all thought," she heard Loghain mutter, and she looked up to find him staring thoughtfully into the fire.

When he did not readily continue, she prodded, "What do you mean?"

His gaze shifted slightly to meet hers. She could tell he was remembering something; he was musing about how much of it share.

He nodded decisively, and said, "During the rebellion, before Maric and Rowan were married, he - _met_ - another woman. He claimed to love her – he honestly might have. But she betrayed him, betrayed us all." His eyes moved back to the fire, seeing another time in another place. "It was I that told him – when he found out, he ran her through with his own sword."

She recalled a flash of hazy blue dimmed by thick, running blackness; it was not the first time this blade had tasted the blood of one who was both lover and betrayer.

"The only difference," he ruminated, his voice holding a wry note, "Is that the bastard showed you far more mercy than Maric did to Katriel."

She almost laughed, had to hurriedly check her bleak amusement. To be fair she had not told him about Alistair's parting words, how the Theirin version of _mercy_ was infinitely crueler in this younger generation.

_You will suffer. As I suffer._

She remembered his look of hatred; she remembered his hurt and his strength. "He will be a good king," she said.

"The fact that you can still say that," he told her, "Makes me wonder."

_Maric. Rowan. Loghain. _They were names from her childhood stories. To hear about their actual lives, the fact that they had faults and fears like normal people, somehow helped to alleviate her own pitiful doubts."What did you think when King Maric killed this – Katriel?" she asked him, genuinely curious.

His smile was small, but it was there. "I thought – 'he will be a good king'," he confessed very quietly.

_He sees._

She looked down to find Wolf awake again, staring up at her. He dropped his bottom jaw, letting his tongue loll out in a distinctly canine grin. He stood without explanation, and walked around the fire to Loghain.

The man glanced a question at her as the mabari laid his head on Loghain's knee, but she could only shrug in return. Wolf was not usually affectionate towards others. He rarely commented on them, either; apparently, Loghain had become an acception to many rules, and not just her own.

"I had a mabari once," the man said as he gingerly reached down to rub one of Wolf's soft ears. "She was an amazing animal."

Elissa grunted. "He's only annoying." She heard Wolf's deep _ruff_ of denial, and raised one corner of her mouth in a half-smile. "Well, semi-annoying. Sometimes useful."

Loghain chuckled again, though his humor was short-lived. "We should start for Redcliffe in the morning," he told her, changing the subject.

"I know," she replied, not thrown a bit by his abrupt shifts in conversation. She watched him pat the dog, the gentle roughness with which he did so. "Can I ask you one more question?"

His answer was a single nod in her direction.

She took a deep, bracing breath. "How did you do it?" When she saw him scowling in confusion, she clarified, "How did you continue with everything so – changed?"

He did not reply for many minutes; she was beginning to wonder if he would when he finally said slowly, "I have lived a long time, and things have changed many times in my life. I've learned that sometimes it's not the falling that's the hardest part." He looked across the fire at her, the flames reflected in his gaze. "Sometimes it's the standing back up again."

She sighed and leaned her head on her hands. "That's not an answer." She stared into the fire, watched the blaze dance and weave without really seeing it. She whispered, "I have no family, no name, no home. I have no path to lead me – what does a person do when they have no path to follow?"

This time, his answer was immediate and strong. "They create their own path."

She blinked when he stood, ignoring Wolf's whine as he walked around the fire to stand in front of her once again.

She looked up at him in curiosity; he gestured at her with his chin. "Stand up," he ordered.

She ignored his demand, leaning away and curling her lips sullenly. "And what of you, Loghain? Where does _your_ path lead?"

He held one hand out in front of him, an offering. When she did not take it, did not even acknowledge it, he replied, "Warden, if you defeat this Blight and save Ferelden, I will follow you." His words were solemn; she knew he meant them. "I swear it."

_He sees._

His hand was still out before her, beckoning; she was still afraid. "You would follow me?" she scoffed. "I'm a traitor, a coward, and a quitter. You know all this."

"I have never followed words or titles," he said, "I will not follow what people call you. I will follow _you_. Now stand. _Up_."

She met his eyes, blackened by the night. Since becoming part of her company, he had never lied to her, had only ever watched and guarded her, tried to help her. She knew he was trying to help now.

_She trusted him._

She took one breath. She took another. And another. And another.

_One breath at a time._

She could survive one breath at a time. Maybe she could even create her own path.

She reached out, clasping her hand with his. He pulled at the same time she pushed. And she found that standing back up was not so difficult after all.


	5. Found Mortality

The horde had beaten them to Redcliffe.

She and her company battled their way through a sea of darkspawn, genlock after hurlock and hurlock after shriek. Wolf guarded her flanks while Loghain watched her back, and her dragonbone blades sang through the air as she put the skills he had taught her to the test. Even the crushing blow of an ogre could not break the defensive protection of the rune-studded weapons, and her swords ran black with tainted blood.

Numerous villagers had already fled north into the relative safety of Bannorn. A few waited too long, and were able to escape across Lake Calenhad and into Redcliffe Castle; Teagan returned for them, leading them through the same secret passages he had once shown Elissa. The Bann had proven his mettle for a second time, efficiently utilizing what few resources were remaining to the beleaguered arling. He sent his soldiers out to slow the advancing menace and Ser Perth's knights stood valiantly beside them, waves of malevolence breaking against their breastplates.

Their bravery saved many.

But not all.

Broken bodies littered the docks, some of them painfully small, their pieces cast haphazardly to and fro like so much refuse. The chantry burned; she prayed that none had run there seeking refuge, knew the first desperate moments of violence would have driven a few to do so.

She could now hear the collective whispering that was the Calling when she was awake, hissing along the back corners of her mind. It had been growing steadily more pronounced as she and her party closed upon the horde, and Loghain confirmed that he heard similar murmurs. When Zevran first witnessed the smoke rising on the horizon a day outside of the village, she allowed herself to sink into the hive-mind to see what she might ascertain. What she found within that oily malice made her shudder in horror.

_They were waiting._

Darkspawn were not proactive; they did they expect or plot or plan. They reacted to their surroundings, destroying anything that might deter them from their single-minded search for the Old Gods, fleeing when they could not fight.

There was only one tainted creature that could organize and reason.

_Urthemiel._

As she and her friends topped the final rise into the village and were immediately beset upon by wave after wave of corruption, she fully expected Redcliffe to be the location of her final stand against the Blight. She cut her way through the darkspawn lines, anticipating the dragon to show itself.

She was still waiting when the final ogre fell beneath Sten's _Asala_ at the castle gates.

It was only when she entered the keep that she learned the truth; they had all been deceived. The bulk of the horde was turned towards Denerim, the Archdemon flying at its head. The King was still in the capital with what remained of the royal army, but it would not be nearly enough to stop the flood of darkspawn amassing against them. The Wardens' gathered forces would have to race back to Denerim as quickly as possible if there was any hope of saving the city – and their King.

At the behest of Riordan, she and Loghain met the older Grey Warden in his quarters to discuss the logistics of slaying a corrupted Old God. She found that her path had been relit before her; she had a purpose again, something to fight for, and she readily volunteered to take the final blow against the Archdemon. Loghain's eyes bore into her as Riordan commended her enthusiasm, explaining how it was normally the most senior Warden who took the honor.

She did not comment more after that, and Loghain did not say a word when she brushed by him to leave.

Morrigan was lurking near the fireplace in Elissa's rooms. At first, she welcomed the witch's frank conversation; no matter how blunt or cruel Morrigan could be, she was incredibly intelligent and always honest. But when the woman began rambling about an ancient ritual, Elissa found she was too drained to care, dismissing the irate apostate from her quarters without a second thought.

There was no reason to look for hope where none would be found.

She shut the door behind the mage, turning to lean back against the solid wood. She considered what the morrow would bring, weighing her own feelings on the various outcomes. Oddly enough, she was not afraid, nor nervous; if she was honest with herself, there was only one emotion she admitted to feeling at all.

Relief.

A rumble of thunder stirred her, drawing her attention. She walked over to the window, pushing aside the shutters as she took a seat on the ledge. Her room was facing out towards the black lake. There were no fisherman's lamps twinkling this night, the guttered fires of burning corpses issuing the only light from the abandoned village.

Lightning flickered in the distance, the acidic smell of rain riding a warm breeze that swept stray wisps of hair away from her face. She breathed it in deep, savoring the scent.

Spring was coming. It was her favorite season, a time of calving and foaling, of blooming and awakening and freshness. In the naivety of her youth, she had regarded springtime as the truest beginning to a new year, a time for the world to shuck the worn dressings of previous months, and remake itself anew.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time, and thunder pealed a few short moments later, making her flinch.

Storms were heralds of disaster, just as they were heralds of the springtide; they always portended change.

The world was certainly going to be remade anew.

The squall swept in over the water, white-capped waves being driven before the winds to die against the rocks below the castle. Rain was beginning to spatter against the side of the keep when scratching at her door announced another visitor; she called wearily for them to enter, despairing that it might be the witch, returned to argue once more.

It was not Morrigan.

He hesitated in the doorway, his body backlit by the lanterns in the hall. She glanced at him, grasped at once that there was something different in his stature. As far back as she could remember, he had always carried himself proudly, his back unbent and his spirit unbroken even in defeat. He looked now as if he were bearing the entire whole of Thedas upon his bowed shoulders.

"Am I disturbing you?" he murmured.

"No," she replied, her own voice low.

He wavered a moment more before stepping into the room, shutting the door behind him. She could see his face in the firelight when he turned; he looked as if he had aged a decade and was very, very tired for it.

"Do you mind if I - ?" He gestured at the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room.

"No."

He sat on the very edge of the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs with a grunt of exhaustion. His braids fell from behind his ears, shrouding his expression. He did not speak; she returned to watching the storm as it began to rain in earnest.

A particularly close crack of thunder shook the keep, and she jerked away from the window. Her movement must have drawn his gaze; she glanced at him and found him looking back, his eyes unreadable in the darkness.

She shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. "After all I've seen and been through, I'm still afraid of storms," she explained self-consciously, "I actually _liked_ Orzammar for that reason. Even the Deep Roads were a relief from those nights I lay awake expecting my tent to be whipped away any second." She turned back towards the window, saying softly, "Sometimes it sounds like the entire world's being torn apart."

She waited for him to scoff, to speak disparagingly, but his words were thoughtful when they came. "Gwaren has terrible storms," he mused; he sounded almost as if he was speaking to himself. "Typhoons that come in off the Frozen Seas, bringing hail and sleet and wind enough to wake the dead."

She drew one knee up to her chest, shuddering. "Highever never got typhoons, but the storms that _did_ come in off the sea could last for days. I hated it, being locked up inside the whole time – and I could never sleep, either. It was awful."

His hands were clasped together in his lap, and he squeezed them together until the knuckles shone white. "When Anora was little, she would sneak into my rooms when the storms hit. She always expected me to make them go away, to make them stop." He shook his head and sighed. "I wonder if she's still afraid of them."

She tried to imagine a younger Anora, a fearful little girl running to her champion, to a father who could dispel any monster. It was a difficult concept for Elissa to fathom; the queen had only ever portrayed herself as someone strong and detached, a woman who made hard decisions and lived by them. Perhaps the fearful little girl had gotten so good at mimicking her stoic champion that even he could no longer view into her heart.

"It's a foolish fear," she said, feeling as if she needed to say something, anything.

"Fears may be irrational, but they are never foolish. You can always learn from them, at the very least."

She scoffed. "What are _your_ irrational fears, Loghain Mac Tir?" she asked with heavy sarcasm.

There was no hesitation in his answer. "Spiders." He continued as she blinked at him in disbelief. "I will go out of my way to avoid even the most common of garden spiders."

It seemed unlikely for him to be afraid of something so inane that her laugh was full of suspicion. "Spiders. _Right_."

He offered her a half-smirk. "During the rebellion," he expounded, "Maric and I were once set upon by giant spiders in the Deep Roads. We spent many nights lying awake in the dark, unable to see anything, praying to the Maker that we would hear them in time, and – " he stopped abruptly. He shook his head as if shaking away a nightmare, and once again leaned his elbows on his thighs, gazing down at the floor.

She remembered the cave spiders, the corrupted thaig crawlers. Already vicious creatures made cunning by hunger, they had swarmed her party over and over again throughout the forgotten dwarven outposts. Their venom had coated her armor and gummed in her hair, but no more so than darkspawn blood.

She considered them all beasts of the same caliber, and told him so.

"Yes, well, that's why it's _my_ irrational fear and not yours," he growled, shaking his head again. He irritably ran his hands over his cheeks, shoving his fingers into his hair, pushing his braids back behind his ears.

The corner of her eye caught the weak flash of more lightning in the distance, and she turned back toward the window. It took a few moments for the thunder to follow, sounding far away. Even the rain was beginning to lift, and she wondered if the storm had blown itself out so quickly.

With a sigh, she leaned her head against the wall behind her. "Why are you here, Loghain?" she asked in resignation, staring into the distance though she could see little. The rain had dulled the cairn fires; the night was black as pitch.

He was disdainful. "You know why."

"Unfortunately, I don't," she retorted. "I apparently missed the lesson on mind-reading."

She could be just as derisive as he, especially when she was still feeling prickly from her conversation with Morrigan. She did not begrudge his company, merely the manner in which it was being rendered; the last thing she wanted was another argument. If that was all he had come looking for, she would send him the same route along which she had sent the mage.

He was silent and she waited, listening to the pinging of the rain against the roof of the castle. She knew it would not take him long to dispense a point he wanted to make.

The residual anger in his words was coated heavily with weariness. "Are you still in such a hurry to die?"

A streak of lightning blinded her for a moment. She closed her eyes, could see the super-imposed image of the flash against her eyelids. "If it comes to a point where there is no other way? Then yes, I'm willing to die to stop the Blight."

He shifted; she heard the sheets rustle beneath him. "That's not what I mean." She opened her mouth to respond again, but he cut her off, not yet finished. "It would be one thing if both Riordan and I were killed," he said, "Your duty would be clear. But it's asinine to offer yourself up as a martyr when there are other options."

She opened her eyes to gaze at him. She wondered if Morrigan had gotten to him, if he had listened to the mage's idea. Though he had never liked the witch, preferring to stay far away from her, it would be just like them both to suddenly come to an agreement on this one point. "How is it any more asinine than you or Riordan doing the same? I have no desire to be a martyr," she told him quietly, "But I don't see that there _are_ other options."

He was still looking at the floor, was resting his chin in the palms of his hands. He addressed the stone, muttering, "So you will kill the Archdemon and leave me to make sure that welp you put on the throne doesn't mess everything up, is that it?" He shook his head slowly. "I have no wish to train another Theirin King."

Seeing his bowed form in the light of the fire, she suddenly wanted – _needed_ – him to understand. "You told me you don't want to die," she implored, all but pleading, "This is the only way I can make sure that happens."

"By sacrificing your life for mine?" His skepticism was clear as he snorted. "You really are a fool."

"Loghain," she beseeched softly, drawing his eyes up to her own. She could not see what was in them, but it did not matter; she knew he could see what was in hers. "I have little left to live for. My family is dead, my home is destroyed. I have betrayed my King, and my name – through both my own actions and the lies of others. But you," she gestured at him, "You have a daughter that loves you, that needs your guidance and support. You have a chance at redemption, and the knowledge and experience to heal this country after the Blight. You can regain the trust of nobles that once relied upon you. You can be a hero again," she said, and her voice broke, "Rebuilt and reshaped and better than you were. And I – I could never follow that path."

He regarded her as if he were seeing someone else, his expression desolate. The bruises under his eyes were made more pronounced by the dimness of the room. There were tears in her own eyes, but she ignored them. He had seen her cry, had earned the right to do so; she would not deny him now.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working, and he spoke low. "It is a path I left," he admitted, "And no longer wish to revisit." His gaze wandered away, came back to her face. "If the Maker sees fit for me to continue living, then so be it. But you are young – strong and courageous. _You_ are what Ferelden needs after the Blight ends," he told her, his own voice rough with conviction as his eyes drifted away again, "And I would be honored to die defending that."

She considered what it might be like, what being a Hero of Ferelden would encompass and how she would survive after the Blight. The thought of having to do it all alone was terrifying and she wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her biceps in each hand as she shuddered. She was no longer strong enough, no longer capable of bearing the agony and loss by herself.

Surviving without him was no longer an option.

The wind was picking up again, and a stiff breeze blew her hair up around her face. She did not bother to brush it away, leaving tendrils stuck to her damp skin. An unexpected, brilliant flash of light startled her; she leapt away from the window with a cry as an earsplitting crack split the night.

Adrenaline poured through her system as her heart pounded in shock. She was instantly battle ready, and just as equally prepared to bolt for cover. Fight or flight instincts warred within her; unable to move, she stood in the middle of the room, trembling like a child.

He was standing as well, his reflexes reacting to her fright as much as the noise itself. His fists were clenched, his entire body tensed and ready for a fight. They stared across the room at each other. The skies opened up outside once more, rain lashing against the shutters in fury, spilling down the open window sill to pool on the floor.

He straightened from his combat stance, lifting one hand and holding it out to her, curling the fingers towards himself. "Come away from there," he murmured to her.

She felt as if her legs were rooted to the floor; she could not move.

He did not lower his hand, and in the bursts of lightning that were coming constantly now, she could finally discern his eyes; his infuriating, ever-abiding haughtiness was mixed with sorrow, a grief deeper than she could fathom. It nearly floored her, the sadness she saw in him, and all she could think was that Wolf had been right.

_He is sad and troubled._

"I can't – " she started but her voice fractured. She cleared it, started again. "I don't want – don't think I can – could endure – " She stopped again, frustrated. It was only fair that he should know the full truth of her fears, why it _must_ be her that felled the Archdemon if Riordan failed to do so.

Before she could start again, he said, "It doesn't matter. The Maker will see it done, one way or another. Tonight is tonight, tomorrow is tomorrow, and we will take it one bloody breath at a time." He flexed the fingers of his hand outward. "Come here."

_We._

Her stomach fluttered at the word. It was his acknowledgement, his recognition of her as an equal. It was a sign of his respect; he did not see her as a child but as a woman and a warrior.

She gazed from his face to his outstretched hand, to the familiar scars that crossed it, and she suddenly knew the real reason he had come to her room.

The knowledge was instinctual, primal and feminine. His very stillness was shouting for it, the weary slump in his shoulders begging, and her lower stomach fluttered in revelation.

He wanted to be touched.

Her course was set before her, and they were both committed to walk upon it. There was no changing that fact. Tonight affected only tonight, tomorrow the same, and every day following until time itself met an inevitable ending.

Her feet came free, and she moved towards him. When she took his hand, his fingers closed around hers, pulling her closer; he returned to his seat on the bed, drawing her down next to him. The muscles of his leg were drawn taut next to her own, his posture rigid. He kept his grip on her hand, but his eye contact had ceased.

He wanted to be touched, and was struggling against it.

Badly.

"Warden." His voice was coarse with genuine tenderness, and it was her ruination, moving her as nothing else ever had. He had proven himself adept at destroying the walls she tried to build between him and her innermost secrets. This last barrier, established against intimacy and hardened by Alistair's hatred, was no different; with one word, it lay crumbled at his feet.

She squeezed his hand.

A small breath escaped him, an exhale that was full of anguish and remorse and longing. "Elissa," he rasped; he sounded as if he was being tortured.

It was the first time he had used her name.

She kept her movements slow, for her own sake as much as for his; she felt the calluses on his fingers and the scars along his palm as testimonies to his meticulous strength and hardened capabilities. His hands mesmerized her, had done so from the first moment she witnessed him cleaning armor. They were iron hard and uncompromising, yet he used them gracefully, sinuous and thorough in completing any task.

She wondered if the natures of all men could be told through their hands.

Thunder crashed nearby and she reflexively shied closer to him, her shoulder leaning into his chest. He did not use it to his advantage as another man might have, did not move to wrap one arm around her protectively.

He did not slide away, either.

"I don't – " she began, her words stilted, "The storm – "

He glanced at her, his eyes murky blue pools; she swallowed nervously.

Tonight could well be the last night she would be able to share with another. The nights following would be spent racing for the capital, the Archdemon at her front, her own army at her back. There were no guarantees on how much longer her life would last.

The heat of his body along her side was a distraction, and she counted her breaths, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Her whisper escaped before she realized it. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

It was he who would not look away this time; when she attempted to go, he captured her chin, lightly holding her in place. He did not bother to hide his discomfort, nor did he entirely suppress the spark of yearning in the depths of his gaze.

"I am not," he told her once more, saying each word as if it were its own sentence, "A hero." His tone was subdued and forceful, as if he was imparting something of the utmost importance.

She heard him, comprehending what went unsaid.

He had been butchering the Hero of River Dane, destroying him piece by piece, since the day she had bested him at Landsmeet. This was his final capitulation to that end. He went to meet his fate with the sunrise; a hero would have passed quickly by her quarters, no matter his wishes or desires. A man was not so easily dissuaded.

The Hero of River Dane would never have sought her out on the eve of battle.

Loghain Mac Tir was unable to stay away.

"You are a man," she affirmed softly, reaching up with her free hand to rest it against his cheek. The tips of her fingers delved into his hair, and she marveled at its silkiness.

He blinked, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. He nodded once, his murmurs gruff, each syllable drawn out and visibly costing him in dignity. "I don't wish to be alone this night, either."

He had been a commander and teyrn for a large portion of his life. He did not order without reason, did not demand without cause. He lived by the tenant that leadership was sacrifice and gave everything of himself to his people. As such, he was sorely out of practice in permitting himself to want or _ask_ for anything.

She offered what he would not order, gave what he would not demand.

She kissed him, tasting his surprise and uncertainty. She coaxed and he groaned against her, his hands rising to grasp ahold of her biceps as he kissed her back. Their tongues met tentatively, sparring with the most rudimentary of assaults, advancing and withdrawing in warm exploration. The storm outside was forgotten as heat coiled in her belly, spreading throughout her limbs in delicious anticipation.

She took the lead when Loghain did not; she knew this role and played it well. She had been with boys before, young knights and noble fosterlings that had been sent to Highever for education. The education she gave them in the shadowed recesses of the keep was not one their families anticipated, but it was instruction none-the-less. She enjoyed the game, studying love's tangles of disappointment and bliss. She was the bold one, had always been in control; even with Alistair she had been the pursuer, and when their love morphed from something pretend into something precious and treasured, she had been the teacher and he the student.

Disappointment tickled at her; his years should have shaped _this_ as surely as it had shaped the other portions of his life, but he was proving remarkably consistent with her previous encounters.

She wrapped one arm around his torso, and gripped the bottom edge of his shirt, pulling it upward so she could feel the hot skin of his back. She ran the knuckles of her other hand down his stomach, felt his ab muscles contract and his breath hitch. He tried to pull away then, but her fingers clutched at his pants line and dipped below it, continuing their southern exploration –

He suddenly seized her hair, yanking her head forcefully backward. She yelped in surprise, found herself locked into place, staring up at him. Any sense of softness had disappeared from him; in the flashes of lightning, she saw his jaw clenched so tight it looked as if it might shatter, his eyes black and turbulent. He was more fearsome to her in this moment than he had ever been, looming above her.

She was wrong.

She had been with boys before, but Loghain was no boy. He was not a child playing at being an adult; he knew both pleasure and pain, knew the two were not mutually exclusive, that they could comingle and cross boundaries until the mind did not differentiate one from the other. He knew his own body, his own desires, did not need her to teach him or tell him what those desires might be.

He was a man.

Looking up at him now, at the rage in him, she comprehended just how little she really knew of men. She trembled, but did not consider withdrawing. He had warned her, told her he was no hero; he was a man with all of man's vices, both beautiful and ugly.

Half a man was no man at all, and he was entrusting her with all facets of himself.

He _trusted_ her.

She did not back down, did not try to pull away from him. She did not move at all, staring up at him in the dark, awaiting and accepting whatever action he decided upon.

She trusted him, too.

He blinked, the lines of his jaw easing slightly though his eyes remained violent. "I don't want to hurt you," he growled, and his fingers loosened in her hair just enough that she could wriggle away should she wish.

She stayed where she was. "We are what we are," she told him, "I'm a traitor and a coward – And while I would never submit to the Hero of River Dane, I gladly offer myself to _you_." She grasped his forearm in his hand. "There is little you could do to hurt me, Loghain."

He searched her face, searched her heart, perhaps searched her very soul; she knew not what he found, only that he set upon her with a groan that sounded much like her name.

He was not gentle.

He was insistent and rough, his skilled hands finding places on her and inside her that she did not know existed, using them ruthlessly against her, preparing her until she wanted to cry or scream. His body was large, scared and callused as the fingers that played her; he found the remains of her own battles, found them and forgot them in his quest to drive her to madness.

He snarled when he entered her, pushing hard and fast; she clung onto him, afraid she would be swept away. He bound his arms under and around her thighs, jerked her legs higher; she reveled in his strength, in the abandon with which he wanted her.

He wanted _her_ – as she was, as she would be, as only a man can want a woman.

She came seconds before he did, seconds before he drove himself into her with a final shudder that ran the entire length of his frame. They shook together, his hair a black cloud against her breasts. He fell upon her, allowed her to take his weight, and she held him, her legs and arms and body embracing tightly.

They lay long in that manner, regaining their breath as the storm swelled and died. She held herself still, fearful that he would leave if she moved. The rain had become merely trickle against the stones when he finally stirred, lifting himself up to meet her eyes. There was no regret in his gaze, but she could feel his embarrassment, his uneasiness; when he drew in a breath to speak, she prayed that he would not apologize.

"This changes everything."

It was not an apology; it was an acquiescence.

She freed one arm, combed his hair away from his face, the tips of her fingers brushing against his cheek. He was hard, unforgiving; he was considerate and polite. He was annoyingly arrogant and painfully reclusive. He was good and evil, light and dark; he could no longer feign perfection.

He was not a hero.

He was a man.

"Everything is already changed," she replied quietly.


	6. Found Hope

_My apologies for taking so long to get this posted up. Between tornadoes and the craziness of life in general, it's been a rough few weeks! _

_**Warning:** This is not a happy chapter. Be prepared. Also jumps around a bit in the beginning, I hope it's clear enough._

_**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Bioware. I own nothing except the computer on which I type, and the imagination with which I dream._

* * *

><p><em>He slipped from the bed in the weak light of early morning. She stirred, rolling towards him as he pulled away.<em>

_"Go back to sleep," he told her, his voice a comforting rumble._

_"Where are you going?" she murmured back, pulling the blankets up over her shoulders. The bed was infinitely colder without him next to her._

_"The servants will be in soon," he said, gesturing with his chin towards the door. They could both here the castle beginning to stir. "You don't want them to find me here."_

_She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't care." She held one hand out to him, inviting him back. "Come lay down."_

_He glanced over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised in derisive skepticism. "You will care when the rumors begin."_

_"No," she told him, quietly honest, "I won't." She shook her head. "We aren't nobles anymore, Loghain. What do we care about rumors?"_

_He only hesitated a moment more before reclaiming his position next to her, holding her against him possessively._

* * *

><p>"Is she okay?" he asked, his voice strained with concern and irritation.<p>

"I don't know," Wynne replied. She sounded frightened, an emotion the mage rarely expressed. "She's alive, but she won't wake up."

* * *

><p><em>Before they left Redcliffe that morning, she gave him a new set of armor.<em>

_He examined the dragonbone plate with a small smile of admiration. "Where did you get such a set?" he asked, deft fingers playing over the massive armor. He began laying the pieces out in the particular arrangement he used for cleaning._

_"From a smith in Denerim," she told him, pleased that he was happy with her choice, "He made my own leathers from drakeskin. I'd given him the High Dragon material weeks ago, but couldn't decide what I wanted him to fashion – I can't wear heavy armors."_

_"The craftsmanship is superb," he told her, still distracted with his routine._

_She laughed. "Wade would probably disagree. He's very picky," she explained at his glance of disbelief. She grinned at him then, took one of his wandering hands in her own. "But I'm glad you like it. It suits you much better than me."_

_He nodded at her in satisfaction. "Thank you."_

* * *

><p>"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "What can I do?"<p>

Wynne sighed. "You could try prayer. If you don't believe in prayer – maybe you should."

* * *

><p><em>The march to the capital was long and wearying, and the welcome they received when they arrived left much to be desired. The Horde had already entered the city, and what little of the royal guard that had stayed behind had been nearly decimated in its wake. The King and his men fought valiantly, relentlessly, but theirs was a lost battle; Elissa's army arrived just in time.<em>

_They swept into the city, quickly taking back the main gate. She stayed as far away from Alistair as she could, ignoring his cold stare as she spoke to Riordan concerning the plan to lure the Archdemon into the open._

_Loghain's frosty blue glare was harder to ignore; his gaze bore into her as she chose him to stay behind and lead the defense of the gates while she lead the charge into the city itself. He grabbed her arm when she would have turned to leave, pulling her back to him._

_She expected him to rail at her, to argue that she should be taking him along with her. But he spoke nothing aloud, only looked into her eyes and said more without words than he ever could with them._

_"I make my own path," she whispered, hoping he would understand._

_He drew back, slowly releasing his grip on her arm. "One breath at a time," he told her gruffly, before turning and walking away._

* * *

><p>"Just keep breathing, Elissa," his words were an order and a plea, "Maker damn you, keep breathing."<p>

* * *

><p><em>The Archdemon was terrifying; its cries filled the air, twisted through her mind and gripped her heart with fiery claws. She stared up at it, felt its fury at being injured, its overwhelming longing for vengeance. It sighted her and screamed its wrath, challenging her. A sudden fierce rage boiled in her own blood – here was the origin of all the heartache and pain and loss from the last year – and she returned the scream, extending her own challenge as she rushed forward with dual swords raised.<em>

_She cut through the lines of darkspawn, directing the Dalish to harry the dragon, to fire continuously at its flanks. Arl Eamon's soldiers manned the ballista, sending their deadly bolts flying at the tainted Old God when it leapt within range. The dwarves – so resilient after centuries spent fighting in the darkness of the Deep Roads – kept the dragon's minions at bay, driving the darkspawn away from where they sought to protect their master. The mages were kept busy healing, utilizing entropy spells to steal residual mana from dead or dying enemies._

_The top of Fort Drakon was a slaughterhouse, black tainted blood mingling with brilliant red, and she lost track of how many fell. She blocked out the screams of the wounded; every step was a new discovery of agony. Her body would suck in a breath and she would force it out again, force herself to keep panting, keep moving, keep swinging and hacking and killing._

_Something crashed into her from behind and she collapsed to the ground, her blades spinning away. She lay against the sticky stones, dazed, wanting nothing more than to linger in that spot forever._

_An other-worldly scream brought her to her knees; the dragon was hit, a ballista bolt protruding grotesquely from just behind its left forelimb. The creature groaned, clearly in pain, and stumbled. Its legs buckled and the tower shook as it fell. The wedge-shaped head hit near to her, one mad, white eye staring at her in hatred and woe._

**_End it._**

_The words came from nowhere, floated through her mind like an oil slick sliding on top of water. The dragon hissed at her as she drove herself to her feet, but it made no move to stand itself._

**_End it now._**

_She was more than willing to oblige; with a snarl, she expended the last amount of her energy to charge at the fallen Archdemon. She grabbed a greatsword from a fallen comrade, and slammed the blade into the beast's head with a shout that was part victory, part valediction._

_Pain._

_Pain the likes of which she had never encountered lanced through her body. She was being ripped apart, torn into thousands of pieces. She curled into herself, coiled around the source of her agony, held onto it and gripped it with slippery resolve; she knew her life was ended when the pain ceased._

_She did not want to live without him._

_She wanted to live with him._

_She wanted to _live_._

_White light pierced her, and she was tossed around as the world exploded around her. Still she forced air into her lungs, even as the light receded. Every gasp cost her, wore her down; she counted them and kept breathing._

_The pain did not cease._

* * *

><p>"Wake up, Elissa," he whispered hoarsely, "You must wake up."<p>

* * *

><p><em>She held to the pain as her deliverance, her salvation. It hurt. It hurt so much, but she refused to let it go. She floundered in the aching darkness, lost.<em>

* * *

><p>"Falling is not the hardest part. Now, get up, Warden!"<p>

* * *

><p><em>He was there to help her stand; he aided her search for a path and pledged to follow her on it. He pushed her, pulled her, made her worse, and made her better. He had become a constant in her life, a solidarity in a world of upheaval.<em>

_He trusted her and she trusted him._

_He was a voice in her head that spoke the words of survival, and she pursued the sound through the shadows._

_He found her._

_He guided her out of the darkness._

She lived.

* * *

><p>The streets of Denerim were eerily quiet after being filled with the screams and cries of battle; the Archdemon was gone and the Horde routed, but few residents had yet to return to the city. Even the dogs were silent and still, cowed by the virulence of the darkspawn and their taint. A few of the most stoic were attempting to pick up the tatters of their lives, working long into each evening and simply dropping in their steps when they needed a respite.<p>

Some of Redcliffe's soldiers appeared each day to stand guard over their self-appointed charges, while a handful of dwarves had begun to volunteer their stone-crafting assistance.

It was a small effort but an encouraging onel Fereldens were nothing if not resilient, more so when they actually worked together.

She watched their struggle from the palace battlements, taking up a post to observe Denerim mend. The palace guard had learned to ignore her presence here; she visited frequently in the days following the Blight, staying for hours, staring out over the blackened and ruined buildings in silent consideration.

She came to heal as she watched her people heal.

She came to escape.

A strange, novel hush had fallen inside her, a calm that she was not used to bearing. She was not restless, did not feel her customary frenetic desire for movement and distraction. It was therefore not her need of diversion that drove her to seek solitude; rather, it was the smothering adoration and acclaim she was receiving from all directions. Servants and soldiers, elves and dwarves and men she had never met were constantly seeking her out, wishing to see the woman who had almost single-handedly slain a god. Even her friends would hardly leave her side – though the one she most wanted to see was notably absent.

She overheard two mages speaking of him, how he led the storming of Fort Drakon after the explosion had rocked its summit. He had gone seeking for her broken body, had found her amongst the carnage, and carried her to the healers, stridently demanding her immediate care.

He had apparently disappeared after she began recovering.

She did not inquire after him further, presuming he was busy with other matters. It was enough that he had found her then; she knew he would find her again.

And he did.

It was dusk, the sun just starting to the tinge the heights of Dragon's Peak with fire. Her gaze was drawn to the mountain, drawn to the dark tower that hovered in shadow beneath it. Fort Drakon stood silent and solemn amongst the shards of the city; no one had dared venture to its pinnacle after the staggering number of bodies had been removed, and there were rumors circulating that spirits and demons already haunted the structure.

She stared at the edifice, wondering if a time would come when she would be asked to clear it of the shades that now roamed its twisted halls, wondering if she would ever again have the courage to brave its upper levels.

She thought she probably would.

She felt his approach long before she heard him. Even wearing heavy plate, the man moved like a ghost; when he was wearing leathers, he _became_ a ghost – at least to the general populace.

Not to her.

She waited, gazing up at the tower. "I know you're back there," she said after he had been standing silently behind her for some moments.

"I know," he returned, subdued.

"You can sit down," she told him, looking over her shoulder to smirk at him. "I'm not going to run you off."

The corners of his mouth tilted upward slightly; his tone was slightly derisive, if amused. "Don't be so sure."

She shrugged and spun around on her bottom to face him. He was tense, his shoulders upright and tight under his leather cuirass, one gauntlet-covered fist clenching and unclenching at his his edginess, he looked good; he was clean and confident, and appeared younger to her eyes.

"I'm glad to see you," she told him quietly, the words coming out unexpected and honest.

His chin dipped in a shallow nod. "I apologize for being away during your recovery," he muttered. He did not expound on where he had been, and she did not push.

"It was a bit surprising to wake up at all," she said instead, trying for levity.

Flippancy had never been his strong suit; he gritted his back teeth together and the muscle along his jawline twitched. "_That_ was more than obvious."

She blinked up at him, curious about his irritation. There was no evading the issue; she jumped headfirst into it. "Not that it mattered," she continued, "Because you had already taken care of the outcome, hadn't you?"

He did not look away from her, holding her gaze unapologetically. "I knew what you would do, because it's what I would have done in your place," he rationalized his actions to her, "And I wanted to prevent it."

"You took the choice away from me," she pointed out. Her voice was not critical; she still spoke evenly, almost serene in her composure.

There was, after all, no reason to be angry. What was done was done, and there was no going back and changing it now.

"I did what was necessary," he growled, his posture becoming defensive despite her tranquil demeanor.

She tilted her head. "Necessary for what?" she enquired.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his nostrils flaring. "To keep you alive," he barked back, clearly frustrated with her, believing she should already know his answers.

She narrowed her eyes. "So it's true then. Morrigan spoke to you in Redcliffe, and you agreed with her proposition." This was not a question. There could be no other way for her to have survived the Archdemon's slaying.

Now he did glance away, a flush creeping up his neck. His shoulders grew impossibly tighter as he nodded stiffly. "It was the only way," he said, and within the harshness of his voice she heard his plea for understanding, "I knew you wouldn't ask."

She recalled the curve in his back that night he had come to her room in Redcliffe Castle, the weight he had carried, how he had seemed crumpled by the world. But then her imagination was tugged away by a secondary image: his body hovering over hers, anger burning within him as he took her coarsely and without shame. She shivered, remembering his heat, and finally comprehending his need. "That's why you warned me, why you said you were afraid you would hurt me."

His utter lack of response was all the assent she needed.

She sighed softly in the growing dark. "Can I tell you about the Archdemon?" she asked, watching as the words drew his blue eyes back to her face. When he nodded, she admitted with a tremor, "It was terrifying, the scariest thing imaginable. And when I finally sank my blade into its skull, it felt like - like dying – like I was being ripped apart by both light and sound. It was the most painful thing I have ever experienced – I don't know that I can fully explain it to you." She grimaced, distinctly recollecting the sharpness with which the agony had held her. Even now, if she thought too hard about it, she could feel it tingling along her skin like freezing fire and burning ice. "Suffice it to say," she said, wrapping her arms around herself protectively, "It was very, very bad."

He shook his head, his voice sticking in his throat. "Elissa –"

His use of her name warmed her, stole the ache of her memories away, but she cut him off, wanting no interruption of her account.

He needed to know what had happened, what she had survived.

_How_ she had survived.

_Why_ she had survived.

"I knew," she spoke over him, "I knew that if I let go of the pain, that it would end – that it would end, and so would I. So I seized onto it," she told him, looking into his icy eyes, hoping he could comprehend what she was telling him, "I held it tightly and suffered it. I decided I wasn't going to let go easily – it would either have to take me by force - or it would cease." She shook her head slowly. "It did not cease for a very, very long time."

He stood straight and resilient before her, looking aggrieved. He said, "It was not my intent to hurt you." He looked as if he were now suffering every moment she had been made to suffer then. "It has never been - _will never be -_ my intent to hurt you."

"I know that."

"Still, I broke your trust and lied to you."

She winced.

_Oathbreaker._

_Liar._

The very breeze hissed the allegations along the stone parapets, and she heard them repeated in her head by a voice that once spoke to her of love.

They were merely words; they could be wielded as any weapon, meant to wound in defense or cruelty, but only the listener could give them the power do so. Summoning her resolve - a resolve he had given to her - she waved them away.

"No," she said gently, firmly, her tone leaving no room for question, "You saved my life."

Whatever determination had been keeping him in place evaporated; he moved quickly, and she stood, meeting him halfway. She wrapped her arms around his waist, ignoring the studs on his leather armor as they dug into her skin. He returned the embrace, his grip strong and warm around her shoulders, his cheek resting on the crown of her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered gruffly against her hair. "I'm so very sorry."

"For saving my life?" she asked, her mirth subdued against his chest. "There's no need."

"Yes," he said, "There is. Elissa –"

He hesitated and she felt a coil of fear in her gut; she had known the moment she heard him approach, the moment she had witnessed his tension, his reluctance, that something was wrong. He had been gone for so long – for too long – and she _knew_. "You're going away, aren't you?"

He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Yes." The single word was choked out painfully.

She reinforced her grip on him, clutching him harder to her. "Where?"

"Montsimmard, in Orlais," he said, and his disdain for the location was not subtle, "The First in Weisshaupt heard about my conscription and ordered me there immediately."

He strained against her, drawing away somewhat. She unwillingly did the same, tilting her chin up to look at him. "Have you tried getting the orders changed?"

His grin was halfhearted and rueful. "I have been trying. Unfortunately, this _First_ seems to be even more stubborn than I."

"Impossible," she scoffed.

He huffed out a short chuckle, and his small grin was like a salve on the ache growing within her. "Perhaps he will tire of my persistence over time." But his humor was quick to dissipate as he leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I _am_ sorry."

She knew now what he was really apologizing for, why he had called himself a liar.

She knew now what he had really lied to her about.

"You promised you would follow me," she said, her words a breath between them, "And you can't."

He leaned back to look at her, and traced the curve of her face with a leather covered finger. "I would that I could," he rumbled low. "Know that I will always follow you here," he said, pointing at his own head. He then reached around, taking one of her hands in his own. With their fingers clasped together, he pulled it forward and set it over her heart. "And here."

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her tears to stay away. Now was not the time for crying. "I don't want to live without you," she confessed. "I don't know that I can."

"I find – I find I do not wish to live without _you_, either," he admitted, and she knew the admission was difficult for him. He was still learning how to want for things, how to ask for them.

He was still learning how to be just a man.

"Then don't leave." She blurted the words even knowing their foolishness. Neither of them were the type to blatantly ignore orders, let alone disobey them.

He twisted his hand, squeezing her palm in his. "You know I have to." When she looked away, embarrassed and defeated, he used his other hand to capture her chin and bring her gaze back to his own. "Without an end," he whispered gruffly, earnestly, "There can be no beginning."

She smiled sadly at that, rolling her eyes in feigned disgust. "I don't think I'll ever understand some of the things you say."

"Don't try," he told her with a burst of genuine laughter, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

His lips found hers then, the kiss crushing in its gentleness. She wanted to cry at the injustice, at the severity of life, but would not allow herself. She asked against him, "When do you leave?"

"A few days. The preparations are already set."

Dragging herself away from him, she affected a leer. "Then let's not be wasteful with the time we yet have."

He shook his head, laughing again. "I'm only a man," he grumbled, towing her closer into him.

She hesitated, locking her body into stillness, staring up at him. Before he could kiss her again – before they both lost themselves to distraction – she told him solemnly, "You gave me the tools to survive, and showed me how to create my own path. I don't know how I will ever thank you for that."

"You have taught me more about living than I have learned in my entire existence," he replied softly, "That is thanks enough."

"I was so lost, and you found me," she whispered, "You always found me."

He had found her once. He would find her again.

The grin he shared with her was both heartbreaking and hopeful, and she understood why: they both had a future now, and a reason to continue. They both had their own breaths to take, their own paths to create and forge.

It was remarkable; her greatest enemy had somehow become her most trusted companion, a man she wanted and needed.

It was awful and wonderful, painful and beautiful.

_It was life._

He leaned into her, his lips brushing hers; the words he spoke echoed in her ears, and would do so for many, many years to come:

"We found each other."

* * *

><p><em>This is the end of Elissa and Loghain's tale - at least from this viewpoint. But there are still a few loose ends to tie up between Elissa and her King, so stay tuned for a brief epilogue... Alistair will be returning!<em>

_Also, I know there are some individual thank you's I owe - I will be sending them out with the epilogue. In the mean time, thanks to all that have encouraged me, given me ideas, and followed my story. _


End file.

Dragon Age, Hurt-Comfort, Romance