A/N: Embarrassment doesn't even begin to cover it. For anyone who has been reading this story, I apologize. Truly. I didn't expect to hit such a massive block with this story, especially considering it's one of my favorites. And I especially didn't want to disappoint anyone who was keeping up with it. That said, I suppose an explanation is in order, yes?

In a way, the block was both a blessing and a curse. I was quite sure of how I wanted to end this, but I didn't exactly know how I would go about doing so. After much - I mean it, much - consideration, I believe I've figured out, which means I can return to this as I originally intended. I totally understand if you hate me and never want to read another word of "The Beacon" ever ever ever again because it took me so damn long, but I hope any returning readers enjoy it.


Loghain did not meet the former king at the gates of Denerim.

Instead, he sent Arl Howe, who donned his best relieved smile as he watched the march of horses on its way toward him. The city hummed with delight as they crowded him, pushed back by the city guards in order to "make room for royal blood." Howe could hardly believe this turn of events. First that damned soldier escaped, and now the king was back and his people were eager to welcome him? Even after Loghain publicly denounced him, and more than once?

Still, Howe's gentility kept his smile from faltering as Cailan's shining golden armor came into clear sight. He'd have to put on a show of his allegiance. If Loghain wouldn't save his neck, the king would. He had no doubt of that. Everyone needs allies, no matter how numerous or few they already were.

When the king was close enough for him to make out his face, the crowd was surprised to see that he was indeed Cailan and not some bodiless specter come from the grave. But something about him was changed. He wasn't smiling. His jaw was clenched, lips slightly pursed.

He couldn't know…

The thought sent ice running through Howe's veins. Of course he didn't know. The former king had been traveling deep in the forest. No scout, no matter how skilled, could have found him. This pitiable self-reassurance brought Howe's shoulders back in practiced pomp. Cailan had been through much in the past months from what he'd heard. The battle at Ostagar would dampen even the brightest of spirits. Having been then kicked from the throne and down into who knew how many hordes of darkspawn, fortitude would be crushed.

By the time Cailan's party made its way into the city, the crowd was whipped into a near-frenzy. Cheers and shouts filled Howe's ears, making him cringe, his cordial smile suddenly irresolute. Their king - for they still considered him king - was changed, but not so changed as to be unrecognizable. If anything, the maidens in the crowd seemed even more excitable.

"Welcome again to Denerim, Your Highness." Howe's voice lilted and stirred as Cailan drew closer. At this short distance, he could easily point out the difference in the former king. The difference was in his eyes. Merciful and joyous blue had turned to ice. Or was that look reserved especially for him?

"Save your conviviality for someone who believes you," was the golden-haired royal's only response. His words were whispered and colored with an emotion Howe was exceedingly familiar with. Anger. "You know why I am here."

Howe fought the urge to cringe at the sharp pain that stabbed through his gut. So he did know. How, in Andraste's name, did news reach him? It should have been an impossibility. Then again, his survival at Ostagar was once described to him as impossible, as well. The tension that seemingly tugged at every muscle in Howe's body only allowed him a single gesture. A nod.

The streets of Denerim were filled with citizens. Cailan did his best to swallow his own emotions in order to gift them with a smile and a wave. They praised him heavily, while he felt none of the warmth he once did on the inside. Once, any attention showered upon him was met by delight. Now it was met with that detached grin, the limp wave. He couldn't focus. His head was spinning in worried circles.

When they finally reached Howe's estate, Cailan climbed down from his mount, thrusting any hands offering help away.

The interior of Howe's estate was decorated just as any other in the city - too much room, too little furnishings. Nothing spoke of this place being a home, and, despite the warmth of fires in each hearth, it was cold. What had he expected? Howe was not the sort of man who would relish in making anyone comfortable besides himself. Even his children were forced to accept a house instead of a home, but they seemed to shoulder it without so much as a word of protest.

Cailan allowed himself be guided deeper into the estate. He passed servants who stood, rapt and ignoring their work. He passed Howe's boy, whatever his name was. Everyone watched him as if they'd seen a ghost. So some people still believed he was dead. He found his mind reeling at the prospect. How had their opinion of him changed? He'd once been seen as a shadow of his father, ascended to the throne despite his foolish inability to rule. But now… what was he? A prophet of the Maker?

Alistair followed Cailan as was requested of him. He'd rather have been buried in snow back at Haven wearing nothing but his small clothes than be there, but he could not deny a request. Not from the king. Each winding hall passed as easily as the last, leading them into a larger room on the second floor of the estate. It was the library of the manor, and it was suffocating. He could tell that Cailan was uncomfortable in the way he shifted on his feet, but this was something more than just the temperature of the room.

"Tell me what I want to know, Howe," Cailan said in a near growl. He wasn't interested in being led around like a prized horse. It was quite evident by his stilted tone that he did not wish to be here, a sentiment that Alistair echoed silently within the confines of his own mind.

Tugging at the collar of his armor, Alistair sat as far away from the two others as possible. Howe disgusted him just as Cailan discouraged him. After all that Isobel told him, of Howe's betrayal of her parents, how much blood was on his hands - he could hardly look at him without feeling a hunk of lead in his gut. But, for some reason, he could not tear his eyes away from him as he waited for the old man to speak.

He couldn't help but feel an encroaching dread as Howe's expression sobered. It was bad. He knew it was bad; he could feel it.

"Isobel is dead."

Alistair was on his feet before Cailan had enough time to even process the man's words. Howe gurgled, choking, as he was lifted from his chair by the collar of his shirt. He struggled at first. His arms flailed and legs kicked, and Alistair nearly dropped him. Alistair could hardly feel himself move; it was as if his body had disconnected from his senses, ushering him forward like a madman. While his movements were quicker than anything they'd ever seen, to him they felt sluggish, and he couldn't stop them.

"You bastard," he hissed, thrusting Howe back even more. The man gave a yelp of pain as the crown of his head hit the wall. "It was you, wasn't it?" Alistair's nostrils flared. His lips turned downwards in a sneer. Howe had often felt rage, often caused it, but never had he seen it so clearly written on someone's face. It terrified him. "It was you!"

Behind him, Cailan slumped down onto a chair. His face paled of all color. His shaking hands brushed through his hair, eyes narrowed and filled with a sudden, unmistakable fear, concentrated entirely on grasping such a foreign concept. She couldn't be dead. Not her. She was strong. She was unbreakable. No amount of simple torturing could kill her.

"It wasn't me!" Howe pleaded, his hands grasping clumsily at Alistair's, jerking in the Warden's grip.

He shrunk away from the Warden as he let out a roar of frustration and shoved him into the wall again. The impact sent a white flame down his spine and blinded him for all of a heartbeat. His body willed him to react - to grab a sword and shove it into this fool's belly. But he had orders, he had a heading. If this meeting ended in Alistair's death there would be much payment at Loghain's hands. "Who else!?"

"Loghain!"

Cailan's head jerked into attention. "Why would he do that?" he asked. His voice was small; tremulous. It stumbled on his lips. His own thoughts were faltering as he willed himself to keep the tears from his eyes, the dread and regret and blame from his guts. If he'd have been here… if he'd have traveled with her…

"He wanted to hit you where it would hurt the worst," Howe explained, his hands opening and closing around Alistair's wrists as he attempted to free himself. Alistair allowed his feet to touch the ground, but he did not let go of his neck. Howe gave a short gasp of relief before coughing, his throat aching in objection. "There was a bard. Chella. She told him everything of your relationship with the Warden."

Cailan could feel his blood turn to ice water in his veins.

"She warned me," the King murmured, his voice half-lost to disbelief. He looked away from Howe, his blue eyes focusing on nothing. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling, as he measured each breath; each inhalation, each shuddering sigh of an exhale. He could hear her. He could sense her eyes burning into him in the forests beneath Haven. She'd fought him, shown the true flame in her being. But he hadn't conceded. He hadn't budged. His own foolish pride led him to believe the girl with her charming words. A bard. A damned bard.

He was his father's son. That was an unshakeable fact now solidified by his own ridiculous fancies. How had he managed to stumble into this? How had this happened? After all the warnings, all the teasing directed towards him by those who knew, all the promises he'd made to himself. Be the man your father could have been. Be solid, and be true. All of those words lay broken in his clammy palms. He was Maric's son, yet he wasn't half the man his father was.

"Alistair," Cailan murmured, looking to him without so much as a shade of expression on his features, "We should go. I…" His lips were dry; his mouth, drier. "I have to speak to Loghain."

Howe tensed in Alistair's grip. "I fear that is not possible, Your Highness," he pressed, tearing the Warden's hands from his neck. When Alistair took a step back, his hands falling to his side and his eyes narrowed in a thinly veiled glare, Howe turned to Cailan. "Loghain has business to attend to. That is why I met you at the gates instead."

"I don't care if he has business," Cailan snapped at him, though his voice was growing increasingly brittle. "I am the King. He will see me."

"I can arrange a meeting for the two of you at first light tomorrow, Your Majesty."

The King's nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood from the seat and began to move towards the door. When he reached the exit, Cailan's eyes met Howe's over his golden-plated shoulder.

Howe was often described as emotionless - the very picture of a noble. Calm, chilly, disconnected. He was not riddled with those pesky things called emotions and was often driven to prove so. Still, despite how much he hated the young former King and the Cousland welp, he felt his stomach turn at the look in Cailan's eyes. Anger and grief colored the darker facets of clear blue.

He was old enough to remember every detail he'd ever known about Cailan. He'd met him countless times before in Denerim, at the Castle. The golden gilded youth, bright as the blazing sun in both coloring and demeanor, never frowned. He smiled and laughed and brought joy to whomever faced him. This bright light within him never faded. It merely flickered. But as he turned away from Howe and Alistair from where they both stood, staring, they could both see that same flame poised and ready to be doused.

"Very well."

--

Alistair didn't know what to do. His own head was torn between pain and worry, his eyes focused on the intricate designs on the back of Cailan's armor as they made their way back to camp. He could see Cailan swaying silently on the mount, as if there was a weight heavier on his shoulders than what was physically present.

Did he comfort him? Did he speak a few words? He'd never been terribly good with words, even neglecting that the very idea of Isobel actually being dead -

His fingers tightened around the reins of his own, slightly smaller horse. No, Alistair thought to himself, watching nothing in particular as their party made its way forward.

She's not dead. Torture wouldn't break her. She can't be. She's already been through so much.

Indeed she has, another, louder, sharper part of his mind interrupted, which would make her more susceptible, wouldn't it?

But she's a warrior -

She is as delicate as any other woman.

Every thought came to a complete halt as his mount came to a stuttering halt. Eyes widening by the surprise, Alistair glanced around, eager to see what was happening. Why were they stopping? Was Cailan alright? Indeed, the King was fine, though he, too, was looking around, taken aback by the scout's sudden call for them to cease any movement.

No matter how many times Alistair turned over in his mind how he'd react to hearing that voice again, his face drained of color when it reached his ears.

"Cailan," the figure gasped, clearly out of breath. And tainted with an Orlesian accent. "Cailan, you must stop!"

"Get her out of my sight," the King growled.

Chella stared up at him from her place before his mount. The horse felt Cailan's body tense around him and took a step forward, nervously nudging at the ground beneath its feet. Her full cheeks were flushed; her eyes wide with relief. "You are lucky I don't cut you down where you stand for your betrayal."

The bard shook her head, sweat-streaked locks curling around her face. "No, you do not understand," she took a step forward, but the fury in Cailan's eyes had her standing down. "You have to listen to me, Cailan." There was something pleading in her voice. She was speaking to him in earnest. "Isobel is alive."

Cailan tugged at the reins and called for the scout to continue farther, the soldiers surrounding the horse beginning their trek forward. He didn't have words for her. No matter how badly he wished to believe her, to rejoice and to make his way to Denerim to retrieve the female Warden, he could not. To do so would be to acquiesce to his own naivety, and he refused to do so.

"Alistair," Chella begged, turning her attention from Cailan to the man sitting upon the horse behind him. "You have to believe me. Loghain told Howe to lie! They haven't broken her!" She set off into a desperate, stumbling gait as she kept up with Alistair. He could not help but watch her, his eyebrows peaked. What if she was right…? "She is still in Fort Drakon! If you turn back now, you can still save her!"

The two turned to Cailan as the King shouted for the procession to halt.

Taking that as an invitation to explain herself, Chella nearly ran to Cailan's side. "The moment Loghain had her, he all but tossed me away," she explained, her words barely making it out of her mouth in one, unbroken piece. "He did not follow through with our agreement. I need the coin he swore to hand over to me once the deal was finished."

Cailan stared down at her with an unwavering glare. He'd trusted her once, and she'd torn Isobel away from him. Why should he trust her twice? To have her steal the rest?

"Your Majesty…" Alistair's voice was soft, nearly goading. "Maybe we should listen to her."

"Give me an explanation, Orlesian."

Chella winced at the venom that surrounded Cailan's words, but when she looked back up to him, her eyes were bright, almost defiant. "I'll give you more than an explanation," she replied. "I'll give you a plan."