They press on hard the next day to make up the day they'd used freeing Soldier's Peak, and by the time dusk falls they're well on their way to crossing the Bannorn. If Marian searches the deepest reaches of her memory, she recognizes fragments of this part of the road from that awful journey that brought her to the Circle when she was small. That must mean they've passed Highever. Another day will see them to Lake Calenhad.

Her map tells her that this is the closest can get to Kirkwall without riding out to the coast. Her family can't possibly be there yet, even if they survived Lothering, but that means very little right now. They're lost to her, and only the Maker knows whether it's only for now or forever.

But she won't give them up for dead just yet.

Wynne settles down next to her on the log they're calling a bench, stretching her feet out toward the fire. "Oh, it's been a long day," she says with a sigh. "Rest... rest would be welcome."

"Are you all right?" Marian asks, concerned. "You're due a turn in the cart if you need it."

Wynne smiles. "Yes... yes, of course. I am just a little... weary. As you may have noticed, I'm no spring chicken."

How old is Wynne, anyway? It feels like she's always been at the Circle, but that can't actually be true. She must have had a home once, and a family that she was taken from, just like Marian. And Marian has her walking all over Ferelden without thought to her age or concern for her well-being.

Wynne hasn't complained once, though. She goes where she's needed, fights when required, and heals with only a modicum of lecturing. She's only taken offense at Zevran's flagrant lechery, which Marian finds a sign of good taste.

Perhaps Marian still sees her as her instructor, someone who's not to be approached unless it's about the learning. Or perhaps she's been so wrapped up in Alistair and her own personal tragedies that she couldn't be bothered to think about anything else. If that's so, she's ashamed of herself. She can do better. She will do better.

"Be glad you aren't a chicken of any description," Marian says with a smile. "If you were, I think someone would have you in the pot before you could say boo."

"Ah, very funny." Wynne stares out over the fire, into the distance where the sky is just letting go of the sun, allowing it to sink behind the horizon. She's quiet for such a long time that Marian returns to her armor, scraping a fragrant bit of mud off the bottom of her boot. "But in all honestly, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there is always something else to do, and I have to keep going in order to do it. I think I will be glad when I am... done. " Marian holds her breath; she has the feeling that Wynne has forgotten she's here, listening. It has the feeling of a confession, not something meant for her ears.

But then Wynne turns to her and smiles, and Marian realizes that once again she's underestimated her teacher. Just because Marian's uncomfortable with vulnerability doesn't mean that everyone is. When will she learn that not everyone thinks the way that she does?

And who can Marian interrogate to find out more about Wynne?

"You're not done yet," Marian says, aiming for comforting. She's probably falling far short of the mark, though. "We still need you."

"Oh, no." Wynne reaches over and pats Marian's hand, for all the world like someone's maiden aunt consoling her over missing the last tea cookie instead of talking about her own death. "I'm not the sort of person that leaves things unfinished. I'll see this through, I promise."

Marian turns her hand up, catching Wynne's, and gives it a squeeze. "You'd better," she says, and there's half a threat there that she absolutely means. She's not ready to let her go yet. Then a thought strikes her. "Has Alistair checked in with you since yesterday?"

It turns out that he hadn't, and so Wynne goes round the other side of the fire to check him over and read him the lecture on the benefits of prompt medical care. It's only a sprain, so the lecture is longer than the cure. Alistair gives her his best betrayed eyes, to which Marian laughs heartlessly and wanders off to play with Cú.

Marian may pay for that later, but it'll be worth it.

The next night they make camp on the northern tip of Lake Calenhad, and the next just south of Gherlen's Pass. She's pushed the pace so hard that she can't believe everyone is keeping up, even Bodahn's oxen, though they're all so tired at night that there's very little chit-chat between a hasty dinner and finding their beds.

They should reach Haven tomorrow night. She doesn't know what they'll find, whether Genitivi's there or not, but at least it'll be the end of this long, infuriating side trip and they can get back to their real purpose. Though they'll need to find something to cure Eamon, since they still need his help...

Marian turns that over in her mind until she falls asleep.

Come morning, it's her turn to cook breakfast, and even Marian is sick of the lumpy porridge that is the only thing she knows how to make. She needs to learn something else, and quickly, before she sparks a camp revolt.

Or maybe they'll just take her off the rota. That works, too.

The road is winding through the lowest part of the Frostbacks now, and it's starting to get chillier. Marian is still in her Circle robes, and while they're silk, the better to keep hold of the enchantments woven in, they're still thin. She shivers, blowing on her fingers to stave off the cold.

"Why aren't you wearing these?" Alistair asks, frowning. He's holding out the gloves and boots that go with her Warden armor, the blessedly thick ones made entirely of leather. "You'll catch your death."

"Because I'm an idiot," she says, rueful, but she's properly grateful to him for pointing out her lack of foresight. She puts the gloves on immediately, and uses Alistair for balance as she kicks off her slippers – slippers, what was she thinking? – and tugs on her boots.

Marian's sure she looks ridiculous, but she's already warmer and that's what counts.

"Thanks," Marian says with a smile.

"Can't have you getting frostbite. Who knows if you can set darkspawn on fire with missing fingers?"

It's a joke, but Marian shivers again, and this time it's not due to the cold but the idea of more cold to come. "But it's Cloudreach!" she objects.

Alistair shrugs. "I saw it snow in Justinian once."

"Why would you tell me that?" she demands, glaring, and stomps away to brood, followed by Alistair's laughter.

They pass a merchant on the road who offers them something he's calling a golem control rod, though Marian's sure it's nothing of the sort. He doesn't want anything for it, though, and she's intrigued by some of the symbols etched into concentric rings around the rod, so she takes it with her thanks, along with the location of the supposed golem.

Around midday they have to leave the road, at least according to the maps; it takes them near an hour to find the dirt track that runs east along a river, leading into the mountains. There's absolutely no way Bodahn can get his cart through the forest and up into this kind of terrain, so she sends him on to Redcliffe with most of their heavy supplies. They'll have to share tents again, and all the extra armor goes with him, along with anything else they can spare.

Marian hesitates with her hand over her personal pack; it's mostly shifts and smalls, some paper and ink, but hidden deep at the bottom are Bethany's marbles and Carver's stuffed toy horse. They have to pack light in order to haul all their food and supplies up the mountain, but she's never been parted from these things, and she's not sure she can bear leaving them behind. She hefts the pack; it's light enough that she can lump it, she decides, and drops it on her share of the gear.

"Warden," Sten says behind her, and she stands, stretching to relieve the ache in her back, before she turns.

Instantly she knows that this isn't going to go well for her. His face is so different, so alien, that it's hard to register his emotions at the best of times – and she's sure that contributes to the stupid idea she can't shake that he doesn't have many – but even Marian can tell that he's frustrated, and frustrated with her.

It's intimidating, she doesn't mind admitting. She doesn't feel like she's gotten to know him at all, despite all the time they've traveled together. He doesn't respond to her efforts at conversation. He seems to live for the fight and nothing more, and yet he doesn't take joy in it the way she might expect. She doesn't understand him. He seems to like it that way.

But perhaps she should try harder.

"What's the matter?" Marian asks. Suddenly she's not sure what to do with her hands – they're dangling awkwardly. She settles for crossing her arms. Or does that look defensive? It certainly feels that way –

"Your strategy is interesting," he says, so dry she's nearly parched just listening to him. "Tell me, do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?"

Inwardly, she's raging at herself. Damn, damn, damn. She should have expected this. Not everyone was happy when she came back with Haven's location. She'd been expecting Morrigan to say something cutting for days, but perhaps she's built up enough capital in that quarter for a reprieve. Instead Morrigan picks at Alistair or has long, fraught debates about magic with Wynne. Marian doesn't care what Morrigan says, or to whom, as long as they can fight together at the end of the day and someone else is on cooking duty.

But she hadn't been expecting Sten to object. She'd thought he was a soldier, happiest with orders to obey. And she was wrong. She puts her life in his hands daily, and she doesn't know if that's wise. She doesn't know what he'll do with it.

"It would certainly have the novelty of surprise," Marian says, curving her mouth into a deliberate smile that she can't bring herself to feel.

"Truly. It would surprise me if my enemy counter-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain."

Perhaps it's the appearance of cowardice that's set him off. If that's true, then she at least understands his concerns, but doesn't he realize that there are larger things than personal honor at stake here?

"We're not running away," Marian says, frowning. "How can you say that?"

"The archdemon is our goal. And we are heading away from it. To find the charred remnants of a dead woman." His eyes bore into her like gimlets. He's giving her the weight of his expectations, of his frustrations and his skeptical disdain for their task. It's a heavy load. "I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle."

"How far do you expect the eight of us to get against the entire darkspawn horde and the archdemon?" Marian demands. "We need allies, and we need Ferelden's armies."

"That army was broken at Ostagar, and chasing a pot of holy dirt will get you no closer to your goal."

She's never met anyone so unwilling to see the forest for the trees. He won't listen, and if he won't hear her, she can't convince him of anything. Perhaps that's the point, or perhaps he's so frustrated that he's turned to bloody-mindedness as a remedy.

Marian takes a deep, calming breath.

"Ferelden's armies are not broken," she points out, as evenly as she can. "Loghain marched them through Lothering on his way to Denerim. I have had reports of their numbers – " Yes, it was from her mother, but it still counts. " – and there's quite enough of them, enough to give the darkspawn pause if we can bolster their ranks with the dwarves and the elves. And we are not running away, either." She summons a wry smile. "Think of this as a strategic detour."

Sten watches her for an age, long enough for Marian to start fidgeting, curling her toes rhythmically inside of her boots to keep it from showing. Somehow she suspects that he'd take it as a weakness, and that's the last impression she wants to give right now.

"Turn and fight," Sten says, finally. "You keep the darkspawn waiting."

And then he just walks away, as if nothing happened.

Marian scrubs her face with her hand and sighs. At least it's never boring, she tells herself, returning to her packing.

It's a scant comfort.

She leaves the bag with her Warden uniform for last; she wants to take it quite badly, but she and Alistair have agreed to only wear it when they know it's safe, which nearly defeats the purpose of having it at all.

If only it weren't so distinctive, she thinks. Or if they could alter it...

Wait. Why can't they cover it?

Marian gets hold of Bodahn straightaway, and he digs through his cart for an age before he comes back up with a stack of fur-lined, belted overtunics. He claims they've been there for donkey's years, and that he doesn't want anything for them, but the one she tries on smells freshly cleaned, not dusty. Bodahn promises to have something lighter waiting for them in Redcliffe when they meet again. Impulsively, she darts in and hugs him. She can tell that he's pleased when she pulls back, even if he grumbles. It's just for show.

She goes behind a convenient copse of birches to change into her uniform and put the coat on over everything. It practically swallows her whole, reaching to her knees, and the belt wraps her waist twice. She starts to sweat almost immediately, but it'll be worth it, she tells herself, especially once they get further up into the mountains.

Alistair lights up when she goes to him with one of the tunics in her hands and shows him what she's done. He's chafed in his replacement armor, more than she has; for her it's only a matter of being best prepared, but for him, it's something else, something about where he belongs. He'd nearly idolized Duncan, and the rest of the Grey Wardens, and wearing the armor must be a little like being with them again, if only in spirit. When he comes back, fastening the last buckle on his vambrace, he looks better. He looks comfortable.

He also looks a little bit like a bear on his hind legs. And still she wants to kiss him. There's no accounting for taste.

They send Bodahn off to Redcliffe with everything they can spare and turn their sights west, to the long march to Haven.