Traveling into Denerim with Alistair was no trying task. Their conversation was light, and they often made each other laugh at the smallest things. It was as if they both truly forgot about the Blight while in each others presence. Hours flew by like minutes as they walked beneath the thick canopy of trees, unaware of the position of the sun in the sky. Isobel told him stories about her life in Highever, about all her bumps and bruises and mishaps as a child. He proved to be a mischievous little thing in his younger years. The playful light in his eyes was not gone, despite his being older and perhaps a tiny bit wiser.

She loved hearing about his early life in Redcliffe. He spoke fondly of Arl Eamon and his younger brother, so fondly that curiosity struck more than once. She got no answers to her "meddlesome questions," though, since Alistair often side-stepped the conversation by moving on to another funny anecdote. When they finally reached a tall hill and were able to look across, they stopped for a moment.

"It's a lot bigger than I remember," Isobel laughed, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "A lot busier. Then again, it's been years since I last saw it."

"You think there are any Orlesian shopkeepers with pretty ribbons for sale?" Alistair teased with a crooked grin. "The king might enjoy a gift in these harsh times." Not long before, he'd reminded Isobel of his correctness on the topic of Cailan and his fondness for ribbons. She laughed then, but she nudged him in the arm now.

Dusk was fast approaching by the time they reached the city. Brother Genitivi's home was not far from the entrance, thankfully, and Isobel suspected they'd arrive at his doorstep before the sun dipped below the horizon. The city was even more crowded than they expected, and Alistair found himself shifting and swaying to keep from knocking anyone with the bulky shoulder of his armor. This amused Isobel, and she watched with laughter in her eyes as he moved uncomfortably between the townsfolk.

By the time they reached their destination, the air was cooling down and the people were slowly leaving the streets to find their way home. Isobel reveled in the smell of a city. The market district smelled like roasting meat and leathers and foreign perfume. Each breath tasted different, and she found herself staring in awe at all the different stalls. It certainly wasn't this big the last time she was here.

"A brother's house right across the way from a tavern," Alistair murmured to himself, "Must come in handy."

Stifling a laugh, Isobel waved him off before balling a fist and knocking on the brother's door. It took three knocks and nearly another before the door was opened and an annoyed looking servant answered the door. He was of average height, just a bit shorter than Isobel, with dark hair and eyes. Eyes that were narrowed and sharp as daggers. At the realization of who stood on his master's doorstep, however, his expression shifted. She noticed his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You are here for Brother Genitivi, yes?" the young man asked, extending an arm to welcome them into the house. When Isobel nodded to him, he shut the door behind Alistair and conducted the two visitors into what appeared to be the dining room. "I regret to inform you that he departed some weeks ago for Lake Calenhad."

"The Circle Tower?" Alistair asked, puzzled. "What's he to do with the Tower? We were told by Bann Teagan of Redcliffe that Brother Genitivi was searching for the Urn of Andraste."

"Ah, yes," the man replied, "He is. Your bann is correct. His research has led him there."

There was something about this fellow that rubbed Isobel the wrong way. Still, she wasn't the sort of woman to act on impulse when the subject at hand had information. She let Alistair do the talking as she roamed around the small house, picking up books and looking over them. The first book was on the life of Andraste. The second, a history of Ferelden. It wasn't until she picked up the third and a slip of paper fell out of it that anything grasped her attention.

Over her shoulder, Alistair and the man were conversing about Genitivi's research. She could hardly understand a word either of them said, but not because she was clueless to the topic. It was because she lifted the slip of paper and unfolded it only to find a small map of Ferelden. On it, there was a circle scrawled in ink. While she was unfamiliar with the area it circled, she knew it wasn't anywhere near Lake Calenhad.

She turned around just in time to see the man turn to cast a nervous look over his shoulder. His eyes fell to the map in her hands. "What are you doing?" he snapped. "Put that down!"

Alistair's brow furrowed, his hand moving unconsciously to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Isobel shook her head, brandishing the map at the man instead. "What is this?" Pointing at the circle, she looked from the apprentice to the map and back again. "A woman I may be, but I know that this isn't Lake Calenhad." Her finger shot across the paper. "This is Lake Calenhad."

Without so much as a word of warning, the man moved forward, quicker than anything she'd ever seen and definitely not human. A sweep of his arm sent Isobel soaring backwards. Books flew everywhere, cast off of the dining table as she slid across it to fall in a heap on the other side. Alistair drew his sword and lunged at him. He parried Alistair's first blow, falling to his knees against the warrior's strength.

Alistair grunted when he felt the sting of a dagger across his thigh and the warmth of his own blood over his skin. With one fell swoop and a frustrated growl, he lobbed the apprentice's head from his shoulders and watched as his body fell to the side with a dull thud. He glanced in Isobel's direction to see her rummaging in her backpack, seemingly unaffected by what just transpired. Sheathing his sword, he took a step forward, almost toppling forward on his injured leg.

Braced against the table, Alistair looked down at the body of Genitivi's former apprentice. He caught the poultice tossed to him by Isobel and poured some of it out into his hand, smoothing it over the sliced and bleeding skin.

"You don't, uh, know how to-?" he heard Isobel ask. Glancing up from the quickly healing wound, he saw her standing in front of a tall door. "It's locked. And I don't…"

"Neither do I," he chuckled, putting the stopper into the small vial. "Didn't learn lock picking in Templar School."

Isobel shrugged, casting off her sword and shield. She wasn't going to actually… Alistair bit back a grin as she thrust her shoulder into the door. He could hear it nearly splinter, and the lock shuddered. Two more firm strikes and the door flew open. The lock fell to her feet, clattering on the floor. Bending over, Alistair dug into the front pocket of the man, lifting his foot so he didn't step in the pool of blood where his head had once been Eerie. He withdrew a key, holding it into the air.

"Ow," Isobel groaned, rubbing her shoulder. She looked into the room. It was humble, as were most accommodations in the city not owned by nobility. A bed, a fireplace, a bookshelf, and… a body? "Alistair," she called to him as she moved into the room to inspect the corpse. It was Genitivi's assistant. "Come and look at this." Waving her hand in front of her nose, Isobel nearly gagged at the stench. It smelled like death, yet it was a hundred times more potent than anything she'd smelled since Redcliffe. "He was possessed."

"You think we'd be able to recognize possession by now," Alistair muttered, bending beside the body to pick up the book at his side. After reading the passage marked with a bookmark, he looked up at her. "Do you still have the map?" Isobel nodded. "It's a town called Haven. Genitivi was almost positive the Urn is there."

"Why do I have a feeling things are only going to get more difficult as we go on?" she asked him. There was an element of exhaustion in her voice, both physical and emotional. It was almost a whine. He watched as she began to pace the room, map clenched unceremoniously in her hand. "Possessions and demons and bloody… possessed demons! Andraste's piss pot, I feel like I'm going insane!"

Shutting the book and standing, Alistair crossed the room and grasped Isobel by her shoulders. "Better insane than possessed, yeah?" The hopeful lilt in his voice lessened the frown that furrowed her brows.

All of the stress was wearing on her. She was scarcely twenty-one years old, and having been raised within the walls of Castle Cousland, she wasn't exactly bred for this sort of thing. While she could fight with the best of trained soldiers, she'd only ever dueled her brother and Ser Gilmore. And she'd only ever practiced. This business of shedding blood and cutting down men - or women or demons or darkspawn - was nothing like she'd imagined, not that she'd ever hoped to do such a thing.

Then there was being a Grey Warden. There was the taint and the archdemon and any number of things she'd readily assumed was legend or a part of history. She didn't want to be here, but there was no turning back. Nothing she did would rewind the events of the past few weeks. There was no alternative besides desertion or death. Both options were lackluster at best.

Isobel looked up at him. She tried to shift out of his hands, but he held her there in that spot as tight as he could. "I need something to drink." She sighed. "Now."

"Told you living across from a tavern was handy."

--

The Gnawed Noble tavern was a warm establishment in both temperature and atmosphere. Once Alistair and Isobel left Brother Genitivi's home and entered the tavern, they both felt a great weight lifted from their shoulders. For a few hours, they could sit and converse again as they had on their way to Denerim. Hopefully this short stay would ease Isobel's anxiety at her situation, and Alistair knew that he, too, could use a drink.

After a few recommendations from the bartender, Isobel and Alistair settled down across from each other at one of the tables. Despite the hour, the tavern was remarkably empty save for a few soldiers and those working for the night. Alistair looked around as Isobel took a long drink from her flagon. Tilting it back, she continued to drink, and Alistair's eyes widened as she gulped down at least one third of the thing.

Setting it down on the table in front of her, Isobel coughed, wiping at her mouth with her sleeve.

"You wouldn't happen to be half-dwarf, would you?" Alistair asked, eyebrow nearly shot into his hairline.

Isobel snorted, "What's that supposed to mean?" She looked down to her ale, giving a noncommittal shrug. "I was thirsty. I told you I needed a drink. This," she pointed towards the pint, "is a drink."

"Well, not anymore," he laughed, taking a purposefully dainty sip from his own.

Try as she might, Isobel couldn't keep herself from beaming at him. The man was ridiculous; utterly ridiculous. He reminded her of Fergus. Such a comparison nearly pierced her heart, and she took another hearty swig in an attempt to forget it. Soon enough, after nearly five empty flagons were removed from their table between the two of them, she did forget. And by that time, she wasn't feeling under such pressure anymore, either.

Instead, she tossed her head back and laughed at a mimic of Godfrey and Arryn's blossoming love affair. "Oh, Godfrey," Alistair cooed, his hand pressed to his chest and his eyelashes fluttering. "You are just so big. And strong. And handsome."

Isobel clutched at her stomach as she nearly doubled over, her fist pounding on the table. "Stop! Please, I beg you, stop!"

Of course, the man either didn't hear her or was intent on finishing his charade. "Oh, Arryn," he continued, his voice little more than a grumbling growl. "You are so petite. Your ears are so pointy. Let me kiss them." He succumbed to laughter of his own, coughing and giggling as only a heavily intoxicated man could.

Wiping at her eyes, Isobel finally calmed. "That," she panted, a lopsided grin taking up residence on her lips. "was really good. You do many impressions?" It took her a second for an idea to formulate in her head. While it was slow coming, her brains muddied with drink, she perked up as it hit her. "You should do me!"

Alistair went white. "W-what?" he stammered. "Noooo. Nah. I don't think that'd be wise. I… I can do Cailan?"

"Ooh." Distracted from her own wishes, she leaned forward on her chair. "This is gunna be good." Flapping her hands at him as if to tell him to continue, she grinned. This was the most fun she'd had in weeks. While her parents frowned upon excessive drinking, she'd often followed her brother out with his friends. Always eager to make an example of his little sister, Fergus shared the ale until she could hardly stand up straight. It was this that taught her to hold her drink. Alistair clearly never had such an influence.

After clearing his throat, Alistair straightened himself up. Isobel watched as he nearly transformed into the good king right before her very eyes. "Hello, fair maiden," he began, "I see you carry a sword. I, too, carry a sword."

Isobel's hand flew to her mouth to keep herself from laughing aloud. She felt terrible for being so amused at Cailan's expense.

"I am the king of all Ferelden. I seek glory. But, please, do not get blood on my armor. It is too shiny for that mess. Some think of me as a pampered brat and a shadow of my father, Maker save him. They're not far off." The impression stopped suddenly as Isobel's laughter quieted. He'd gone too far. He knew it was going to happen. Put too much drink in that body of his and he was going to say something someone didn't like. Most of the time he didn't even have to be drunk in order to offend someone.

Alistair's mind reeled, half from drink and half from his own loose lips. He could feel the truth dancing along the inside of his mouth, on his tongue, and it tasted bitter. No matter how hard he tried to hold it back, it was impossible. So instead of explaining himself, he stood up, nearly knocking the table over in Isobel's direction in the process. Stammering his apology, he went to the bartender. Not for a drink, but to acquire a room for the night.

All the while, Isobel stared down at her nearly empty pint, her stomach churning. She was a fool for drinking so much. Their situation was too precarious to be indulging in such a way. Looking up from the ale, she focused in on Alistair, listening as he insisted they should have two rooms despite the bartender insisting the other was already rented for the night.

Alistair returned, stumbling only slightly, with a key to the room they were to share. "I tried to get two of 'em, but…"

"I heard," Isobel interrupted him. She lifted her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Tomorrow is going to be a miserable day, Alistair." A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth all the same. "Why did you let me drink so much?"

"I doubt the Maker Himself couldn't have stopped you from drinking," he chuckled, though his own head pounded. "It's getting late."

Isobel stood from the table with care, and the two of them made their way towards their room for the night. They found a single bed, as was expected, a small, flickering fire, a rug, and a chair. It wasn't exactly palatial, but the bed looked like the most comfortable thing she'd seen in weeks. Moving over to it, Isobel collapsed onto one side, grunting at the impact. The room sloshed around her, and she buried her face in the pillow in an attempt to stop it.

Before long, while Alistair removed his armor near the fire, he heard a soft snoring coming from her direction. "Guess I'll be sleeping here, then," he murmured, appraising the chair he stood in front of. His eyes went to Isobel and he smiled to himself. The girl could hold her drink, but when she was tired, nothing would stop her from falling dead asleep in minutes.

While his hands were clumsy, he hurriedly unfolded the coarse blanket on the edge of the bed and threw it over her. He didn't need it, not so near to the flames. Funnily enough, it didn't bother Alistair in the least that the young woman who was all but leading them was so easy to take care of.

--

Back at the campsite, most of the men had all filtered off into their tents by now. Some were even snoring. Most were kept up by their individual thoughts. While their stories since Ostagar were the same, they were all different in very essential ways. Some were married, others were unattached. Some had children. Some had a home to go to, others had lost everything. Some could hardly sleep with the anticipation of what was on the horizon. One of those men was Cailan.

He was sitting beside the fire, a much more pristine leather bound journal opened on his lap. With the addition of a small vial of ink and a pen, it was clear to any bystanders that Cailan had begun keeping his own journal. Little did they know, he'd been keeping one since the battles preceding Ostagar.

Already he was nearly halfway through with filling the pages.

Tonight was the first night he'd gathered the courage to scribble his self-proclaimed "inane" thoughts in front of his men. He blew on the quickly drying ink as he wrote feverishly, dusting his hair out of his eyes and narrowing them in thought.

I find myself surrounded by brothers. Men similar to myself in ways I'd never have imagined in my earlier years.

Looking up from his journal, he watched as those men moved around the camp. They gathered more wood for the fire, kept watch, conversed among themselves. He could almost see the camaraderie growing between them all. While he was not directly included in any of these actions, he felt a warmth unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Still, I find there is a piece missing tonight. As I stated earlier in this entry, the two Grey Wardens have departed for Denerim to find Brother Genitivi. The camp was attacked by a troop of bandits numbering eleven this afternoon, and I found myself searching for the sound of Isobel's sword. As our days together grow in number, I become more and more accustomed to having her fight by my side. She transforms when engaged in combat. While she is almost meek in our everyday conversations, she becomes something completely different in the flush of battle. It's

Cailan lifted his pen to his mouth, biting on the end of it as he thought of a word. Everything seemed unfit for the manner he wished to convey her - too coarse.

inspiring. Even when we are not fighting at each others side, I cannot stop thinking about her. The news of Anora's disappearance wounded me, but this feels unlike the attachment I felt to her. It feels like custom made, fur-lined gloves. It feels like a warm place to sleep after weeks of slumbering on the ground.

Smiling softly to himself, Cailan dipped his pen into the bottle of ink, finishing his entry with a flourish.

It feels like sunshine against my skin after a long darkness.


A/N: You are all just TOO kind, I swear!I have to admit that I'm guilty of siding with Alistair for the past few chapters, but I promise that Cailan will come through! At least, I sure hope he does, as that's sort of the point after all. I think I may end up sitting at home, writing for you guys, instead of going out for my birthday on Wednesday! ;)