The morning came without not a single inclination towards what the day would hold. Over the city of Denerim, the sky was a beautiful mix of colors ranging from the lightest of lilacs to a warm, brilliant orange where the sun began to pierce the horizon. Everyone went about their business as usual, but there was a singular word on the lips of every citizen as they did so. King. Their king was alive. Not only was he alive, but he was going to be in town again today.

Loghain rose with the knowledge that he would be forced to meet with Cailan in only a few hours. While he was not anxious to meet with the once-King, he found himself resigned to the fact. His plan had not worked. That knowledge came to him soon after the Battle of Ostagar. But to think, after all this time, the King was still alive and still willing to fight? He would have to tell him everything; tell him how Isobel had fallen, how the entirety of Ferelden was eager to live beneath the Queen's rule.

Anora was anxious to speak with her husband for many reasons, especially after hearing the tales wound into her ear by her father. She felt tense, as if she was curled into a coil of anger and sadness and relief. After their years together, her love for Cailan dwindled as surely as her father warned her. The love she once felt was replaced by a fierce desire for duty, and she intended to remind him of his.

Howe felt ill at ease, yet confident in the same instance. What bother was it to him if the King returned? The Teyrn would smack him down as surely as he had those months before. And while Cailan met with Loghain, he would be within the thick walls of Fort Drakon. Today, Isobel would break, and she would die. He put on his emerald tunic with a smile.

Back at the camp. Godfrey was readying the soldiers. Lines of armored men stood as straight as could be, pulled into such a regal stance with the hope of saving the very woman who'd so long bolstered their confidence. Arryn stood near the head of the group, and the two shared a small smile that spoke volumes of their reunion. She glanced away, cheeks flushed, as he returned to his duties.

Alistair and Chella sat near the fire. He chewed absently on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed at the map settled before them on the ground. She drew a slender finger through the hallways, each word pronounced with a silent apology, her eyes wide and desiring of some shade of forgiveness. He believed her as fiercely as she hoped for clemency. He needed to believe her words. He needed to fill himself with the hope that he could help Isobel.

Cailan sat in his tent, his face in his cool palms. He dare not hope. Such hope often led him to foolishness, and it was his own stupidity that brought them here. Where it started with his ridiculous trust in Loghain, it progressed to something far larger with far more gravity in his heart. He silently swore to himself over and over that he wouldn't compromise the plans with his own optimism.

And deep within the bowels of Fort Drakon, the door to Isobel's cell was opened. The pale orange glow of a lamp fell upon her. She did not stir. Her body hardly trembled from the cold, hardly rose and fell from each breath she took. Even when the shackles around her wrists were unlocked and they fell to the floor, steel upon stone echoing throughout the long chamber, she did not fight it.

When Cailan emerged from his tent, he was met with a sight he never thought he would see. His men were not milling around camp. They were not sharing jokes or teasing the cook over the meal. Each stood with a renewed conviction - shoulders back, chins tilted upwards. This was an army. A small army, but an army none the less. They were ready to fight for him, willing - eager, even - to sacrifice themselves if it meant finding Isobel.

Alistair stood from his place near the fire, quickly moving over to him, his step decidedly light all things considered. "You should speak to them," he said once he was in earshot. "I hear you're quite good with speeches."

"Am I?" Cailan asked without a flicker of a smile. "We shall see, I suppose." He then cleared his throat, watching as Alistair fell into line with the other soldiers. His eyes met with each of the men; searching blue meeting brown, green, gray, male, female. Something within him refused to quiet, its voice loud and only increasing in pitch, nearly screaming for him not to trust Chella. But if Alistair believed it was the best option, he would go through with it.

"The first lesson my father taught me," the King began, hands clasped behind his back, "was to never conceal your weaknesses. If you hide them, they will only grow, as will your insecurity." He was back on Mother Ailis' lap. He was twelve, listening to stories of his father before running off to sit in his lap and oversee his business. Maric's words intermingled with his. His father's warm timbre crept into his voice. "The second lesson I learned was to accept your strengths for what they are. Such recognition does not lead to arrogance, but confidence."

Everyone gathered in the camp stood rapt, their eyes unmoving from the features of their King. The sunlight reflected from his golden armor, his equally golden hair. The older soldiers in the group did not see Cailan. They saw his father; a shining beacon of everything Ferelden stood for. The young saw the son of Maric the Savior, grandson of the Rebel Queen, ancestor of Calenhad the Great.

"Loghain Mac Tir does not see us as a threat," he continued, leaving the cluster of leaves before his tent to pace, his strides fluid and sure, as if he'd delivered a thousand speeches like this before. "He has only heard stories of the defeat the scourge of Redcliffe suffered at our hands, of the retrieval of Andraste's ashes, passed between so many lips it loses its true splendor. And word has not yet reached him of our alliance with King Aeducan, leaving him deaf to the tales of our victory over the darkspawn of the Deep Roads, as well."

"He knows of our weaknesses, for we accept them." Cailan's voice slowly began to rise, his cheeks filling with color as he watched his men shift beneath their own unshakeable loyalty. "We are few in numbers. We have fought long, hard battles, and we are tired. We have lost one of our own - a model of strength that we so often looked towards in moments of need."

Alistair's heart lurched in his chest when he heard the unspoken heartache in Cailan's admission, casting aside his own feelings in lieu of empathy.

"But he does not know our strengths as we do. He does not accept them."

Cailan's pacing paused, and his gaze swept over those gathered. Time seemed to slow. Everyone seemed to forget how to breathe in that one, dwindling moment. "We will find Lady Cousland. We will show Loghain Mac Tir that no matter how slim our numbers, our hearts beat harder than those in his ghost army!"

Silence surrounded him for the span of two heartbeats before a shout arose near the back of the crowd. This shout was followed by another, much louder one, which only drew more and more from the mouths of his men. All the while, Cailan merely stood there, so still it was as if he'd been rooted into the ground. But while he was still, his heart was racing, bounding against his chest, so full he felt it would burst.

Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to release them. Instead, he blinked them back and moved forward, eager to be swallowed up by his men. His thoughts strayed to Isobel as he disappeared into the crowd. He wished she could've seen that, heard it.

He wondered if she would've been proud of him.

--

Not once, but twice did Cailan grasp the heart and minds of those he spoke to on that day. Instead of meeting with Loghain as he'd promised, Cailan, flanked by three of his men, made his way directly to Howe's estate. No one dared deny the king, not when his sword was unsheathed. The master of the house was gone, rendering any of the servants without the needed clout to stop him from entering. Instead, they were forced to watch him storm up to the third floor and out onto the balcony.

There, the son of King Maric shouted in a voice he did not know he possessed. His words were not his own as his speech rang down into the growing crowd beneath the estate. They filled the streets, their voices raised to almost drown his out. He spoke of Loghain's betrayal, of the slaughter of the Warden's, of Redcliffe, of Haven, of the Deep Roads. His discourse was a ribbon of gold that wound its way through the crowd. And, as Loghain once told him, the people of Ferelden are as fickle as anything. Their hearts were easily won.

But he was not there to win their hearts. He was there to cause a distraction - a large one. While he spoke to the people, Alistair and Chella made their way towards Fort Drakon. Godfrey, Arryn, and the rest of Cailan's men followed them, readily awaiting any orders from their current leader. The prison was said to be nigh impregnable. Those that went in seldom returned, and if they did, it was due to the ruler's clemency and not an escape. Given the circumstances, the idea of failure was one they were all willing to refute.

Chella knew where they were bringing Isobel. She would be in a central chamber, closed off on all sides with only one large set of doors accessible without relying on the labyrinthine hallways. They were not expecting a flawless victory. Fort Drakon was filled to the brim with guards, and they would not be able to avoid casualties. Priorities were drawn. The potential for defeat only drove them to hold their swords higher, to fill themselves with a previously unknown courage.

The front doors to the prison yielded as easily as expected. They were met with two guards, yet neither of them survived for longer than a few moments.

Fighting. Alistair felt like it'd been ages since he'd buried his sword into a man up to the hilt. Desperation became blood lust in his palms, and he found himself separated from the crowd, followed by a small cluster of soldiers as they fought their way through. He could hear cries coming from every direction - from his own men, from the guards, both in pain and in shrieking relief.

They waded through the rooms, met with seemingly impossible numbers and having them crumble like dried leaves beneath their boots. Godfrey kept close to Arryn, his sword sheathing itself into anyone who dare attempt to cut her down. Chella fought, as well. She wielded her dual daggers like nothing he'd ever seen. Her pale skin was flecked with blood that was not her own, her eyes bright as Alistair shouted for the men to regroup in anticipation of another wave.

"They should be through the next door!" Chella shouted to Alistair after they'd combed through another large chamber. Their numbers were dwindling, but their resolve was unshakeable. The realization that they were so close only caused these feelings of hope to grow.

"Godfrey! William! Help me force this open; they've barred it shut!"

And force it open they did. Seven soldiers backed them as they entered the central chamber of the prison. The room stank of blood - old and, Alistair noted with a twist in his gut, new. They'd given the bastard enough time to ready himself before the fight reached them. Howe stood before a table, his back turned to Alistair. With his line of sight broken, he could not see Isobel. He could not see her, nor could he hear her.

Beside Howe stood a mage, his wizened visage twisted in a scowl. Two younger guards stood behind him, across from another three, one of which was an archer. But this would not do. They hadn't come this far just to be defeated.

"I will not let you take this pleasure away from me, Warden." Alistair felt a chill run down his spine as Howe's voice filled the room. Every inch was coated in the grime of it, from the stone floors to the vaulted ceiling. "I have long waited for this."

When he stepped aside and turned to face him, Alistair's gaze did not seek him out. They fell to Isobel, and his heart fell to the ground between his feet. He hardly recognized her body, all bent and bruised and bloodied, held apart by the shackles at her wrists and ankles when it was obvious she only wanted to curl into herself. He could see her limbs shaking against the metal restraints, fighting herself to see who Howe spoke to.

Even across the chamber, their eyes met. Her hair was in her eyes, a darker red than it had been due to its state of unwash, but she could still see him. She could see him, and he swore he read his name on her lips. Her features distorted as she gave a harsh sob of relief. The shackles rattled as her body convulsed, limbs quivering involuntarily.

Alistair's lips parted, but his words did not reach them.

"What?" Howe asked, hand going to the hilt of the sword belted to his hips. He unsheathed it with the thin ringing sound of metal along metal. "Let her go? I think not."

The soldiers at Howe's side shifted on their feet. They were eager to see this small army fall. Their own numbers did not match those of Alistair's party, but they were not fatigued either. After fighting their way through Fort Drakon, the others were bordering upon exhausted and hoping for some sort of reprieve. They needed to rest. They needed to get Isobel and get out of the prison.

Arryn stood behind Godfrey, her eyes settling upon the mage. He was much older than she was and undoubtedly more powerful - comprised entirely of harsh lines and silver hair. Howe was aligned with the current holder of Ferelden. Of course his mage was stronger than she was. That thought had her heart skittering in her chest, though she wrapped her slender fingers around her staff with quiet confidence in Alistair and the others.

"You are outnumbered." Alistair cursed himself silently for the way his voice wavered. "Remove yourself, and you will live."

"I intend to do so either way," Howe replied with a slither of a smile.

What followed was a battle evenly matched.

Howe's archer was taken down first in a shower of clashing swords and splintered arrows. One of Cailan's men gave a shriek of pain as his legs were rooted into the ground, his entire body stiffening as it was overcome by the mage's power and turned to stone. Arryn watched in horror as the mage emitted a wave of ice from his palms. Ice against stone shattered the soldier into a thousand pieces.

"Take out the mage!" she heard Alistair shout somewhere far off, his words nearly lost in the clashing of swords against shield. With a lift of her staff, the room was filled with a pale orange glow, and Alistair suddenly felt warm. His limbs felt stronger, his attacks rained down harder on the soldier before him, while the man's sword he hardly felt. "Do not worry about me! The mage!" But he was not ungrateful.

She was accustomed to death. She'd seen it, caused it. But to see a mage from her own Circle wipe out the very men she called friends…

The mage's eyes turned upon Godfrey. He was too busy parrying a blow from one of Howe's soldiers to notice. She cried out, averting the dark mage's attention for just long enough to carve a glyph into the stone beneath his feet. Before she had time to realize what she'd done, the mage impacted his staff onto the ground. When no fire or pestilence emerged, he glanced down at it before attempting another evocation. Nothing. Shame and annoyance riddled his features. Bested by an elf.

But Arryn did not have enough time to contemplate exactly what she'd done. Between maintaining the glyph and forcing out wave after wave of ice in an attempt to assist the soldiers, she hardly had the strength to keep herself safe. Godfrey stood before her, flanked by another of the king's men, and they fought diligently to keep no sword from touching her.

As the last of Howe's soldiers fell, Alistair turned his attention to the man himself. Arryn's spirit shield had long faded, and he had a nasty gash across his arm, rendering his shield useless, but in his eyes was that same terrifying light Howe had the pleasure of seeing up close just the day before.

For all of Howe's posturing, he was not a coward in the battlefield. His sword was just as steady as Alistair's as he lunged forward.

Most luck in a fight relies upon one's intent. Howe fought for his own survival, but Alistair fought for revenge, for the anger he felt swelling up in him, for the story he remembered in visceral detail of Isobel's parents, for aligning with Loghain despite everything he'd done. And it was this that drove him forward, his sword tearing into Howe's as Isobel looked on.

Each parried blow rang out in the room, punctuated by a grunt or a curse in equal measure. Had this not been such a personal fight, Howe could have been easily overwhelmed. Chella was still on her feet, though she was wounded quite badly. Godfrey tended to the fallen as Arryn healed those she could. This fight was not one for them all. Alistair needed this.

For all his training and all his long years of experience, Howe's bones were still old. No matter how fiercely he swore he'd deny this brat the pleasure of awarding him with death, he found himself on his knees before him.

Alistair looked to Isobel to see her lying there, green eyes boring into his own. Her cheeks were streaked with grime washed away in ridges by her tears, but he could see her nod. The gesture was slight and wordless. It was all he needed. Howe didn't deserve words, no matter how easily they flowed forth from his own lips. Instead, Alistair stepped to the side, eyes focused on the gleaming white skin of the man's neck, and brought down his sword in a wide arc.

Isobel gave a quiet cry at the sound, and Alistair's attention shifted. He nearly leapt over Howe's body to her side, his heart surging with relief in his chest. "Maker's breath," he sighed, his hands curling carefully around the back of her neck. She whimpered at the touch, nearly shrinking away from him, and the sight nearly broke him. Her skin was cold and clammy, and something felt incredibly wrong. It was as if he could feel her slipping out of his hands. Howe's plans for today were obvious. She was too close to the end to push her any farther. "We're going to get you out of here."

He shouted for Arryn. The mage tore immediately from her duties and hurried over to them. "Do something," he begged her, "Please."

So she did. The elf's tiny hands glowed faintly as she ran them over the length of Isobel's limbs, careful enough not to hurt her, but formidable enough to keep the Warden from shifting too much beneath her spell. "This is not permanent," Arryn said quietly as Alistair hurriedly shifted through Howe's pockets to find the key to the shackles. "We have to get her back to camp, and we have to hurry."

Isobel gave a quiet, shuddering sigh when she felt the restraints fall away from her wrists and then her ankles. Any of her aches and pains were numbed from the mage's casting. She uttered no sound of protest when she felt herself being lifted from the table. Part of her expected to be thrust back down onto the stones, but she was not. She was surrounded by warmth, and she curled instinctively into it, her head buried into the crook of Alistair's neck and her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

Those remaining took his orders and marched forward. The citizens of Denerim were too busy crowding Howe's estate to notice the four soldiers, the rogue, and the mage. They were too busy to look to Fort Drakon. The small party was met with no hostiles, no blowback from their own attack upon the notorious prison. Instead, they made their way back to camp; silent, exhausted.

And everyone ignored the glistening in his eyes.