The road to Haven was long and nearly unbearable for poor Isobel Cousland.

She often rode out in front of the party, if only to get away from Cailan and that simpering rogue he'd picked up, but she truly hated being alone. Sometimes she snatched Arryn up onto her horse and they rode together. The mage was slight and Isobel's mount hardly noticed the difference. With Arryn, she found some semblance of friendship, and they grew close, quickly. While she was cautious when speaking of the king to her new friend, once they settled into a trot and each others company, she found herself as loose lipped as anything.

Most of the time, she was sure she only spoke to herself. Arryn merely patted her on her back and murmured the occasional reply. Other times, the mage was just as zealous as Isobel. After only a few meetings with Chella, Arryn found the woman to be difficult to get along with, and she was only too eager to voice her complaints to Isobel, who invited the girl's free speech. She was mystified by the Grey Warden's wide array of colorful nicknames for the woman who kept pace beside Cailan's horse.

There were also times when Arryn spoke of Godfrey - the kind and gentle knight who'd been nothing but generous with her. Isobel insisted he had feelings for her, but the elf blushed and shook her head, quick to deny the possibility and eager to counter Isobel's protestations with her own. They were all about Alistair, about how nervous and pink he got when she was around, not that she'd noticed. They laughed together then, beside themselves on the topic of men.

On many days, they swore them off entirely, but Arryn was quick to change her mind.

Isobel swore that if she had a man such as Godfrey wriggling helpless in her palm, she'd change her mind as well. Arryn's smirking reply was that she already did. She just didn't realize it yet.

She brushed this off as nothing by idle fancy. Surely things would be more obvious if he were truly interested in her, right? They shared a tent, after all. They joked around, teased, and even sparred if the king decided he needed to rest. If there was something there, she would have been able to see it. That was her logic, and she considered it infallible.

When Arryn's declarations led in the direction of her fellow Grey Warden, all she could remember was that night by the stream all the way back near Denerim, and she hated herself for it. She'd never been that close to a man before. There were offers, surely, and she'd been tempted to accept them on occasion, but he was different. He was the king. Not only that, but his affections had been genuine. Or they had seemed so at the time.

Now he spent most of his time with the Orlesian, who willingly accepted those same affections he'd been all too willing to bestow upon her weeks before. While he was not the sort to openly exhibit any overtures, it was obvious in the way he looked at her that there was something there. Then again, it could've been Isobel's wild imagination.

As the weather seemed to alter around them, so did their moods. Chella withdrew from the main camp, which led to Cailan following after her, eager to please the woman who pleased him. Godfrey and Arryn spent more and more time together, leaving Isobel to ride on her own as they neared Haven. Alistair seemed less and less cheerful as the days wore on, which shocked everyone to their core.

Morale was at an all time low. The same could be said of their rations, which were so short they could hardly bear to feed the men more than twice a day. Nights were spent shivering in their tents, and they woke nearly frozen, lips and skin gone blue from the cold.

Alistair and Isobel often slid their bedrolls closer together in an attempt to share warmth. It was her idea, only a few days after the first frost, and Alistair flushed at the suggestion. "See? Warm already," she'd replied, patting him indelicately on his cheek. "Who needs a fire when they've got you?"

Nearly a month and a half after setting off from Denerim, the party arrived in Haven.

None of them knew the slightest about this village in the mountains. With the book containing Brother Genitivi's notes came the most miniscule of pointers - dress warmly and be wary of dragonlings. While Cailan voiced apprehension towards their mission for the first time since seeing his uncle, no doubt egged on by Chella, who swore the Urn was nothing more than a myth, they continued on their way.

When it came time for them to split up, there was a disagreement. The men were to set up camp at the bottom of the hill to wait until the king returned, and Isobel pulled Cailan aside for the first time since Denerim. He seemed shocked at first, but his surprise faded into a smile. His eyes fell to her pursed lips. She was not smiling. "Do you have any concerns?" he asked. The corner of his mouth twitched as he reconsidered his grin, but it ultimately remained.

"Who is coming with us to Haven?"

"You say that as if you already know you're going," Cailan teased. He could see her eyes harden before him, and he quickly amended his statement, holding up his palms to her. "I'm only kidding. I assumed it would be you and Alistair." He paused. Isobel felt her heart lurch forward. "And Chella."

Isobel took a step back, turning away from him. "What of Arryn? She's a healer. No one knows what we might run into up there." Of course he wanted to take Chella. Had she been any smaller, she might've been considered a lapdog, always running along at his heels, eager to please him. "You already have three swords. We need a mage."

"How do we even know we can trust Arryn?" Cailan asked, his voice heavy. This argument felt hopeless. "She showed up out of nowhere. It was mighty convenient."

Her breath left her as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She wanted to turn around and slap him, to shake him and yell at him to open his eyes. If anyone's arrival was convenient, it was Chella's. "She's been traveling with us for months, Cailan. If it wasn't for her, we'd be dead three or four times over." She turned to him, her hands clenched into fists at her side. "How dare you question her fidelity when she's saved us time and time again?"

"How dare I?" Cailan replied. The pitch and volume of his voice rose, and he stepped forward, bringing himself so close to Isobel that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. She did so slowly. He could see an enraged glint in her eyes. "I am the king. This is an order."

"That title is as good as dirt now, Cailan," Isobel spat, her brows knitting together. She felt a rage bubbling within her, heating her limbs in a way they hadn't felt in weeks. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. "I'll listen to you. I'll take this order, but I want you to know that I do not approve. And you'll do good to know that most of your men share my ill will towards your Orlesian."

With that, she slipped past him and left him in silence.

Arryn was more than happy to be left back at the camp. She was tired, but she mustered enough energy to put together a few poultices for them to bring just in case. Alistair could tell that there was something wrong with Isobel, and his worries were confirmed when she blatantly ignored him as she slipped the poultices into her pack. The question as to why she was so angry was answered not long after, when Cailan gave his orders.

Looking towards Isobel, Alistair saw her bite her lip, her entire body gone tense at the sound of Cailan calling out for Chella. The woman left her tent, placed right beside his own, and shared a smile with the king as she slipped her dagger into the sheath at her hip. "I am glad to be able to help," she laughed. "I was beginning to feel quite helpless." Her voice was the voice of a siren - deep and throaty and heavily accented - and her laugh sounded like bells. The men seated around the campfire would've surely been seduced if they hadn't been born with such deep prejudices against her people.

"Let's go," Isobel murmured to her fellow Grey Warden, lifting her pack and throwing it over her shoulder. "We do not want to keep His Majesty waiting." He words dripped with acid, and Alistair found himself amused by her outward show of contempt. No one else had the guts or gall to say such things about the king, and she was a woman.

The climb was a steep one. Isobel took the head of the group, and Chella took up the rear. It was the Grey Warden's idea, one the rouge readily accepted. A mutual dislike was clear as crystal, though Cailan seemed oblivious to it all. He had more important matters to worry about. Alistair tried his best to keep up with Isobel, but her strides were long and she was much lighter. On any other day, she would've slowed herself to let him keep up with her. The quiet was welcome, as was the small bit of solitude.

When she finally mounted the hill, she was met with the sight of a small village, even smaller than she'd imagined. Buildings were sturdy, but built out of poor materials. Everything was coated with snow, both fresh and lingering. And there was no one around, save for the man in heavy armor who stepped into her path before she was able to enter the village.

"What are you doing in Haven?" he asked. His voice was harsh and his accent only slightly familiar. He was smaller than Isobel, but the hard set line of his mouth and the hallows of his eyes were unsettling. "There is nothing for you here."

Isobel cleared her throat. "I have business here."

"No, you do not," the guard quickly interrupted her. "I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor." By now, Alistair was making his way up to stand beside her. He seemed confused, but he remained silent.

Glancing at Alistair, they shared a silent look of question. Unfriendly welcomes were not uncommon, and she suspected the villagers in Haven were less than decent. At least, that was the feeling she got from the gruff man standing before her. "Is there a Brother Genitivi here?"

The guard shrugged. "Who? Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak. Unfortunately, he is ministering to the villagers at the moment, and cannot be disturbed."

"Very well," Isobel sighed, just as Cailan and Chella moved towards them. They were talking quietly amongst themselves. Isobel did her best to ignore them, to block out the whispered words and shimmer of laughter. "Excuse me."

As she was turning to leave, the guard stopped her. "You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish. Then I suggest you and your companions leave."

Isobel nodded and left the man to his duty, though she doubted many people passed through. Certainly not enough to mount a guard at the gates. The fact that he stood there in the cold without moving troubled her, guarding the place as if there was actually something to guard besides townsfolk and shoddy houses.

"Should we even bother checking the shop?" Chella asked. Her voice was crisp and oddly chipper. "We have everything we need, do we not? The guard said the Father might know where Brother Genitivi is."

"He also said not to disturb the ministering," Isobel reminded her, jaw set and voice low as she looked from house to house. There was not a single soul outside. Considering the weather, she was not surprised, but she got a feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her this was often the case, no matter the weather. "Important pursuit or not, I refuse to barge in on someone's religious ceremony."

Chella scoffed. "What does it matter what you refuse to do? I didn't realize you were the king here." She turned to Cailan, "Should we not look for Brother Genitivi as soon as possible? Your uncle…"

"We have to find him, for Eamon's sake," Cailan near-shouted. Isobel rolled her eyes and accepted the burden of leading the group up another hill. This time, Alistair stuck by her side. He wanted to assure her that everyone back at camp hated Chella just as much as she did. There was a joke lying there somewhere, something about them all pitching her into an icy lake or off a cliff. But it was clear by her expression and her determined stride that she didn't want to talk. She wanted to get this over with. She wanted to hurt something.

Little did she know, the opportunity would soon present itself.

Pushing in through the doors of Haven's Chantry, the warmth of the room met her with the smell of burning lamps and oils and the sound of Revered Father Eirik's voice. He stood at the head of the crowd, his gray head bowed, hands clasped before him. His followers encircled him, their heads bowed as well, engulfed in contemplative silence. Two guards stood at either side of him. They were heavily armored and carrying large swords, an odd decoration for holy proceedings.

"We are blessed beyond measure," Father Eirik proclaimed, "We are chosen by the Holy, and Beloved to be Her guardians." He looked from face to face. Each of the townsfolk wore the same blank expression, bordering upon catatonic awe at his words. "The sacred duty is given to us alone. Rejoice, my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive her."

The Father raised his hand, palm hovering over the ground, and extended his touch to each of their heads. "Lift up your voices and despair not…" His voice was lined with power. It filled every corner of the room, from the arched ceiling to the stone floor, from door to door, window to window. "For She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when Her -"

His sermon ceased as Isobel split the crowd without an ounce of grace. One of the townsfolk gave a gasp as she was thrust into the man standing beside her. Alistair shot her an apologetic look, but she'd already recovered, smoothing over the fabric of her dress and murmuring her dissent. "Ah… welcome," Father Eirik began. His brows creased and he folded his arms over his chest. For a priest, he was heavily built, and the air seemed to crackle around him with power. No wonder his followers were so eager to hang upon his every word. "I heard we had a visitor wandering about the village. I trust you've enjoyed your time in Haven so far?"

"It's quiet," Isobel replied plainly. She heard Cailan move up behind her, but she refused to give him the pleasure to speak. If anyone would get an answer, it was her. "Is there a man here by the name of Brother Genitivi?"

Father Eirik looked to the townsfolk, who stared at him, blinking and confused as to what they should do. "Today's service is over. I expect to see you all here on the morrow. Good day."

A man went to speak up, but he got a sharp look from the guard to Eirik's right. Instead, he turned and left with the rest of the men and women, understanding the silent threat in the soldier's eye. With all of them gone, Eirik did not relax in the slightest. If anything, he seemed even more imposing.

"What do you know of Genitivi?" There was a chill in his voice, one that spoke volumes. She was treading into dangerous territory. "Why do you seek him?"

"We seek the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Isobel heard from behind her. She turned to glare at the speaker only to find that Cailan had stepped up. He was tired of being treated like a child by her, and he was all too eager to lend a hand to the situation. A helpful one, he hoped. "To heal a dying man."

Father Eirik contemplated this for a moment. The party watched his features closely, waiting for some vague hint at a reaction. When his lips turned downward in a misshapen scowl, Cailan felt his heart shudder and then fall to his feet. All four guards drew their weapons with the hiss of metal along metal. Alistair and Isobel did the same, falling into a familiar stance. Chella unsheathed her twin daggers, her eyes glinting in the torchlight.

"We do not want visitors in Haven," Father Eirik stated imperiously. "They will change it, alter it for the worse." His tone was leaden as were his eyes, and they watched as he removed his staff from the strap across his back. There was a spark of blue lightening that ran along his arms, pooling in his palm as he steadied himself on his staff. "You die here."

Alistair was just quick enough to push Isobel out of the way when the burst of lightening left Father Eirik's hand. He felt a burst of fire on his shoulder, and he screamed in agony. His entire left arm went numb as the pain rushed to his fingers. Struggling to stand, he shrugged off his shield, tossing it to the side and lifting his sword to parry the blow of a guard's sword. He staggered a step backwards, grunting as he thrust the man's sword upwards and away from him.

Isobel was already on her feet, deflecting the blows of two men with sword and shield. "Alistair!" she called. Her fellow Grey Warden turned as he removed his sword from the belly of the guard. With a firm thrust of her boot to his chest, Isobel shoved him in Alistair's direction. The guard whirled around just in time to receive a blow to the face with the pommel of his sword.

On the opposite side of the room, Cailan was set on engaging the mage, ducking and diving as he avoided poorly aimed bursts of ice and fire. He wove around them as if he'd been doing this since he was a child. Golden hair whipping behind him, golden armor gleaming in the dim lighting of the Chantry - he was a vision.

Cailan ran forward, vaulting over the altar and landing on the stone floor right before Father Eirik. They regarded each other for a split second in time before Cailan felt a blow across his back from a guard's sword. He fell to his knees, all the air shot from his lungs, but he was not dead. The true victim was Eirik. The king's eyes widened as he felt a warm spray on the top of his head.

The priest gurgled, hands clasping in vain around the dagger lodged in his throat. Eirik staggered backwards a step before falling, boots slipping and sliding on the floor as he struggled to stand again. Cailan yanked the man towards him, his hand going to the blood slicked hilt. His fingers slipped at first, but his grip remained true as he removed the dagger and drove it into Father Eirik's chest.

Cailan turned in time to see Chella running towards them. She jumped into the air and onto the guard's back, pushing him, face down, into the altar. He hit it with a thud, but his struggles to remove the woman were futile. She gripped his helmet in her hands and twisted it sharply to the side. The final sound of the fight was a disturbing crack as the guard's neck was broken.

Isobel broke off into a run to get to Cailan. In her own desperation to fend off the guards, she'd forgotten all about the king, and her innards went cold when she saw him half-lying on the ground, covered in blood, his shaky hands holding a dagger that looked like Chella's. The bitch had stabbed him. That was her only thought as she skidded around the altar and fell to her knees in front of Cailan, tearing the dagger out of his hands and throwing it aside as if it burned her skin.

His shock only deepened at this. His eyes were wide, and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to explain what had happened.

Isobel was only able to look away from him when she saw Chella drop to her knee on his other side. Something within Isobel snapped at the expression of concern the Orlesian wore. Her hands went to the woman's shoulders and she shoved her backwards, away from the king. "Get away from him!" she roared, her face gone white with fury.

Cailan and Alistair watched in silence as Chella was thrown back against the wall. The impact would've broken something had she been delicate. Instead, she merely gasped before lunging at Isobel, throwing the Grey Warden onto her back. Alistair cringed when he heard Isobel's head strike the ground. They hit the stone floor in a heap of clashing armor, and Isobel choked for air as the Orlesian's hands went to her throat. "Don't you dare lay a hand on me!" she shouted, her fingers clamping down even harder. "I just saved your precious king!"

"Get off of her!" Cailan barked. His voice was louder than both of the women's and it echoed in the chamber. Chella let go of Isobel's throat at his bidding, and she quickly stood. The Warden gasped and coughed, but her eyes did not leave Chella's suddenly deadpan face. Alistair went to Isobel's side, his hands guiding her up into a standing position. Cailan helped himself, hissing an order for Chella to leave him be. His eyes went to Isobel, who stood in silence, her eyes shut, as Alistair ran a hand along the back of her head to see if she was bleeding. Still, her jaw was clenched and her lips pinched together in a frown. "I will allow no more of this," he growled, "We find Genitivi. We receive his guidance. Then we leave this place."

Chella nodded. "Yes, your Majesty."

Cailan gestured towards Father Eirik. "Search his body for anything he may carry."

While she did not enjoy stealing off of the bodies of holy men, the Orlesian's hands made quick work of dipping into the man's pockets. When they gave up nothing of value, she lifted a pendant from around his neck. Figuring it could be of use, she snatched it up, yanking it from him and pocketing it.

"No bleeding?" Isobel asked, glancing at Alistair over her shoulder. The pain was severe, but pride kept her from saying such with Chella in earshot. For all the woman would ever know, Isobel was immortal and felt no pain. She refused to show weakness, and the Orlesian clearly felt the same.

Alistair gave her a small smile, his hand resting absently on the back of her neck, beneath a thick veil of red hair. "No bleeding. You're going to have one hellacious bump, though. You might want to sleep on your face for a few days." He felt his body warm when she gave a quiet laugh. It hurt, seeing her run to Cailan like that. Her almost primitive reaction to Chella wasn't comforting, either, but her laugh smoothed all those sharp feelings over.

There was a doorway near the side of the large chamber, but it led to a wall of stones, much like the floor beneath their feet. Cailan pressed a hand to it, pushing all of his strength against the wall. It moved. He shoved into it again, this time attempting to move it to the side. It went willingly, dragging along the floor with a noise so loud it alerted the three.

Chella was the first to follow him into the room, trailed by Alistair and then Isobel. Everything was damp and cold, and the books in the shelves emitted a smell that assaulted the senses. There was a man lying on the floor, the only comfort between his body and the stones was a tattered, threadbare rug. When he heard Cailan approaching, he tried his best to sit up, groaning. "W-who are you?" he asked, terror gripping his every word. "They… they sent you to finish it?"

"I'm King Cailan Theirin, and I'm here to help you."

The man's eyes widened at the name. "Your Majesty!" he proclaimed, his voice shuddering in both joy and awe. His eyes fell to the floor, "You don't know how happy I am to see someone who isn't from this village. I -" His hand flew to his knee as he gave another pained groan. "The leg's… not doing so well, and I can't feel my foot."

Cailan turned to look at Isobel. She stepped forward, "I can bandage it for now. We have a mage who is adept at healing, but she is back at camp." Her words were harsh, as was the glare she directed at the king. Going to her knees beside the Brother, she removed a poultice from her pack and her expression softened. "We should go to her."

"I don't have time to go anywhere else," he pressed. "The Urn is just up the mountain."

"The Urn!?" Cailan gasped, "It really is here?" Genitivi nodded. "We must get the ashes at once. My uncle, the arl, gets sicker by the day."

"The arl is sick? Will he live?"

"I… hope so."

Genitivi's mouth curled downward into a solemn frown. "The arl is a noble soul. The ashes will surely cure him." These words melted away the rough exterior of Cailan's worry. This man had studied the Urn for many years. If anyone knew the effects of the ashes, it was him. "Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that holds the Urn. There is an old temple there, built to protect it. The door is always locked, but I know where the key is. Eirik wears a medallion that opens the temple door… I've seen what he does with it."

Chella fingered the pendant in her pocket. Slipping it out into her palm, she stepped forward, nudging Isobel to the side so the brother could see the object in her hand. "This medallion?"

"Yes, that's the key," Genitivi smiled wearily. After so many weeks of this, so much torture and pain; after so many years, so much research and condemnation - he would see the temple for himself. Finally. He was nearly overwhelmed, and Isobel saw tears well in his eyes. "Take me to the mountainside, and I will show you."