A/N: This is a chapter from multiple PoVs as our intrepid adventurers make their way to their various destinations.
Thank you, Lisa, as always, for your eagle-eye and sharp wit. Your suggestions were spot on.

Happy Trails to You

As soon as the boat docked, Randal turned to the two ladies - and he used that term advisedly – and instructed, "Go to the castle. Go directly to the castle. Do not stop until you are in the castle. I will be there directly."

Neither woman looked impressed by his instructions, delivered in his most commanding voice, but at least they didn't argue, which had to be a first. The entire trip had been one long bitch-fest with Wynne complaining that Morrigan's clothing was too revealing, and Morrigan complaining that Wynne's mouth was so busy working that the old woman had no time to engage her brain. Randal had spent most of his time on the foredeck, dutifully watching them, smite at the ready. He had not slept, had barely eaten and his good humor was in short supply. Or possibly gone altogether.

Leaping to the wooden pier, he walked up the small incline to the village of Redcliffe, surprised to see how much work had already been done to set the village to rights after the demon infestation. He nodded to several friends, who stood, with mouths agape, as he strode by them, his armor glittering like diamonds in the sun.

His father was overseeing the repairs, standing in the middle of the town square, shouting orders in his gravelly voice. "Da," Randal muttered in greeting, striding past the man who was not only his father, but also the town's mayor.

"Randal!" his father greeted.

"Not now, Da. I'll come by for a visit in a bit."

Continuing through the square, he climbed the hill, not bothering to turn and see if the two women were obeying his orders. He knew they were because Wynne couldn't wait to cozy up to the arl, and Morrigan was too suspicious of the older woman not to follow her. Still, he felt he had gone above and beyond the call of duty in escorting them back to Redcliffe. He felt he should have a statue erected in his honor.

Entering the tavern, his eyes scanned the small room, searching for a fiery, red-haired woman. She had her back to him, intent on her task of clearing a table. He spun her around and swept her into his arms, pulling her tight.

"Randy?" she breathed in surprise.

"Damn right I'm randy," he replied before his mouth became too busy to talk.

She pressed herself even closer, and he didn't mind a bit. The only thing he did mind was his damned armor getting in the way. He broke away long enough to tell that sniveling lardarse, Lloyd, to shut up about molesting his workers, before he shut the man's mouth permanently. Lloyd shut up.

"My, you certainly have grown," Bella murmured when their lips finally gave out.

"Grown and hardened, Bella," he answered, faintly shocked at how lewd his words sounded. He blamed the assassin's lascivious ways, or rather, he thought he ought to thank Zevran for the unintended lessons, and swept her off her feet, heading upstairs to show her just how grown and hardened he was.

Later, he gave her a small pouch of coins, and told her to stop working at the tavern, and stay in his old place since it was vacant. He was strapping into his armor and feeling pretty damned good, thank you very much, when she finally sat up and started reaching for her own clothes.

"Look at you, all cocksure," she said around a saucy grin.

Well, he wasn't going to complain about her choice of words. "Wait for me, Bella. When the Blight is over, we have some traveling to do."

Bella's eyes lit up, and he felt like crowing and thumping his chest. Yes, a thank-you note was definitely in order. Maybe one for Joss, too. She may not be the best leader he'd ever served under, but, by the Maker, she was the most educational.

He stopped at the bar on his way out, and leaned across it to grab a fistful of Lloyd's grimy, yellowed shirt. "If you ever lay another finger on Bella or the other serving girls, you will be talking out of a different orifice. Do I make myself clear?"

Lloyd blustered and blundered and then collapsed like a burning barn. "You can't come in here and tell me what to do," the man whined.

"Can. Did. Deal with it."

Maker, it was like he'd been given a dose of iron for his backbone. He was grinning as he made his way up to the castle, where his grin met an inglorious death at the hands of a shrieking arlessa. It took him a few minutes before he realized she was shrieking in relief because the ashes were working. By then his ears were bleeding, and he was in serious need of a stiff drink.

Mission accomplished, he went in search of that stiff drink. Unfortunately, Wynne seemed to think he didn't need it.

"You need to explain Bann Teagan's absence," she said in the voice that made Randal long to be anywhere else. Fighting a high dragon was more fun than listening to her when she had that prim, disapproving tone in her voice.

"I need to? You woke him up, you talk to him," Randal insisted, reaching once again for the glass of whiskey.

"You're the Warden."

"And you're the bloody busybody. You know as much about Teagan's reason for staying with the others as I do. More, probably, given your penchant for meddling."

Wynne's face paled, and for the blink of an eye, Randal felt remorse, but it happily went away. "I suppose, if you haven't got the stomach for it, I'll tell him. In fact, there's several things he should know, especially since you'll be staying here."

If a pale face could further pale, Wynne's did. Randal gulped his whiskey, shivered and stood. "In fact, you're right, Wynne. I should be the one to tell Arl Eamon everything."

"No, that's not necessary, Randal. I can manage."

Too late, old biddy, Randal thought with rising glee, too bloody late. He went in find the arl. With him was another mage, who looked as happy as a mouse caught in one of Owen's steel bear traps. Arlessa Isolde was finally settling down, her screech no longer shattering the crystal vases in the castle. Wynne stood beside the bed, arms folded and rocking on her heels. He was tempted to smite her, on principle, but, instead turned to the male mage.

"You Niall?"

The man nodded. "I have a message for you from Joss. She says, and I quote: You lucky bastard. Stay here and continue helping Connor. Keep an eye out for a disturbance in the force, and let Randal know if one should occur. Also, help Randal do whatever needs to be done in preparing troops. I'll see you in your dreams."

The man grinned, erasing the faintly scared, morose expression. Randal didn't have the heart to tell him he'd made up the whole 'helping with the troops' thing. He figured by the time Joss learned about it, she'd be too busy dealing with the arl to toadify him.

"Now, about the Blight, Your Grace," he continued, turning to look at the arl, who was as grey as his scruffy beard.

Whoever had said a person couldn't go home again didn't know what they were talking about. Randal was having the time of his life. In fact, it was the best day he'd had in some time. He didn't even mind when Wynne shooed them all out of the arl's room, claiming that the man needed rest. An odd thing to need after sleeping for weeks on end, but Randal was happy to comply.

He strolled out of the room right into Morrigan. She gave him one of her infamously haughty and disdainful stares. She looked down her nose at him, her golden eyes frigid, which seemed a fairly impressive task, given the warm color of her eyes.

"I will be returning to Josslyn tomorrow morning," she announced coolly.

Yes, Randal reflected with a large grin, his day was just getting better and better.

~~~oOo~~~

Alistair was searching for his tongue. It had obviously fallen out of his mouth as they walked along the winding trail to the Orlesian border. In fact, the only one doing any talking at all was Sister Flaky Pastry, and he wasn't even sure if she realized she was actually talking out loud.

"Josslyn's soul is in danger. I must find a way to help her into the light of the Maker's words. Help me, oh Maker," the woman kept mumbling.

Alistair rolled his eyes. He believed in the Maker well enough, but he'd never had the devout feelings a templar was supposed to have. While he couldn't claim to be as irreverent as Joss, he wasn't so enraptured with the Chant of Light that he felt compelled to save everyone around him who didn't believe.

Elissa was walking in front of him and he hated the way his eyes kept focusing on the sway of her hips, because he knew it was wrong, and that if she caught him, she'd probably serve him up on a skewer for dinner. Every time he commanded his eyes to look elsewhere, as in any elsewhere, they returned resolutely to her hind quarters.

He still didn't quite believe in his good fortune. That Elissa Cousland actually liked him was more of a dream than an actual belief. He reminded himself that she probably just saw him as a tool…his mind stuttered to a halt at the image that wrought.

"No, no, no," he muttered, and then ploughed into Elissa when she stopped.

"No? I'm sure this is the way," Elissa said with a frown.

Maker, why couldn't the earth just open up when a fellow needed it to? He felt the embarrassment surging into his cheeks. "Oh, right you are," he finally mumbled, eyes studying the ground for any sign of it opening up. Damn his luck, anyway.

"You can disagree with me, you know," she teased.

"And I will, really, if the need presents itself; otherwise, I'll just be over here, standing around, looking incredibly inept," he finished, his voice dying away. It was good to know that he didn't need Joss around to humiliate him. Maker knew he was not inept in that area.

As they continued on, he wracked his brain for some way to let her know that he really liked her, as in really, really liked her. And then he remembered the rose he'd picked in Lothering. He'd tucked it into a small wooden box at the time, not entirely sure why he'd picked it, but glad now that he had. He would present it to her at camp that night, hopefully when Sister Creampuff wasn't around. With that thought in mind, he continued on, anxious for the evening.

They stopped to make camp just as the sun was slinking off over a hill. He was grateful to have busy work because he was thinking the whole rose presentation to death. He already knew, no matter what pretty speech he might rehearse, when the time came to actually give her the rose, and say something, he would fumble it so badly that she wouldn't know what his intent had been anyway.

His chance came when Leliana went down to the stream to clean their dinner dishes. He climbed into his tent and began emptying his pack, searching for the box, and when he found it, he backed out of his tent on his hands and knees. And nearly knocked Elissa over, his rump hitting her in the shins. Nothing humiliating about that. Oh no, not in the least. Hello? Ground? Opening time. Now. Now would be great.

"Alistair, is something wrong?" Elissa asked him and her voice was dripping with enough laughter that even he could recognize it.

"Just making sure everything is tidy," he mumbled, hoping she couldn't actually see inside his tent to the jumble of belongings he'd left in the middle of his bedroll.

He stood and smiled, shyly holding the box out to her. "Here, do you know what this is?"

Pudding head. He was a complete pudding head. He glared at the ground, silently demanding it open up. It ignored him.

"I believe that's a wooden memento box. Is it made from cherry wood?"

Alistair stared at the box. Was it? He couldn't actually remember where he'd gotten the memento box, now that he thought about it. He scratched his head with his other hand and continued holding the box out for her to take, giving it a shake.

"It's what's inside that counts," he heard himself say. Lightning? Maybe if the ground didn't open up for him, the Maker would see fit to hit him with a bolt of lightning?

"Yes, my mother used to say the very same thing. Oh, and good things come in small packages," Elissa added as an afterthought.

"Right, they do. Not that I have a small package or…oh, Maker. Here, I found this in Lothering and it reminds me of you," he blathered on, removing the lid and showing her…a dead and desiccated rose.

A boulder. A boulder falling out of the sky and landing on him would be nice. Maker's breath, didn't he merit at least that much help from the Maker? Wasn't he deserving of some small mercy? A handful of rocks would do. Anything. The Maker ignored his fervent desire for death by natural disaster. Or unnatural, come to think of it.

To his utter amazement, Elissa didn't laugh. She took the box and said, "Oh, Alistair, thank you! Potpourri. It will help with that awful smell at the bottom of my pack."

She leaned up, kissed his cheek and stood back, staring up at him with her cornflower blue eyes. There was something there, some question or comment, which, though, he wasn't sure. He stood, fingers fumbling with each other nervously as he tried to think of something coherent to say.

"Maker's breath, Alistair, kiss the woman," Sister Marzipan sighed in a dreaming voice.

It was probably the only time he'd ever listen to the loopy sister. He hovered over Elissa and then, with a shrug, he pressed his lips to hers and felt the ground shake. It figured that he'd finally found enough courage to kiss the woman of his dreams only to have the ground finally listen to him and swallow him whole.

As it turned out, it was merely his knees shaking and not the ground. He was profoundly thankful as Elissa didn't seem to want to release his lips.

~~~oOo~~~

"He'll be fine," Teagan said, disgustingly reassuring. "Don't worry."

Joss opened her eyes wide and feigned innocence as she asked, "What, me worry?"

"Yes, you worry. There is no need for it, my dear."

Joss raised an eyebrow in his direction, but said nothing. Of course Alistair would be fine. That was not, however, about to stop her from worrying about him. She continued walking, but kept throwing glances behind her, not sure what she was looking for, but her mind wasn't exactly in its right mind at the moment.

"You said yourself he was ready for a leadership role, Joss. He'll be fine," Teagan reiterated.

"So you keep saying."

"Because it's true."

"You do know that the basis of optimism is sheer terror, right?" she asked with a 'humph' and then stopped in her tracks. "Andraste's martyred arse! Just slay me, slay me now."

Teagan stopped beside her, his brows knit in a frown. "What?"

"Slay me. You know, take your dagger out and play stabbity stab with it. Preferably in my brain so it's over quickly."

He stared at her, wearing that 'Oh Maker, she's going round the bend again' expression that always made her want to laugh. Except this time, when she felt too depressed to laugh. "Why would I want to slay you?"

"I sounded just like Wynne. Just like that harridan, Wynne. Of all the things I ever thought would happen in my life, sounding like her wasn't even in the top one-hundred. So promise me that you'll kill me should I ever sound like her again," Joss implored earnestly. And she meant it, with her whole heart. Better dead than Wynne-i-fied.

She felt utterly dejected, demoralized and despondent, but Teagan was chuckling, his arm sliding around her waist as he urged her onward.

"You sound nothing like Wynne, my dear."

"The handsome bann is right, my lovely Warden, but, should you ever, I will slay you without hesitation," Zevran agreed, coming to walk at her other side.

Feeling only slightly less dejected, she thanked her assassin. At least he understood the importance of her being earnest. And, while she didn't relish the idea of being slain, she relished sounding like Wynne even less.

As they neared the gates to the dwarven city, they decided to stop early and prepare for their arrival in the hallowed halls of Orzammar. Joss had no desire to arrive for an audience with the king of dwarves drenched in sweat and bemoaning the fate of her poor feet. Not that she knew for certain that they would actually meet the king. What had Fergus called him? Iduken? Maybe he'd meant that the king was originally a duke? She frowned.

"Fergus, tell me about King Iduken."

"Endrin Aeducan is the King of Orzammar. His ancestor was made a paragon and his family has ruled Orzammar for generations. He's a bit old-fashioned, but a reasonable man."

"His ancestor was made a pair of what?" Joss asked, thinking that being made a pair of anything didn't sound all that healthy.

"A paragon. The dwarves don't worship the Maker, they worship their ancestors."

Joss thought that made sense. Better to worship someone you actually knew rather than a mystery man. "Do you suppose he'll just hand over his troops?" she asked hopefully.

Fergus laughed as if she'd just made a terribly funny joke. That was not reassuring. At. All. In fact, she was beginning to feel a knot of worry forming. Right beside the lump of worry about Alistair.

"I think you'll have to make it worth his time to do so. Dwarves are a canny lot and they rarely do anything without getting something in return."

"I can't imagine what I'd have to bargain with, so let's hope he wakes up in a charitable mood tomorrow."

As she lay in her tent a short time later, trying to sleep, she wished she hadn't agreed not to visit Alistair in the Fade. He'd been concerned that his dreams might cause her embarrassment. As if that was even possible. She knew the real concern was that he would be embarrassed. She tossed and turned and finally got up, leaving a gently snoring Teagan to keep her place warm for her.

"Ah, my lovely Warden, you couldn't sleep?" Zev asked, glancing over his shoulder at her. He was sitting close to the fire.

"Polishing your sword?"

"Of course. Would you care to offer your assistance?" the elf asked, a wolfish grin curling his lips upward.

"I'd hate to take away your pleasure in stroking your own blade," she replied, coming to sit beside him.

"In Antiva we have a saying that many hands make light work."

Joss chuckled softly. "And in Ferelden we have a saying that too many cooks spoil the lamb stew."

"That explains your strange culinary habits," he replied. "And your curiously provincial views on love-making. Present company excluded, of course."

"And you eat fish chowder, so I think we are even all the way around," she retorted.

"Ah, now you are making me wistful for Antiva."

"Are we going to talk about your predilection for leather again?"

"My dear, one should not cast stones when one lives in a thin tent."

Joss shook her head, opening her eyes wide in feigned innocence. "I don't know what you mean."

"Truly? I would be most happy to explain what I mean, but I suspect you are more versed in the subject of leather than I."

"I can't imagine that, somehow."

"Now tell me, mi Tesoro, why you aren't sleeping with your handsome bann?"

Joss leaned her head on his shoulder and yawned. "I'm not sure. I wasn't a bit sleepy but now I can't stay awake."

"Ouch. Such wounds you inflict on me."

She tipped her head up and kissed his cheek. "All better?" she asked.

"But of course, my lovely Warden."

Joss dragged herself up and crawled back into her tent, curling up against Teagan, who let out a yelp of surprise as her cold feet touched his legs. He pulled her close and she burrowed into him, drifting off to sleep.

Naturally, King Aeducan had decided to die before they arrived. Joss muttered, just loud enough to be heard by her companions, "Oh, my. Another king is dead. What are the odds?"

Of course, getting past the guards, and the enormous bronzed gates into the city, proved a challenge.

For one thing, there were a group of men, sent by Ferelden's regent, who were demanding entrance. When Joss approached, she sent a bolt of lightning into the man, Imrek, who, besides giving the Orzammar guard such a difficult time, also appeared to be the leader of the pack. He was not happy with her, but he took one look at Shale and fell silent.

"Loghain will hear of this outrage," he proclaimed, all blustery bravado, once he'd found his voice again.

"Well, if you can actually run with your tail between your legs, give him a message for me. In fact, hold on a minute."

She turned to Zevran and smiled brightly. "Hand me your dagger, Zev," she instructed.

Teagan looked as though he wanted to protest and Jowan was staring at her, mouth agape. "Just use magic," her fellow mage urged.

Instead, she unwound her untidy chignon and cut off a long strand of it. Everyone was now watching her as if she'd grown that long wished for third eye in the middle of her forehead, but she gave them all an even brighter smile. Then, turning to Imrek, who looked as nervous as a mage on his way to his harrowing, she handed him the strands of hair.

He took them, fixing his blank stare on the hair. "Is this a warning? You'll cut his throat like you cut your hair?" he asked, his voice quaking.

Joss laughed, shaking her head. "Don't be ridiculous. I want you to tell him two things. Do you think you can remember them?" she asked him in a kind voice.

He blinked and stared at her, and she rather thought he might have an embarrassing accident as he looked terrified. He didn't speak, just nodded his head up and down a number of times.

"Now, look at me, Imrek, and do not look so frightened. This is very important. Are you listening?" she asked, studying him. When he nodded, she continued, "Do you think I look intelligent?"

His mouth, so recently closed, fell open again. She handed the dagger back to Zev and waited for Loghain's man to answer. Obviously, he wasn't too intelligent because he waited so long she shot another bolt of lightning into him. He jerked and spasmed and then nodded vigorously. Or perhaps, Joss thought with a grin, that was just the after-effects of the electricity.

"Yes! Yes, you look very intelligent."

"Wonderful. And what color would you say this hank of hair is?" she asked in a silky smooth voice.

"Dark brown, with just a hint of red overtones. No, not red. I'd say golden copper overtones?" he asked hopefully, stumbling over his words like a drunken sailor.

"Oh, well done, Imrek. We call this color 'auburn'. Do you think you can remember that name?" she asked encouragingly. His head bobbed several times. "Excellent. Now, when you see Loghain, tell him both those things for me, would you? That you met an intelligent-looking, auburn-haired woman who is coming after his arse, and, if he didn't like the last bolt I sent his way, he's going to positively abhor the next one," she replied with a sweet voice.

His slack-jawed gape gave way to a puzzled frown. "Hurry along, Imrek. You don't want to make me angry, you won't like me when I'm angry," she added and waved her hand. He flinched, nodded once, and then tucked the hair into his pack, before scurrying away like a frightened chipmunk.

"You used magic on Loghain Mac Tir?" Fergus asked, awestruck.

"Yes, and the old sourpuss has been sending assassins after me ever since."

Fergus laughed. "You honestly think that's why he's sending assassins and bounty hunters after you?"

Joss batted her eyelashes at him. "Why, of course. It can't possibly be because I know exactly what went on at Ostagar, or that I'm a wily, wily mage spy for Orlais in his mind."

Turning to the diminutive guards, she shrugged. "Now, about this whole dead king thing…"

The gates swung open without further ado.