When Cailan returned to camp, the first name to pass his lips belonged to the mage.

"Where's Arryn?" he asked, his shaking hands discarding his armor as he made his way through the tents. His eyes jerked from person to person as he looked for an answer. Word of Isobel's injuries reached his ears the moment he stepped out of Arl Howe's estate. She suffered from broken bones and pneumonia. These were paired with any number of other injuries. Putting her into the capable hands of the party's mage was a consensus reached without hesitation.

So absorbed in getting to her as quickly as possible was Cailan that he neglected to see Alistair sitting near the fire. He didn't have time to thank him. He didn't have time to ask about Chella. He needed to get to Isobel. He needed to see her, to be assured that she was alive.

Godfrey conducted the king to Isobel's tent without a word. The elf glanced up from her charge when she heard a commotion outside of the tent, placing her fingers delicately along Isobel's forearm. "Do not move," she whispered, though the warrior lying there fidgeted in protestation. When she saw Cailan's considerable form fill the entrance of the tent, Arryn stood, her hand leaving Isobel's arm in order to give him a swift bow. "Your Majesty."

But Cailan did not hear her. Nay, he did not even realize she stood there. Instead, his sights were filled with another vision entirely. That familiar red head was rested upon a pillow, tilted towards him, but not nearly enough to see him approach. At first, every fiber of his being denied the fact that this was her. This was some cruel trick. Isobel was dead; who was this woman lying there?

"Cailan?"

Every hesitation was shattered at the sound of her voice. Arryn stepped out of the way as the king rushed forward, dropping onto his knees on the ground beside the cot. He hardly heard the mage's murmured pleas for him to be gentle with her. "Isobel." Her name tasted almost sweet on his lips as he stared down at her. His heart sang when her eyes met his, green piercing into blue. She lifted a heavy hand and rested it on his arm, and the contact tore the tears from his eyes. "Isobel," he repeated, his own fingers seeking to cradle her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, just as she had all those weeks ago, and he wondered for a moment if he had died. Surely that was the only way he could be reunited with her. But her brow creased and her lips curled unhappily at their corners. "Don't," she whispered. Maker, she sounded so much like the real Isobel. Could this actually be her and not some specter sent to torment him?

"Don't what?" he asked, his thumb trailing carefully along her cheekbone.

Her eyes filled with tears, and when she spoke, her words wavered, "Don't cry." Her quiet wish only led to more hot tears trailing down his cheeks, some to match her own. "Please," she pleaded feebly, her fingers teasing the thin fabric of his sleeve. "Smile." When he did not yield, she took as deep a breath as she could manage. "Cailan, please."

Cailan shook his head, unable to accept such a challenge for fear of his own heart breaking out of sheer respite. Her trembling fingers moved up his arm until they reached the ends of his golden hair. They curled through them for a moment as she stared up at him, streaks gleaming down the sides of her face. Before he was able to beg of her the same, he felt a subtle tug on his hair, pulling him closer to her.

Isobel shifted on the cot, wincing as her other arm fell down across her ribs. But she had to fight the pain. She couldn't let it win, not when her heart was pounding in the center of her chest, racing against her thoughts, begging for some reprieve. "I need-" she began, her hand sliding to his shoulder to guide him closer to her. "I need to - to feel you."

"I don't want to hurt you."

It was the look in Isobel's eyes that drove him to ignore the mage's instructions. She seemed so small, so distant from what he'd once seen in those eyes. Her fire was flickering, threatening to go out. He couldn't allow that. So instead, he let her borrow his own. Cailan slid his arm beneath her shoulders, his hand splaying around the back of her head as he cradled her. He was careful, but he knew she had to be hurting. He lent her his strength, and she enveloped him in a feeling he thought he'd never feel again.

He did not know how long he held her, but, eventually, he could feel her steady, even breaths against his throat. Arryn nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him open the flap leading into the tent, but she was more than happy to take over for him and return to her task of keeping Isobel alive, of healing her.

Cailan was not sure what he felt as he made his way toward the fire in the center of the camp. It was hardly simple relief. His heart trembled with both rage and fear while his skin burned as his mind instinctually recalled their night in the woods together. To think one woman would conjure so many conflicting emotions within him.

When he came of age, his father pulled him aside. He'd often been regaled with stories of his father's youth; his war against the Orlesians, his friendship with the ever-loyal Loghain Mac Tir. Such stories inevitably led to a fleeting mention of Katriel. Her betrayal was not glossed over as it often is with heroes. This he understood; she was not his mother, therefore she was a lesser being in the eye of legend. In the eyes of his father, however, he wondered if they would be more evenly matched.

But now he understood. Or, at least, he felt that he did. Chella was beautiful; foreign and enticing. He could remember someone likening similar features to Katriel. Isobel drew a paltry few traits from the remarkable Rowan Guerrin, but they were numerous enough to make him feel like a complete and utter fool.

The camp still seemed so much emptier, and Cailan grimaced as he set himself down by the fire. He had to stop thinking like this. Aligning Isobel with his mother was a folly of the highest order. The comparison of Chella to Katriel to close enough to wound his pride severely, but he was still married to Anora, as she'd been quick to remind him on their meeting just a few scant hours before.

"Thank you."

The words left his lips before he even realized who they were aimed towards. Alistair looked up from the fire, brows knitted in question. "Whatever for?" he asked, genuinely at a lost for a short moment. When it dawned upon him, he shifted on the ground, clasping his hands in front of his bent knees. "Ah, yes, that. It's… uh, not a problem."

"Have you visited Isobel?" Cailan bit down on the soft inside of his lip as he glanced away from the Warden and into the fire. He didn't want to hear about Alistair's daring rescue into the bowels of Fort Drakon. He wanted to be there. He wanted to dig his sword into Howe's chest and lift Isobel into his arms. He wanted his face to be the first thing she saw after regaining consciousness. But none of that came to pass. His skills were required elsewhere in order for the rescue to be successful. Knowing that should have been enough.

Alistair passed his tongue along his bottom lip in thought. "I haven't," he said finally, "When I left her with Arryn, she was in too bad a shape for me to stick around. I suppose those rules don't pertain to a king."

The comment was more acidic than he intended, but he wasn't about to apologize. He had to say it. He had to get it out in the air. His annoyance was only supplemented by the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it, and he no matter how long he sat in front of this fire, he never felt relief.

Without another word, Cailan stood. This wouldn't do. He was clearly not as welcome near the campfire as he'd once been, not by Alistair. The Warden glanced up from the flames as the golden form retreated into the woods, trailed after some time by one of the guards, more out of necessity than curiosity.

Some minutes later, another approached the fire. This figure cast a slight shadow, and Alistair looked towards it to find his eyes settling upon Arryn. The elf crouched down, bent at the knees in order to get closer to the fire. In her hand was a vial of salve, one she turned over in her palm to warm by the flames. He watched her with even eyes, watched her delicate hands, thankful beyond comprehension for their healing power.

"Isobel told me to thank you," she said without turning away from the fire. "Once her condition improves - and it will, I am sure - she'd like to see you." Pausing, the elf drew the vial away from the heat. She stood, hand smoothing over her robes.

"I… think it would be best."

She was gone before he could reply, finding her way back to the tent to administer the salve. So quickly did she depart, she didn't quite catch the smile that met his lips. The thought that even now, suffering from so many wounds, she would think of him...

Perhaps he did not need a crown after all.