Sleep did not come easily for Cailan that night. Despite the almost heavenly feeling of relief at having the ashes in hand for his uncle, the day's happenings wore on his mind, causing him to slip in and out of a dazed near-sleep state and utter alertness. He hated lying on his back, staring up at the tent above him and trying desperately to focus on something other than his thoughts. He could hear his men, some snoring and others conversing in hushed whispers no matter the hour. He could hear the quiet whistle of the wind. But the one sound that echoes between his ears was the sound of his father's voice.

The Gauntlet. While the name was daunting in itself, the first task was nothing for Cailan. Alistair and Isobel watched as he spoke to the specters, unwinding each riddle as if he'd already known what they would ask. The king's deep love for history brought forth a glow to his face as he recounted the story of Andraste and the Maker and her jealous lover as the ethereal phantoms disappeared into nothing.

While they lot of them often doubted Cailan's common sense, it was impossible to deny his firm grip on history. He owed his to his mother. Rowan swore she'd fill their castle up with books with or without Maric's approval, and each of the books soon found their way into the hands of her son, who lapped up stories and tales like a starving kitten. It was one of the many things that filled her with pride when it came to Cailan.

With the final riddle answered, the door at the end of the chamber fell open. Cailan ventured forward, his hand poised on his blade as his body tensed. None of them knew what might lie around the next corner. Drakes? More cultists? A wraith or a dozen? What they were met with, however, was beyond Cailan's wildest expectations.

He came face to face with his father.

Maric stood before him just as he remembered from his childhood. For those following him, there was hardly a difference between the two men who stood there, regarding each other. The former king was a few inches taller than his son, but it was like looking into a mirror. Long golden hair, milky pale skin, blue eyes, square shoulders, and an expression of confusion. On both their faces.

Cailan was the first to speak. "F-father?"

Chella moved forward, her brow creased and mouth hard, but she was snatched back by Isobel. Jerking her arm out of the Warden's indelicate grasp, she glared at her and stood her ground. She did not go to comfort him.

"My boy." Maric's voice filled the stone hallway with warmth, and Cailan felt his eyes begin to burn. His chest ached. He wanted nothing more than for this to be real, but it was only part of the task. He could not help but believe that if he was not king, if his father was king, everything would be as it was. There would be peace and an end to the Blight, not civil war amongst the darkspawn horde. "You were questioned. Your answer was not the entire truth."

Maric's matter-of-factness brought Cailan's chin downward in shame. "I meant it," he said softly.

"But you did not bare all, nor did you answer directly." Maric's lips turned upward in a hint of a smile, and he reached forward to bring his son's face up to look into it. He paused. His hand fell back to his side. "I am not here to chide you, son. I only wish to know your true answer." He chuckled, and Cailan lifted his eyes to gaze upon the specter, watching a charming smile unfold on his father's lips. "You could always get away with such maneuvering, especially with your mother. I doubt she was ever able to get an answer out of you in serious matters."

Cailan's eyes glittered in the light of a few flickering lamps. He lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that gathered, smiling to himself. "I don't know what you wish to hear," he admitted. "I have none of your confidence."

"My confidence?" Maric asked, aghast. "You have confidence in spades, Cailan." The former king's eyes flicked to Chella, who took an unconscious step back, farther into the darkness. It nearly engulfed her, but the ghost could see enough - her full lips, the curve of her bosom and hips, her tense, uncomfortable posture. "Perhaps too much, now that I think of it."

Cailan did not understand, but he did not ask his father to explain, either.

Maric sighed, looking back to his son. "Do not fear being your own man." His voice was solemn now, as was his expression. "Shape your own life. Protect your people and Ferelden, but do not neglect those closest to you while you do so." Sadness pierced his features. "I made such a mistake, and it nearly cost me everything. You must be careful. Be wary, but do not harden yourself to those who truly care for you."

The king's eyes fluttered shut as he listened to his father's voice. He wanted to capture these words, to lock them in his mind and never forget them. The five years since he'd last spoken to his father had been filled with an unspoken grief that he never quite understood. He was missing an element of closure, no doubt due to his being tossed onto the throne while his father's body was still warm. But this… this felt like closure.

"I love you, Cailan."

Rubbing the butt of his palm in his eye, Cailan turned over in the dark. What has his father meant? The words replayed over and over in his head, but he could not make sense of them.

Neglect. The word conjured forth a singular memory. The day Chella arrived at the camp, Isobel had entered his tent with such panache, her cheeks aflame with an excitement that was uncommon to her. She'd smiled at him, a faltering, unsure thing that seemed foreign on her hopeful expression. And then she'd left, her face still flushed, but her eyes somewhat colder. At the time, he had not realized what lay behind those eyes, but now the emotion was as clear as day. It was disappointment.

He knew this because she'd looked at him with those same eyes earlier that day.

When they finally reached the Urn of Sacred Ashes, they were met with a line of fire. There was an altar just before the flames that presented them with a riddle that needed no answer. Give forth your worldly chains and step into the cleansing flame. They stripped themselves of their armor and weapons in silence, all but one of them staring up at the urn with shameless admiration.

Chella palmed the vial of dragon's blood, watching as Cailan stepped forward.

The sight was one to behold. Even without his armor, he still seemed larger than life. His skin glowed in the firelight, the light caressing each muscle and strand of hair as he moved through the flames. His step was heavy and slow, and she saw him struggle to keep himself upright as he passed into the chilled chamber and away from the fire. Alistair followed him with Isobel not far behind, and Chella regarded the wall of fire with suspicion before stepping through it.

Before them, a single spear of light filtered in from the ceiling, casting a bright white glow onto the urn. This was it. This was the urn of Andraste. Within the beautiful urn lay the ashes of the Maker's beloved, the prophetess.

Chella went to Cailan's side, taking his wrist in her hand and placing the vial onto his palm. She looked up at him, her eyes surprisingly docile. There was a yearning there that he felt himself surrender to, however unwillingly.

"What are you doing?" Isobel gasped.

Cailan turned around quickly. With her fingers still laced around the king's wrist, Chella just barely masked a look of utter loathing aimed directly at the female Warden. His eyes met hers, and his blood ran cold. She was staring at him, her lips parted in shock, but there was also an anger. Confusion. Distaste.

"Cailan," Isobel began, her voice dropping despite the lump in her throat. "This is the urn of Andraste. Its healing properties are a gift, and you are willing to destroy it?" She felt deceived; betrayed even. They'd risked so much coming here to save his uncle's life, and now he was going to snatch that same chance from his own people? "You will let her convince you to let you do something so… so despicable?"

Glancing to the woman at his side, he caught her displeasure. It lingered for a moment, but she snapped back into the same look she'd given him not long before. His stomach turned. "I can't." His words were hardly a whisper, but he watched as they hit Chella with the weight of a shield. She opened her mouth to protest. Any speech was rendered mute as the vial fell to the floor. It smashed into a thousand pieces, and they watched in silence as the viscous blood spread over the stones.

Without a word, the Orlesian stepped back.

Cailan sighed, shifting beneath his furs. To have anyone look at him the way Isobel had broke his heart. And yet he wouldn't have had the strength to deny Chella's wishes had she not been there. It was both a blessing and a curse, it seemed, as he could not erased that look from the back of his eyes.

Sitting up from his bedroll, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Sleep was not going to come. At least, not full, heavy sleep. Instead of lying there for hours more, Cailan slipped on his boots and hefted the large fur onto his shoulders. The cold was not as sharp as he remembered in the temple. It remained, but it was softer and more tolerable. Ducking out of his tent, he was met with the inky blackness of midnight. The sky was stuck through with stars. The moon hung full and bright above his head, casting a cool glow over the camp.

Without any particular heading in mind, Cailan weaved in and out of the tents, clutching the fur close around himself. No matter how quiet everything was, he did not feel lonely.

He didn't stop walking until he saw someone sitting alone, not far off from the camp. From a distance, it could have been anyone, but as he ventured closer, details sprung out that painted her to be Isobel. She was watching the path before her, a rag working on the shining metal of her shield and a quiet song on her lips. While the song itself was unfamiliar, the feeling behind it wasn't one easily mistaken. It was the sort of song a mother sings to a child.

She seemed far off, unwitting of anything besides her watch and the shield resting in her lap, but all it took was a snapped twig to have her jerk to attention, her eyes wide and her song silenced. Cailan moved forward quickly, his hands held palms outward. "No, no, don't stop," he said in a rushed whisper.

"Why?" she asked, her head tilted slightly to the side. "I'm not a very good singer." Looking away from him, she turned back to her task, though the shield was as shiny as it could possibly be.

"It's very soothing," Cailan pressed.

Isobel gave a quiet snort of laughter. "Your compliments need work, Cailan. My singing is about as soothing as an afternoon in the stocks." Still, she looked up at him, watching as he stood before her and did the same. "Thank you, though."

"I believe I should be thanking you," he admitted, gathering up the fur and placing himself on the ground beside her. "I… don't know what would've happened today if it wasn't for you." The truth was that he did know. Today was the fork in the road, the beginning of another chapter or another volume of journals. From those two choices branched entirely different futures, and this one was the one he knew his father would have chosen. Knowing this filled him with warmth.

Isobel nodded, but she did not speak.

Cailan couldn't look away from her. In comparison to Chella, there was no contest of beauty. The Orlesian was without a single flaw. Isobel's eyes were small, yet bright, and her lips were chapped from the harsh wind. Her skin was freckled and tan; her hands, calloused. But she was strong and steady. She had the stiff spine he'd always envied. All of this lifted her to an entirely different level from the other woman, a level that was nearly unreachable.

Reaching out, Cailan rested his hand lightly on her cheek. A small puff of smoke filled the air as she sighed, her rag ceasing all movement and her eyes falling closed. Her skin was soft against his fingers. He could feel her press her face against his warm palm, nearly melting into his skin. That was all the encouragement he needed.

With one hand rested on her jaw and the other sliding beneath her hair to curl at the back of her neck, he drew her into him. The moment their lips met, he was filled with a sudden anxiety. Would she pull away as she had the first time? Or was it too late for her to change her mind? Would she regret it later? Was she truly willing, or was this charity?

All of his question found their answers as Isobel's lips moved tentatively against his. She slid her shield off of her lap and her body turned unconsciously toward him. her hands blindly seeking him out. Her fingers slid into his hair, and he shivered at the sensation. He broke the kiss, withdrawing with incredible hesitance.

He searched her eyes for that disappointment, but he could not see it. He did not know what he saw - his mind and heart were both racing far too quickly for him to think clearly - but it was not disappointment. A single tug was all it took for Cailan to nearly topple forward, but Isobel caught him.

She snatched him up with her lips and refused to let go.


A/N: Long time, no see! Which is entirely my fault due to a very busy season. I wanted to thank you all again for such nice reviews. It really makes everything worthwhile, knowing there are others out there who enjoy the writing, and I appreciate every single one of them. I also wanted to wish everyone a happy holiday! No matter what you celebrate!