By the time Queen Anora set eyes upon her husband, she could tell a great many things had changed. She was not foolish enough to suspect that any man could go through such trials and return unscathed, much less her husband, but seeing him like this was still shocking.

He was standing in Arl Eamon's study when she arrived, perfectly on time, as was expected of her. Even unpleasant reunions such as this one were met with the same unfaltering punctuality. There was a knot in her stomach that didn't feel unlike dread, and it twisted at her guts every time she thought about what would happen when she finally saw him. Despite all of her father's merciless politicking, most of which she did not agree with, he was still the King. An execution would only be a wave away.

But Cailan is not so ruthless, Anora, she had reminded herself as she peered into the mirror. The elven servant's fingers in her hair were not as welcome a distraction as usual, and she pressed that the young girl hurry with the braids so she might leave. Perhaps not before, but such a betrayal would change him. And your father was at the helm of this attempt.

Regardless of her uncertainty, she knew it was futile to ignore Cailan's wishes. If she didn't find her way to Eamon's estate at the correct time, he would find her. So she put on one of her better gowns, pulled her hair back into her usual twin buns, and made her way to Eamon's estate without a moment's hesitation.

His shoulders. The first thing she noticed upon entering was his shoulders. Always a man of impressive size, due in part to both his heritage and extensive training, Cailan's shoulders seemed even wider now. As her eyes slipped downward, out of curiosity and curiosity alone, she saw that his arms were larger, his legs stronger. Even his hair had changed, gone from that dark golden blonde she knew to something lighter, almost flaxen.

She was not able to take note of the more major changes until he turned around. When he did so, snapping the book in his hands shut, her brow cinched in concentration. His skin was no longer as pale. Instead, his face and throat were tanned, and she imagined if she stood close enough, she could point out a freckle or two. Her eyes met his only to find that they, too, had changed. Clear, innocent blue made way to a hue that seemed almost darker, though she knew that was impossible.

All of these differences paled in comparison to one. His mouth was thinned into a severe line, and he did not even have the decency to smile at her as he always had. No matter how explosive the disagreement, how harsh the shared words, he always had a smile for her. He always had a smile for anyone, true, but there was one he reserved for her and she knew it.

Why would he smile at you now of all times? The question rang out in her mind, but she wasn't given the time to focus on answering.

"Good afternoon, Anora."

Maker, even his voice had changed.

The crease between her brows slackened as she gave him a slight incline of her head. When her eyes rose to meet his again, any of the surprise was gone, replaced by simply nothing. There was no thinly veiled contempt, no confusion, not even a forced lack of expression. There was nothing. When she finally found her voice, her chin tilted back just far enough for there to be pride in its angle. "Cailan."

He gave the book in his hands one more look over before setting the volume on the desk he stood beside. "I trust you are well," he said, though the words clearly struggled to remain cordial while leaving his lips.

His eyes were focused on the red leather cover of the book, his fingers running absently over the engraved writing. 'The Ferelden Rebellion' gleamed up at him. This was volume three of six, and it told of the Battle of West Hill. He knew the story well. In fact, merely thumbing through the pages brought him back to all those years he spent with Mother Ailis as his tutor. She knew these tales far better than any historian. He could remember sitting by her side, devouring each tale as if it was his last meal, just as he could remember each word that poured forth.

If his father could cope with such betrayal and recover to become the ruler that he so admired, he was capable of doing so himself.

When he glanced up from the volume, he saw that Anora was staring at him, her brows cinched once again. The defined crease dissipated into nothing a heartbeat after his eyes reached her face. He knew that look. She often wrinkled her brow in such a way when she was deep in thought, trying to figure something or someone out. This was the very first time she'd ever looked at him in such a way.

"I am," Anora replied. Her tone was measured, but not hesitant. Unsure of how to progress and unwilling to express her uncertainty, she said nothing else. She stood there, her hands laced before her, wearing the same distant look on her face.

Try as he might, Cailan could not detach himself as easily as she. He never was as apt at side-stepping his attachments in lieu of seriousness as Anora. He felt betrayed and angry, but at the same time, he had missed her. Before she was his Queen, he considered her his friend. He felt she cared for him enough to help him. Or, at least, he would have believed that to be true had he not been shown otherwise. The sentimentality of it all burned at the back of his throat, and he struggled to force it away, eventually succeeding for the time being.

"You want to know why you're here." The King made the comment mostly to himself, a musing spoken beneath his breath, but Anora nodded all the same, not moving an inch from her place. "I was hoping that we could talk about what's happened. Perhaps you could shed a little light upon the situation."

"You know enough, Cailan," she said. His eyes shot to hers, and she met them with the same unwavering blue stare. "What do you expect me to say? I wasn't involved, but my father was. You know that as well as I."

For a brief time, she'd hated him – her father. For a brief time, she'd also believed Cailan was dead, and for a brief time, she'd mourned him. When she received word he was alive, she hoped with every fiber of her being that he'd cut his losses and leave Ferelden. But she knew better. She still saw him as that idealistic man who'd often go to her to herald her with the latest news, as if she hadn't been the first to know, the man who she'd sometimes let take down her hair. And while she'd repress the urge to roll her eyes when he commented on how lovely the locks were, she was still flattered.

While knowing he was alive filled her at first with hope, the news soon filled her with dread. He was the son of Maric the Savior. His ability to rule stood in the tall shadow of his paternity. When coupled with his innate charm and ability to ensnare hearts, her father could not have chosen a more formidable enemy, no matter how diligently he clung to believing the opposite.

She knew Cailan was not fit to rule a small army of wooden figurines. That did not stop her from fearing for her father once the people realized what he'd done. Cailan was the golden King, and they loved him. Loghain's own accomplishments were written in history, yes, but they were tarnished after so many years spent lying between book covers, gathering dust along with all other former heroes.

"Why didn't you try to help me?"

An invisible fist tightened in Anora's chest, and for another moment, he could see a glimmer of something in her expression other than that constant, noble complacency. As before, it disappeared quickly. "I thought you were dead." She watched him as he took a non-threatening step in her direction. "What did you expect me to do? There were darkspawn to be dealt with."

Cailan nodded to himself, lips pursing as he tucked a bit of their flesh between his teeth. He wasn't looking at her anymore, his attention focused entirely on the objects that littered the desk at his side in a vain attempt to remain calm. "Darkspawn that could've been wiped out if my army wasn't slaughtered on the field at Ostagar because of your father. Do you have any idea how many men I lost in that battle?"

"Of course I do," she was quick to respond, heat creeping into her voice. "Do you have any idea the sort of political fallout that comes when you're forced to recognize that you'll be combating a Blight without the Grey Wardens?" She paused long enough to take a stabilizing breath. "That the King is dead? And when Bann Teagan takes it upon himself to question you in front of every Bann and Arl of Ferelden? What do you do then? There was nothing I could do."

"Did you try?"

Cailan looked at her then, and for a moment, every jagged edge in his eyes smoothed away. He looked to her now for the truth, for the council he so often requested. He didn't need her to describe her father's betrayal, how he held her in the palace with a guard for so many months, how he only allowed her to appear in front of her people when he was near. He didn't want to hear of her own trials, just as she did not wish to speak of them. He wanted a simple answer, even if the honesty hurt him.

She could feel her gaze waver, but she forced herself to look at him. Now was not the time to treat him like a child. He was no longer the man she'd married. She would learn him again if he gave her the chance. However, she did not believe that would be the case. No matter how clearly the Cailan she remembered was reflected in his eyes in that moment, she reminded herself that he was not that man. "No."

A crack formed in his expression, trailing just between his arched brows, but he did not speak. For once in his life, he didn't know what to say. The truth hit him as if it'd been running, and suddenly he did not wish to know it any longer.

"If you do not mind my asking," Anora began, effectively slicing through the silence, "what do you intend to do with my father?"

"He betrayed me."

Cailan's voice was hardly more than a murmur. In that moment, she already knew the answer, and she cursed herself silently for the tears that burned at her eyes. She forced them back down, blinking once and then again before hardly the memory of them remained. She should have expected this. It was the only logical conclusion.

"An execution, then," she whispered, her eyes turning from her husband to the stone floor beneath her feet. The admission solidified the fear in her stomach, turning it into lead.

"I'm sorry, Anora."

When she looked back up to him, her jaw was tightened as she struggled against her emotions. He could see her shoulders rise and fall just slightly as she took a long breath, releasing from between her lips. "Don't apologize. You're doing what you must. I'm p –" The word clung to the back of her tongue. She couldn't say it. Now was not the time. There might never be a time. A quiet cough cleared her throat. "And what of me?"

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he hadn't decided yet. His thoughts went to Isobel, who he'd just seen not an hour before. In the week since he'd stumbled into camp, her health was much improved. She was able to walk again within days, and now she was spending most of her time with him. Much more than that, he helped her back into her armor the past afternoon. There would have to make alterations to them due to her weight loss, but he'd offered her two other options. Either he could purchase her a new suit of armor, or she'd allow him to "fatten her up." He could hear her laugh, even within the memory.

And then his thoughts went to Alistair, who'd lost so much at Ostagar. He could not show mercy to those who betrayed him knowing that they'd so gravely hurt his brother in the process. He deserved better.

Just as Cailan opened his mouth to respond, the door swung open behind Anora. She twisted in surprised, only to find two figures in the doorway. One was a small, slight woman she recognized as Chella, but the second was unfamiliar. He was tall, with dark hair down to his shoulders and a month's growth on his jaw. The expression on the bard's face was clear.

The Queen turned around once more. Her eyes met Cailan's just long enough for him to see a flash of what appeared to be acceptance shrouded in the blue. "We'll speak of it later." With that, she slipped between the two intruders and made her way out of the arl's estate.

"What is it?" the King asked, narrowing his eyes at Chella without acknowledging the stranger.

"He is a Warden," she said, a little defensively, "I ran into him in the Markets."

At her introduction, the man took a step through the door. Cailan could almost sense that she was telling the truth. His shoulders were pulled back with an almost innate pride, and there was a grace in his movements when he dipped forward in a bow that was almost flattering. The man drew himself up once more.

"It is an honor, your Majesty. I have tried to contact you, but you are a very difficult man to reach." His voice was warm and faintly accented. He was Orlesian. "My name is Riordan."