All she could remember was the blood. Dead darkspawn lay strewn among dead soldiers, dead hounds, dead… everything. Some still struggled to fight, falling to their knees beneath the heavy weight of their armor only to have their heads cleaved from their shoulders. Some fought with renewed fervor at the sight of their fallen comrades. Some ran, but most stayed. And most died. Most would never leave this field.

"Duncan!" Isobel shouted, though her voice was a mere echo amongst the clanging of swords and shields and armor.

She watched, horrified, as the Grey Warden dug his swords into the discolored flesh of the ogre. The sound was appalling, even worse than the overwhelming clamor sounding all around them. The beast fell to its knees, nearly crushing him in the process. He rolled out of the way, struggling to his feet again only to toss his head this way and that in search of the King.

Cailan was lying unconscious some yards away, and Duncan stumbled in his direction, sword dragging on the ground beside him.

Isobel lunged forward to meet him beside the King, tripping over the leg of a fallen soldier only to crawl the remaining feet to Cailan's side. Duncan's breathing was ragged as he regained all the composure he could, desperately seeking out the King's wound. He was not dead. His own unsteady breathing was a testament to that.

"Isobel," Duncan gasped, his hands leaving bloody fingerprints all over the fallen King's shining golden armor. "You must save him. Cailan must survive."

Just as he spoke these last words, one of the remaining of the darkspawn horde lifted his roughly forged axe and hewed the Grey Warden's head from his shoulders. Isobel shut her eyes as a mist of the man's hot blood covered her face. Her stomach clenched, but there was nothing left. Instead, she grasped at her own blade and plunged it upwards into the demon's chest.

As Duncan's body fell to the ground, she heard a gasp from her side. She looked towards it, her eyes wide. Alistair. "Help." Her voice was feeble at best, and she nearly choked on it.

They were both tired. They'd both seen so much death on such a short night. But Duncan's words echoed in her ears, giving her strength.

You must save him.

Cailan must survive.

--

Cailan shifted, giving a fitful groan as he turned over onto his back. When his shoulder touched the ground, he gave a gasp at the pain, his hand reaching up to find the damage. His brow wrinkled as he passed his fingers over the bandage haphazardly wrapped around his arm, but his expression soon sobered and he opened his eyes.

"Where…?" He looked around, unsure of his location. His voice was heavy and thick, no doubt due to the remnants of the strong poultice she'd given him not long before. There was an air of defiance there, despite the drowsy sheen in his blue eyes.

"We are on our way to Redcliffe, my King," Isobel replied. She was unsure of how to proceed. She'd never tended to such grievous wounds before, nor has she ever been prompted to give such terrible news. Alistair offered the less-than-helpful advice of 'let him down easily.' How does one tell a King that he was betrayed and his army was slain 'easily'? Instead of dancing, light-footed, around the matter at hand, she softened her voice as best she could and gave him the news. "You were injured. Loghain retreated, and Ostagar fell."

"The battle - !"

"It is lost."

When the words fell into silence around them, Isobel felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. She could scarcely breathe as she watched Cailan's face closely for his reaction. At first, he wore no expression. Then, slowly, his eyes widened. His lips parted. He struggled to sit up on the bed and knocked his shoulder on the headboard, letting out a hiss at the pain that seemed to burn at his flesh. "By the Maker, what happened to my arm!?"

"Don't jostle it so," Isobel admonished, reached forward to bat his hand away from the wound. She was surprised by her own reaction, and she withdrew her hand quickly, eyes falling to her lap. "There was an ogre. You're lucky he didn't rip it clean off."

"I remember the ogre," he stated, drifting from shock to recollection and back again. She felt terrible for him. There was so much he didn't know, so many of his friends and companions slain, the state of his own country in pieces. He was not ready to hear any of that, but he had to know. She had to tell him. The few remaining soldiers gave Isobel the job without a moment's thought, expecting the young woman to know more about this sort of thing than they. Oh, how wrong they were. "I don't remember a thing that happened after that, though. Do you have any answers for me?"

Isobel bit down on her lip. Tread lightly, she reminded herself. He is a king, but he is broken. "I was not there for most of it, your Majesty. As you might recall, I went to the tower with Alistair. When I arrived, you were already unconscious."

"Isobel, is it? Bryce's daughter?" he asked, to which she gave a curt nod. The corner of his mouth curled into a small smile, a whisper of the one that had so recently called his lips home. "I thought so. You and Alistair lit the beacon, did you not? I remember seeing the flames. They were the same color as you hair…" He lifted the hand of his uninjured arm to finger a curl on her shoulder.

"You should sleep, your Majesty," Isobel murmured, turning away from him and leaving his hand dangling in thin air. She knew his musings were due to her own poor healing and the strength of the poultice she'd administered. Affections from a medicated man were worth nothing, no matter how high and mighty they were otherwise, no matter how strongly she respected him. "I will be here when you wake."

Cailan's brow creased at her evasion, but he allowed his hand to fall back down onto his chest. As would be expected, he was a man little accustomed to a woman denying him in any way, much less such a simple gesture as that. When he spoke, his voice was colder. It had a hard edge. "Very well. I will be here for Maker knows how long, if you wish to visit."

Rolling back onto her heels and then standing from beside the King's bedroll, Isobel strayed there for a moment. "You should feel well enough soon, my King. By tonight, even, Maker willing. Should you feel up to it, we eat around the fire. It's not a grand dining hall, but it is what we can offer." Nodding to herself, Isobel turned away from him and ducked out of his tent, only to be met with a dozen pairs of eyes. She shook her head, a sign that she did not wish to speak to them, and disappeared into her own tent, one she shared with Alistair. Even he knew not to bother her then, despite their shared quarters.

--

Cailan did not join them for supper. Instead, he remained on the bedroll, changing positions every once in a while only to be reminded of his shoulder and its torn muscles. Given that his men were clumsy healers at best, he was forced to wait until they arrived in Redcliffe to be back to his usual self. His drowsiness caused the men's chatter from around the fire to bleed into the sounds of the forest. The words were so muddied he could hardly hear the difference between one person and the next.

There was one voice in the midst of all the others, however, that he could recognize the moment it pierced the others. Isobel's words weren't lilting and weak like his wife's or the other ladies he'd been surrounded with at the Castle. There was a strength and a huskiness to her tone that brought it out from the others, separating it from the men. He could not understand a word of it, but he enjoyed listening to the sound.

Not only was it musical in its own right, but it helped him neglect the thoughts clawing at the corners of his mind. On a perfect night, he could ignore these persistent thoughts and concentrate on the sounds outside the tent. But on a perfect night, he would not be bandaged up, he would know nothing of his army's annihilation, and he would still be fighting. There would be fanfare and glory and hundreds - nay, thousands - of adoring citizens.

As the only child of the legendary King Maric, Cailan stood in an incredible shadow. Coddled all of his life by his mother, he was on the receiving end of countless epic stories of his father and grandmother's adventures. As a boy, he listened to them and drank them up, shamelessly shouting that he, too, would be a great king. As a teenager, he trained for hours upon hours for days on end with such pure ambition that made his parents proud. As a man, he strove to become his father. Not a good king. Not a warrior king. He wanted to bring brilliance and triumph to his beloved country. How better to do that than emulate the man he grew up idolizing?

Where had that gotten him?

Blinking back tears, Cailan cursed himself for his emotions. Had he only listened to Loghain, he would not be in this situation. He would be victorious. His success would fill his beloved people with confidence. But, he remained himself, Loghain betrayed him. He betrayed a direct order, knowing full well that the army would be slaughtered if he withdrew his soldiers.

There would be no feast in his honor. There would be no parade, no beautiful women, no sycophants begging for a kind word. All he had now was the chill in the tent and his blurry vision and the sound of Isobel Cousland's song near the fire.

--

On the day the group was to reach Redcliffe, Cailan found that he was feeling well enough to ride. Instead of lying and waiting to arrive at his uncle's They worried over him, helping him onto one of the mounts, watching him with the eyes of a flock of hawks. After all those days of transporting him, if he was to fall and injure himself even worse while on his way into Redcliffe due to clumsiness, they would all be embarrassed.

Cailan watched as Isobel conversed in hushed tones with Alistair. They walked side by side near the front of the pack, their shoulders nearly touching they were so close. He knew of the intimacy of friendship between many Grey Wardens, but he did not understand the depth of the connection there. They were the last. How would he feel if he was the last of anything? Lonely was the first emotion that came to mind, swiftly followed by desperate and paranoid. It would only be natural for her to gravitate toward him, right?

Gripping at the reins of the horse, he slowed it down to a steady trot. They hadn't spoken in days, not since he'd made such an idiotic comment in his stupor. "Fool," he whispered to himself, averting his gaze from the back of her head.

The company rode in near silence for the remainder of the trip. A few hours ride was nothing for any of them. Even Isobel in her ungainly armor did not complain of fatigue. The day was beautiful - there was a chill in the air that matched the clear blue sky, a soft wind, and the forest was filled to the brim with birds' songs. No one wished to disturb the flawlessness of the moment, even those men who constantly talked on and on of how they were on a suicide mission. The war was lost, and in more ways than one. No one wanted to say these things. No one wanted to think of them.

Under the shadow of Arl Eamon's protection, they would regroup and they would reclaim the land.

"You, ser," Cailan called out as he began to spot the first signs of Redcliffe above the trees. The guard wandered over on his horse, awaiting orders. "Ride ahead and give tidings of our arrival to my uncle. He will be glad to hear it."

The soldier nodded and then disappeared off around the bend and into the thicket. Isobel glanced over her shoulder and looked back at him. He smiled. She was glad to see that the smile he wore when first they met had returned. So glad, in fact, that she replied with one of her own. Truthfully, she did not blame or think differently of him after the moment in his tent. She had been injured many times in her short life, and she knew how healing sometimes clouded the senses - or judgment.

Unsure as she was of how to address the topic, though, she doubted he'd ever know.

They walked and rode for just short of another hour before the reached the fork that would take them down to Redcliffe. Instead of being met by the soldier, they were met by a group of three men. One was of slight stature and clearly not a fighter, but the two others were built just as sturdily as a guard.

Cailan reigned his horse to a halt before the men. Isobel and Alistair watched in anxious silence as the two stared each other down. Something was wrong.

"Who are you, ser? Why do you block the way?"

It filled Cailan's men with confidence to hear their King speak with the full, proud tone they'd grown accustomed to over the years. The three others were not nearly as impressed. The shorter man gave a sniff of contempt before delivering the news. "If you are come to look upon your uncle, Andraste save him, you need not go any father. Know that your dirty work is nearly done."

Cailan's mount kicked at the ground with its feet, a reaction to his rider's sudden unease. The guard at the King's side stepped forward, his lip curled in a threat. "That is treasonous, ser. Watch your words."

"It is not treasonous if I am not speaking to or of the King," the smaller man said plainly before turning his attention back to Cailan. "Turn around and go, Cailan. You are not wanted here."

"Speak sense," Cailan growled. His knuckles were white from his grip on the horse's reins, and he remained oblivious to the dull ache in his shoulder. No one threatened him, especially not some vassal for his beloved uncle.

Isobel stepped forward, "We are come to ask Arl Eamon for sanctuary." A snort of laughter was all she received in response. Her hand fell to the grip of her sword. The two men standing guard fell into a defensive pose, ready to take anything that she gave them. Or, at least, they imagined it to be so. "Do not be so foolish," she said, "We number eleven. You number three."

"And we come in peace," Alistair reminded her, grasping her wrist and carefully removing her hand from her sword's hilt. "We aren't looking for a fight. We come with news, and King Cailan wishes to visit with his uncle."

"A visit will be difficult, all thing's considered. He may already be dead. Bann Teagan has all but taken over our city, and I fear we have larger fish to fry."

Cailan's eyes widened, and his hand left the horse's reins only to rest upon his chest. His heart shuddered beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. It felt as if it would loosen itself from its ties and fall into the pit of his stomach.

Isobel looked to him, her own guts twisting in sympathy. "I," she began, looking from her King to the serf standing before them. His stance was haughty despite not being armed. She wanted nothing more than to have him kiss her sword, but she knew that keeping her anger bottled up would be for the better. "I will go. I will visit Bann Teagan if he will hear me."

"He'd do more than hear you," one of the guards muttered.

Clenching her jaw to keep from saying anything in response, she looked to the smaller man. "Please, ser. This is a matter of great importance. I will leave my weaponry with my party if that will inspire some form of confidence."

The man thought about this for a moment. It was obvious the young woman was a skilled fighter. One couldn't look at her posture and musculature and think otherwise. If she was separated from the others, it would damage the morale, as well as the overall power of the group. In truth, this was a better idea than one he could've concocted on his own.

"Very well," he nodded. "Remove your weapons and meet with us near the waterfall."

With that, the three men turned and left.

Lifting her shield over her head, Isobel let the heavy object fall to the ground at her feet. Next came her sword, and she felt a twinge of regret as her family heirloom touched the sandy road. Alistair and a few of the guards stopped to set up came off the side of the road, and she was left, looking down at her sword and shield, with Cailan still on his mount.

"That sword is important to you, isn't it?" he asked, full of genuine curiosity. He saw the way she looked at it, and he knew that look. He knew it well.

Isobel looked up at him, lifting a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. "Yes. It is. I hate to leave it." She chuckled. It was foolish to be so attached to the trappings of the physical world. At least, that's what she'd been taught so often as a child. "It saved my life."

"Would you… like me to watch it for you? While you're gone?"

There was a tenderness in his voice that took her by surprise. If anyone would know how she felt, it was him, but she still expected different. Despite the utter humanity of his experiences, he was still the King. He was on some other plane than she.

He waited for some vocal response - a simple yes or no. Instead, he watched as her expression softened. He could see take a deep breath. He could see a sadness in her eyes that intermingled with the surety he'd come to expect from her. Instead of words, she nodded and bent to pick up the sword.

When she handed it to him, she watched as he inspected it with a respect that mirrored her own. The lump in her throat only grew in size, and she turned away before he could say anything.

Running his fingers along the blade, he smiled to himself, though he was unsure why.