It had been a long, hard fight through the ruined temple to reach the mountain top, and then an even worse one against the high dragon they found there. They were all exhausted afterwards, but Arren had insisted on pushing on in pursuit of the ashes; they'd wasted too much time in Orzammar, and he worried that every further day of delay now meant it was that much more likely that they'd return to Redcliffe too late to save Arl Eamon.

And so he pressed on, taking Sten, Zevran and Wynne with him, and leaving Alistair, Jowan, Morrigan and Oghren outside to recover. Mouse as well; the mabari had been knocked around a lot in the fight with the dragon, and was bruised and battered and in need of rest. He wasn't the only one; Alistair had taken quite a beating in the fight as well, and even after Wynne had worked her healing magics was feeling more than a little dizzy. Oghren had fared better for most of the fight, until he'd been knocked head over tail into a stone outcropping and knocked senseless. It could have been worse; it he hadn't of bounced off the stone, he'd have ended up in one of the seething pools of mineral water that ringed the plateau. Nevertheless, he too was quite content to lie down and have a breather – and more than a few drinks – while Arren and the others explored further.

The nice part about being injured, Alistair decided, was that it gave Jowan an excuse to look after him. Not that they actually needed an excuse to be together, it wasn't like anyone in the party had the slightest illusions about the nature of the relationship the two men had forged over their weeks of travel together. But it was still nice to lay back and let the mage fuss over him. Which at the moment was involving resting his head in Jowan's lap while the mage massaged his temples, his hands glowing faintly with healing magic, as he soothed away the lingering headache left by a rather nasty cracked skull and concussion that Wynne had healed earlier.

"I could get used to this," Alistair said drowsily. "Having my very own healer."

Jowan snorted softly. "The way you fight sometimes, you almost need one just for yourself. If you're planning on taking on any more fire-spitting dragons, I suggest you get a bigger shield to hide behind. Or armour with better fire-repulsing qualities. Or better yet, find something else entirely to fight."

Alistair grinned. "That should be the only one," he said. "Well, until and unless the archdemon shows up and we get to try killing that," he corrected himself. "Though being an archdemon, I suspect it'll spit something worse than mere fire."

He could feel Jowan shiver slightly at his words. "Let's concentrate on more immediate foes for now," the mage suggested. "I hope we won't run into any more cultists on the way down the mountain," he said, and paused for a moment. "I... don't like killing people, even if they are trying to kill us," he finished softly.

Alistair grimaced. "Nor do I," he agreed. "Unfortunately they've not exactly given us much choice in the matter. No 'Hello, why don't we talk about this over tea', just 'Die, intruders!' and out come the swords and bows. And mages. I've never seen so many apostates in my life before. Don't take this wrong, but this is one place I think could have used a healthy dose of templars."

Jowan grunted. "I think I'd agree with you. Not if they were just living peacefully, not hurting others... but I saw what they had done to those knights of the Arl's. No one should die like that," he said softly, shuddering again.

Alistair rolled over and sat up, taking the mage's hands into his, and squeezed them comfortingly. Considering what he knew Jowan had undergone at the hands of some of the Arl's men when he'd been a prisoner at Redcliffe Castle, it was astonishing to him how sympathetic the mage could still be to any of them. It was, he knew, one of the things he loved about Jowan; the mage was, at heart, a very gentle and caring man. Which made it seem all the stranger that he'd actually studied blood magic; but even a gentle creature would fight back if in fear for its life, and Jowan, he knew, had grown up with an overwhelming fear of being made tranquil, of being cut off from all emotion, denied the use of the magic that he loved. He'd seen blood magic as a tool he could use to protect himself; he'd almost destroyed himself with it instead.

"If you two lovebirds have had quite enough of each other, I could use a hand with preparing a meal," Morrigan called out. She was hauling their stew pot out of the oversized backpack that it was normally carted around in by Sten.

"How are we going to even warm it up?" Alistair asked, climbing to his feet. "There's nothing to burn here but stone."

"Jowan or I could heat it with magic, if necessary," Morrigan pointed out. "But 'tis easier, I suspect, to just place it in one of these hot springs and let natural heat have its way."

"Oh, good idea," Alistair agreed. He lifted the lid and peered into the pot at the congealed mass of their never-ending stew. "Level is getting a little low, I suppose we should add some more stuff to it."

Morrigan nodded. "We have some more herbs and root vegetables we can add. Some meat would be good as well. A pity the dragon is so old; Flemeth told me the meat of young dragons is quite succulent, but one that old would need hours of simmering to be edible."

"Well, we did kill some younger ones in the caves," Jowan pointed out as he walked over to join the conversation.

"A good point," Morrigan said agreeably. "Alistair, why don't you go fetch one of the dragonlings, and Jowan and I shall take care of cleaning and adding the vegetables."

Jowan sighed. "My turn with peeling potatoes and carrots again, is it?" he said.

Morrigan smiled. "And turnips. And whatever that root Oghren found while searching that cellar for beer is."

"Parsnip, I think," Alistair said. "Unless it's horseradish. I don't really know how to tell them apart in the raw state."

"It's horseradish," Oghren called out in a slurred voice. "Smell it. And don't add more than a little of it to the stew, or we'll have to dump it all and start the stew from scratch again; it's strong stuff."

The two mages and Alistair took it in turn to sniff dubiously at the large white root, which proved to have a sharp scent quite different from the mild sweetness of parsnip, as well as a noticeably firmer, crisper flesh.

Alistair headed off to the cave in search of a dragonling corpse. By the time he'd returned with one, Oghren had taken over the cooking, and was busy stirring the pot, which was standing in one of the smaller hot springs, the steaming water bubbling around its sides.

Alistair started trying to skin the dragonling. He'd seen Arren and Zevran prepare game before, but it proved to be much more difficult than he'd expected. After a few minutes Oghren made a disgusted noise and shooed him away.

"It'll take care of it, boy," the dwarf growled. "Can't be any worse than preparing a nug for the pot."

Alistair left the dwarf to it, and wandered over to where Morrigan and Jowan were sitting talking together.

"...it's not all that difficult to learn new forms, once you've mastered your first one," Morrigan was saying. "And the feeling of freedom is glorious."

Alistair sat down nearby. "What are you talking about, and can I join in?" he asked.

Jowan laughed. "Shape-changing. I was telling Morrigan how envious I was of her ability to take different animal forms."

Alistair smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "Me, too... seeing you flying around as a hawk makes me jealous of your abilities, you know," he told her. "Especially when you do something all dramatic like stooping down from way up high, and you're going so fast... it's beautiful!"

Morrigan looked pleased by his reaction. "'Tis one of my favourite forms," she said agreeably. "Though hard to maintain, since as a hawk I am so small. There is a strain to being so much smaller than your normal size; 'tis hard to fold yourself into a space so tiny, and harder yet to maintain your own thoughts and intelligence within a brain so narrow-focused and instinct-driven. Larger, smarter animals are easier."

"Do you think I could learn to shape-shift?" Jowan asked wistfully. "It would be nice to be able to hide in plain sight like you can. Especially if we encounter more templars. I mean, I have travel papers now and everything," he said, fingers unconsciously reaching to touch the pouch on his belt where they were. "But they still scare me. And I'm sure there's other uses to being able to change shape."

"Perhaps," Morrigan said thoughtfully. "You are certainly powerful enough to learn to maintain the magic for it. The main issue will be learning an animal well enough that you can become one. Flemeth put me to studying wolves for several months before teaching me how to shift and become one. But as I was saying, it does get easier after you learn the trick of it. I suppose we can at least start in on the theory; that alone will take some time to teach."

Jowan just about glowed with happiness. "Thank you, Morrigan, I would certainly appreciate the chance to learn it," he said appreciatively.

She smiled warmly at him. "'Tis nothing," she said. "I believe there is a section in my mother's grimoire that deals with it. Let me fetch that, and you may study it to begin."


Arren and the others eventually emerged from the depths of the temple, looking tired and drained. Arren in particular looked... almost heartbroken, Alistair thought, and wasn't surprised to see the elf withdraw after a silent the meal, to sit at a distance with Morrigan, the two leaning together and talking quietly.

"What happened in there?" he asked Zevran.

Zevran looked almost equally tired and worn. "A lot. There was very little fighting, but we encountered... reminders of our separate pasts. It is a place called the Gauntlet, and you must pass through it to reach where Andraste's ashes lie. As he was our leader, one of the encounters was a ghost from Arren's past. Someone he had loved very much, judging by how pained the encounter left him. Someone he felt he had failed," he added softly, looking away. "We all had to confront past failures in there. It was not an easy passage."

Alistair nodded, and wondered what past failure Zevran had been confronted with. He didn't dare ask, not with him looking almost as haunted as Arren had. Of those who had gone into this "Gauntlet" with Arren, only Sten seemed unaffected, his expression still set in its usual stoic grimace. Wynne had eaten a bowl of stew and gone to roll up in her bedroll, back turned to the rest of them.

Jowan looked up at Alistair, then over at Zevran. "If... you'd rather not be alone tonight, move your bedroll over by ours," he offered. Alistair nodded in rapid agreement. They owed Zevran, since Orzammar, and as tired and sore as everyone was tonight, it wasn't like they'd planned to do anything other than sleep anyway.

Zevran gave them a weak half-smile in return. "Thank you," he said. "I will take you up on that. The experience has left all of us feeling rattled, I think."

Alistair had first watch of the night. He smiled when he went to lie down after waking Sten, and found Jowan lying spooned protectively around the elf, their blankets a muddled nest around the two them. He quietly slipped in beside Jowan, drawing a blanket up over all three of them, and draped his own arm over both of them before falling asleep himself.