The group was one day's ride from Denerim when their high morale and fine pace came to a crashing halt. At least, Cailan saw it as such. It was catastrophic, this turn of events. But from a man prone to exaggeration, an ant hill often became a mountain.

Everyone, the two Grey Wardens included, was setting up camp for the night when Cailan emerged from his tent. Any bystander could tell that he was in ill spirits. It was written all over his face. He waved off any inquiries from his men as he crossed the campsite to where Alistair and Isobel were setting up their tent. She was humming a song - quite out of tune, but charming nonetheless, and Alistair seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for Cailan's liking.

The two of them hardly even noticed when the king stopped before them. It took Cailan clearing his throat to snatch Isobel away from the task at hand. Passing her forearm over her brow, she smiled. "Yes, your Majesty?" Her tone was too cheerful. It sounded odd, almost forced.

"I'd like to speak to you in my tent."

Alistair's brows shot up, but luckily he was tying the tent to a stake in the ground and the king could not see him properly. A soldier moving past them slowed when he heard the king, giving Isobel an appraising look. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he hurried about his business, not confident enough in his skills to offend the Warden.

"And why is that, your Majesty?" she asked, hands going to her hips. She was getting too mouthy. When they first met, she could've been easily compared to a mouse. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

"Private matters," Cailan stated plainly.

Alistair almost choked. "Well, that was brazen," he murmured to himself, just loud enough for Isobel to hear. She looked down at him, trying her best to bite back a smile. He shrugged, finishing off his knot in silence. A lopsided grin slowly melted across his lips. He hadn't seen Cailan make her laugh. Or smile. And he surely didn't seem to care much about her stories. All he cared about was his stories, about his own personal "glory."

Despite all his shortcomings, Cailan Theirin was still the king. He was still more powerful, richer, and a whole lot prettier. It helped Alistair's ego to imagine how the tables would be turned if he had been Maric's full-blooded son. He didn't necessarily want to be king, but he fancied himself to be more capable than Cailan and that was saying something.

"Might I finish setting up the tent first?" she asked, gesturing to the bit of rope she'd left untied near her feet. "All I ask is for a moment."

Cailan huffed. "Why not let Alistair finish up the job?" His lip twitched in a sneer. It ruined the balance of his face. "He seems to be doing well so far."

His comment left Isobel in shocked silence. Why was he acting like this? He hadn't been himself ever since they'd almost… Shaking her head, Isobel fell to her knees beside the rope. She picked it up, quickly beginning to continue her task. "I probably shouldn't leave such a chore to Alistair, else I may wake up to a ceiling of stars." She glanced up from the rope to her fellow Warden only to find that he was shooting her a look of phony dejection. Laughing to herself, she turned to look up at Cailan. "I'll be with you in a moment, your Majesty."

She noticed he'd not corrected her once this whole time. Evidently denying him a kiss retracted the consent to call him Cailan. She wasn't surprised in the least. Nor was she surprised when Cailan didn't speak another word to her. Instead, he turned and left the two of them for the insides of his own tent.

"That was awkward," Alistair said finally, sitting back on his heels. "I also don't appreciate you implying that I don't know how to set up a tent. We haven't been exposed to the cold yet."

Isobel grinned. "That's because I've been here to help." Finishing her knot with a flourish, she rocked backwards and stood, brushing off the knees of her trousers. She liked talking with Alistair. She didn't have to pretend with him, and there certainly weren't any titles, except for the few times when he'd slipped and referred to her as "my lady." He knew better than to do that now, having been thwacked in the back of the head once or twice because of it. "Now…" Her voice lowered. "What do you think Cailan wants with me?"

"Any number of things," Alistair said. "Maybe he wants you to braid his hair." Isobel snorted, reaching out to knock him in the shoulder. "Hey! It was just a thought. I've seen he has these pretty blue ribbons in his things…" When she gave him another joking punch in the shoulder, he couldn't help but laugh, cradling his arm. "Enough, enough!" His smile faded not long after. "Really, though, you should probably go. Men like him don't enjoy being kept waiting." He lacks the brains to keep himself company, he mused, though he felt badly for it not long after.

Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, Isobel nodded. That was true. Her father was one of those men, the ones who disliked being kept waiting. All men of title or affluence seemed to share that trait. Moving wordlessly towards Cailan's tent, she couldn't help but wonder what he wanted with her. He surely wasn't going to try to kiss her again. In truth, if their situation was different, she would've been all too willing to fall into his arms. If she hadn't seen the things she'd seen or done what she'd done. If she hadn't changed in such a base way.

She ducked into his tent to find him seated, pouring over a leather bound book. His brows were knitted together in concentration, his fingers combed through one side of his hair to keep it out of his eyes. When she sat down beside him, he looked up from the words to see who it was. "Ah, Isobel," he muttered. "Good to see you decided to join me."

"What are you reading?" she asked, leaning over close to get a better look at the writing. Cailan shut his eyes at the feeling of her pressed against his arm, closing the book with one hand and slipping it beneath his pillow. "My father's journal. Well, one of them." He cleared his throat, "I always keep that one with me. It has all my favorite stories in it."

Isobel nodded, moving away from him and crossing her legs. "What did you wish to speak to me about, your Majesty?" she asked. "You seemed… distressed."

Cailan looked back at her. "Troubling realizations, is all." She lifted an inquisitive brow, a sign that he should continue. "I cannot go into Denerim." While everyone spoke of this in private, they hadn't thought the king would grasp it. He was always so set on charging forth and worrying about repercussions later. Isobel suddenly felt terrible about all the scathing comments that had passed her lips in the previous days. His mask of detached annoyance was slipping, and she could see in his eyes that he was upset. He looked like a sparrow whose wings were caught in a trap. "I'd be recognized immediately. I have to stay here at the camp."

Who knew his being the former king of Ferelden would close more doors than it opened? He was not used to opportunities being snatched away from him. He didn't care for it much.

"That'll change soon enough," Isobel said, making an effort to soften her voice. Her mother often did that when she and her brother were younger in an attempt to calm them. While her words were firm, they were quiet and felt something like a warm embrace. "Once we can set everything right and put you back on your throne."

"But what if we fail?" Cailan's voice was nearly empty. A tremor ran through it, a testament to the terror he felt. In tales of old, the hero never failed. Victory was always achieved in the end. But Isobel was so quick to remind him that this wasn't a tale of old. They weren't living out of some dusty tome. There was no sure victory, no brilliant fanfare waiting for them should they not make it to the very end. She hadn't meant to curb his enthusiasm to such an extent. His men would not be roused for battle by a king who could barely keep his own fear at bay.

"We won't fail, Cailan." His expression brightened at the sound of his name, and Isobel found that it felt less clumsy on her lips. "We shall try our hardest, and we shall triumph." It wouldn't be easy, but when was anything easy? As a child, climbing her first tree had been the most difficult thing she'd accomplished up until that point. Now she could scale the tallest of trees without batting an eyelash.

Reaching out, Isobel grasped his hand in hers. The sudden contact shocked him, but the surprising warmth of her fingers and palm was comforting. She smiled to herself when she realized her hands were more calloused than his. Lacing her fingers with his, she tilted her head so she could look into his downcast eyes. "We will fix this. But only if you remember that you cannot do it on your own. You must allow us to help you." She paused, running the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. "Even if that means sitting at camp, fending off the darkspawn single handedly." Her smile faded from a reassuring one to something faintly wicked.

Cailan allowed himself a small smile. "You think I could take on a horde of darkspawn?" he asked, perking up. "A very small one?"

"Of course," she chuckled. "Maybe even a moderate sized one if you had a little help."

Outside of the tent, Godfrey and Arryn wandered over to Alistair, who was sitting near the fire. It was clear by the look on his face that he didn't want to be disturbed, but curiosity couldn't keep them at bay. The elfin mage sat beside Alistair on the fallen tree, smoothing over the dark green fabric of her robes. "Hello, Alistair," she greeted him.

He looked at her. "You're too cheerful sounding. What do you want?"

"We saw Isobel heading into the King's tent," Godfrey mused, bending down to pick up a stick. He fiddled with it absently, before breaking it in two and tossing it into the fire.

Alistair's eyes went from Arryn to his soldier friend. His expression did not change. "Yeah? What of it?"

There was a peal of laughter from the king's tent, and all three of them turned to look back at it. Arryn seemed delighted at the prospect, as did Godfrey, who shared a wide smile with the mage. Alistair, however, looked perturbed. It took all of his strength to muster a groan. So Cailan did make her laugh. Goody. "Don't ask me about it. I know less about what's going on than you do."

"I've known Lady Anora for years, and I was present at King Cailan's wedding. And I swear to the Maker, they loved each other," Godfrey prefaced, "but he's changed. I think it's because of her."

"Really? You don't say," Alistair muttered, turning back around. There was a good chance that if he couldn't see the tent, it wouldn't exist, right? Kicking a bit of dust into the flames, he watched as it flared back at him, coating his face in heat. "He's also been dethroned, betrayed, and nearly killed. After all that, of course it's the pretty girl who changes him."

Arryn gave a little snort of derision. "There's no need to be jealous, Alistair. She's good for him."

"Jealous!? I'm not jealous." Without even attempting to veil the fact that he was, indeed, a tiny bit jealous, Alistair stood from his spot. "But I am tired. Early morning. Long day. All that." He looked to Godfrey and then to Arryn. "Goodnight."

And then he turned and disappeared into his tent.

--

A few hours later, when most of the men had taken to their tents and only a few remained awake to guard the campsite, Isobel found her way back to her own in the dark. Her conversation with Cailan had turned to his father, a topic that he enjoyed speaking on no matter the hour. While she knew the history of King Maric, Cailan knew things only the most learned scholars discovered. He had his father's journals, after all.

Only stumbling twice was quite an achievement considering, and she tried her best to keep from waking Alistair as she went to settle in for the night.

As she passed him to get to her bedroll, she could see that he'd kicked off his heavy blanket and was now shivering. Wary about waking him, Isobel got to her knees beside him, gingerly lifting up his blanket and pulling it back up to his neck. He turned towards her, kicking his foot out, but not waking. She smoothed her hand over the blanket and smiled.

"Goodnight, Alistair."

--

The next morning was met with a surprisingly cheerful Cailan. He was the first one out of his tent, already fully clothed, his hair brushed and neatly tied away from his face with a pale blue ribbon. He even helped the men rekindle the fire and cook breakfast. They all seemed quite taken aback that the king was offering to assist them, even doubly so that he was in such a good mood. It certainly garnered forth a knowing nudge into Godfrey's ribs from Arryn, who waggled his eyebrows at her.

When everyone was out of their tents, the camp to remain set up and in that spot for the next few days, Cailan spoke up. "Today, a group will be sent in to Denerim to find Brother Genitivi," he began, his bowl of porridge still cradled in the palm of his hand. "I, as some of you may know, cannot venture into Denerim without being noticed." His men gave a murmur of agreement. "So, after much deliberation…" He looked to Isobel, who gave him a small, sleepy smile before taking another bite of her breakfast. "I have chosen to send Alistair and Isobel into the city. The rest of you, men, and lady," he nodded to Arryn, "shall hang back and keep the camp safe for their return."

Despite the fact that many of them were being left behind, they all agreed with their King-commander's plans. It would be best to send the two Grey Wardens into the city. Traveling in a larger group would be dangerous, and surely the two of them would be able to handle their business swiftly and efficiently.

Alistair looked to Isobel, more than a little taken aback by this turn of events, only to see her grinning like a fool while she chewed her porridge. Furrowing his brow, Alistair set his spoon down in his bowl.

"What exactly went on in his tent?"


A/N: I apologize for the short length of this chapter! After a very stressful day, I just wanted to get a little done, and... "a little" was a bit less than I expected! Hahah. Also, thank you all again for the reviews! They make every chapter worthwhile. :)