Cailan's conversation with the Orlesian Warden did not take as long as the man would have hoped.

From all the stories he'd heard of the king, many of them tread upon the near-comical. The humor was lost entirely the moment Riordan realized he was here to give him bad news. For the longest time, he'd assumed he would be speaking to the two remaining Wardens of Ferelden, not the king. And after the rumors that spread like wildfire once he arrived in Denerim, he wondered exactly how the king would react.

Things did not go well. He offered them the knowledge he possessed with a heavy heart, but that was not enough to quiet Cailan, who rose to his feet the moment the words left his mouth. Not given enough time to include that he was willing to strike the killing blow, he begged the king to listen, to hear all that he had to say, and eventually he quieted.

This seemed to calm him, if only just. Riordan bowed his head when Cailan rested his heavy gauntlets on his shoulders, thanking him. Then, like that, he and Alistair – who'd remained silent for most of the conversation - were gone.

Once they'd left the study, they picked through every room in the Arl's estate, seemingly unable to find a room that wasn't inhabited. They had to talk, and both of them knew why. As much as Cailan hated the very idea, they would need a backup plan. Without Loghain to strategize with, he would have to rely on Alistair. Truly he could not think of a better option. He did not wish to do so. His half-brother had been helpful these past months.

Finally, they discovered an empty room at the very corner of the second floor – one of the only bedchambers not in use.

Alistair lingered in the doorway, watching Cailan closely as he made his way across the room and set himself down on the foot of the bed. If only Riordan had waited a day, perhaps two, then he might have been ready for this, ready to at least consider the possibilities. After a long meeting with Anora, one that no doubt held any number of important decisions, he deserved rest, some small reprieve before being rushed by yet another problem in such a short amount of time.

Making his way over to the bed, Alistair sat beside him, far enough away to not touch, but close enough to be comforting. He wondered for a moment if he should reach out and rest his hand upon Cailan's shoulder, but he thought better of it, his hands lacing in his lap instead.

"With Riordan willing to strike the final blow, there's a chance she won't be needed," he offered, a lilt of forced confidence in his voice.

Cailan wet his lips, though his eyes did not leave the floor in front of his feet. "I doubt the dragon will really bother with what Riordan is willing to do," the king countered. "All it would take is a swipe of its claw, and Riordan would be dead before he hit the ground." Pausing, he ran his fingers over the intricately smithed designs that spanned his armor, the dips and grooves of gold that covered his cuisses. "Still, your attempts at comfort are... They are appreciated."

"Regardless of their sense?"

"Or lack thereof," he replied, the thin line of his mouth curving upwards for a moment.

Alistair sighed, his hands scrubbing at his face. None of them truly deserved this; not now, and especially not Isobel. They'd all lost much due to the Blight, and one or more of them were set to lose something yet again, should Riordan fail. Another twist of fate just didn't seem fair. Then again, as the Chantry sisters used to tell him often, nothing about life was fair. It proceeded as the Maker planned, with little or no bother towards the will of men.

If the will of men didn't go so thoroughly ignored, the world might have been a better place. The Blight would be destroyed. Loghain would be dead instead of sitting in Fort Drakon. Duncan might still be alive. Isobel would have no reason to fear the weight of a sword in her hand and the sound of scraping metal.

"She's going to want to strike the final blow, you know, should Riordan fail."

He didn't know where the words came from. All he knew was that he wanted them to disappear the moment they left his lips. He could feel Cailan's entire body tense. Suddenly the room seemed two times smaller than before, and despite the lack of a fire, he felt a familiar heat spread over his skin.

Cailan, however, felt his blood run cold. While Riordan spoke of what happened once the archdemon was slain, he'd denied the very idea that Isobel's life may be in danger yet again. Forced ignorance came remarkably easy to him, and he'd very nearly begun to believe his own bilge by the time Alistair brought forth the idea, something that wouldn't have bothered him if the statement wasn't agonizingly true.

"No. No, no, that's not going to happen. She can't."

"She is one of very limited options." Alistair bit down on his bottom lip, brows cinching together. "And you know how she is."

Cailan looked to him with wide eyes, and Alistair felt his heart twist in his chest. Only a few times before had he ever seen that look in the king's eyes, that look of utter desperation. Again, he wished he could take back his words and erase them from his memory. Since that was not possible, he winced instead, looking towards the hands in his lap instead. When Cailan spoke, his voice was thin, as if the sound could be broken with a snap of two fingers. "She can't." He sucked in a breath, turning his eyes away from his brother to focus instead on the floor beneath them both. "She must not. She's not ready."

Say you believe him, Alistair thought, eyes falling shut. Say you believe him, and that Isobel isn't ready. Say that you'll strike the final blow.

The words that left him were nothing of the sort. "Will you be telling her about what Riordan told us? Or would you prefer I do it?"

He waited some time for a response. By the time Cailan spoke, his tone entirely leaden, he half-imagined he would be forced to leave without a direct answer. "You should tell her. You're a fellow Warden; this is Warden business. I have no place."

"Very well."

Cailan watched as Alistair stood from the bed and made his way towards the door. "But, Alistair," he called out, thankful when he turned and regarded him with curiosity. "I... don't want this to seem like I want you to take the blow. It's not that at all." His blue eyes clouded, though the miniature storm passed quickly. "If there was any way to make sure you would both be safe..."

"I know," Alistair replied with a lopsided smile; an actual, genuine smile that made Cailan feel the slightest bit better.

Before he was able to say another word or give him a smile of his own, he's gone. Cailan's head sunk downwards into his palms, fingers rubbing absently at his forehead before letting himself fall backwards onto the bed.

As Cailan stared up at the ceiling, Alistair made his way across the estate to where he knew Isobel would be. She spent most of her time in the study on the first floor. Arryn was there with her most of the time, as well, but thankfully, that was not the case today. No doubt she was off spending some quality time with Godfrey, another frequent use of her free time.

When he entered the room, he found Isobel seated in one of the many plush chairs, her legs tucked beneath her as she thumbed through one of the many large books of maps Arl Eamon's study boasted. She glanced up from the map of Antiva with a small smile that only widened when she realized who stood in the doorway. "Good afternoon, Alistair," she said, shifting in her seat a little in order to straighten her posture. From this distance, she couldn't see the wrinkle on his brow. She could, however, feel that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Maker, he didn't want to do this. He didn't want to tell her a thing. She'd already agreed to stay out of the fighting, knowing she wasn't well enough to participate. He knew that the moment Riordan's words were repeated, she would change her mind. She would want to be there. She'd want to be the one to put her sword through the archdemon's throat.

Alistair swallowed the lump in his throat, taking a step into the study and shutting the door.

When Isobel left the study to return to her room, the book of maps rested against her hip like a small child, she found that Cailan was already there. He stood the moment he heard the door open. Curiosity was scrawled across his features, creasing his brow, narrowing his eyes. Despite what he'd expected, she didn't seem as effected as he'd imagined she would be. Then again, she'd gone through worse in recent weeks.

He opened his mouth to say something, only to have her wave her hand at him. He knew her well enough to decipher this was a sign that she didn't wish to talk. But he wanted to talk. He needed to talk. He felt like he'd explode if he wasn't able to talk, to say something to her, to ask her what Alistair said.

She seemed to complacent. Fear gripped, white-knuckled, around his stomach, twisting it in his gut, when he realized why she might be so. Did she tell Alistair that she was going to strike the killing blow? That her life hardly mattered in comparison to a son of Maric? Surely, Alistair wouldn't let her do something like that. He seemed so set on sacrificing himself should Riordan fail. Or was he more focused on keeping Isobel alive? If it was the latter, why? For Cailan or for himself?

"Cailan." Her voice was soft, but the sound of it still tore him away from his thoughts. He looked to her wearing an expectant expression. "Are you... going to be there? When the archdemon is slain?"

Golden brows shot upwards. "What do you mean? Will I be fighting?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, his bottom lip caught between twin rows of teeth. "No," he murmured, "I will be overseeing the battle, but I will not take part in it."

Isobel smiled, setting her book down on the desk opposite the foot of her bed, where Cailan stood. Her hand smoothed over the tightly-bound cover, ghosting over the letters, nails dragging lightly over the edges. "Did Eamon suggest you do so? I hear he can be very persuasive."

"It was my idea, actually," he admitted, taking a few steps forward. Not near enough to reach out to her, he rooted himself to the ground, toes flexing inwards to grip the soles of his boots.

When she turned to him, the look on her face was one of blatant surprise. "I figured you would want to be out there, leading all of your men." She closed the distance between them, her hands rising to settle on his forearms. This time, her nails dug into nothing. Her fingertips moved along the soft folds of his shirt, smoothing each bend until nothing but a small crease remained. "It is a wise decision. I'm quite proud of you."

"Thank you," he murmured, eyes downcast for no more than a moment. The brief shyness brought a wider smile to her lips. "For once in my life, I don't want the glory. The last time I grasped for glory, I very nearly lost everything." Smoothing his hand over her hair, he stared down at her. The look in his blue eyes was distant, as if he looked to some far off shore and not the curve of Isobel's brow. "Now I have even more to lose, and I refuse to do it."

She gazed up at him. Before now, she'd only ever seen Cailan in the man standing there. He grew and changed in small, noticeable ways, but he was always Cailan. But now, as her mind reeled at his words, she saw something else. She saw pieces of the man history would know as King Cailan Theirin; a persevering hero, come so far from the man who went shamelessly into a battle he could not win. The thought reminded her of something.

"I heard Teagan speaking of historians the other day," she said, "Of how you're sure to be heralded even more so than your father. You were not a man who went from not having his crown to having it, but a man who had it for years before everything was stolen away from you and you gained it all back."

The smile on Cailan's lips was a soft one, barely more than a curl at each corner. "Indeed. I've gained it all back and more."

A blush rose on her cheeks, and she wrinkled her nose, laughing. "Well, as I was saying... It spurred a great deal of thought within me." His brows rose in question. "All monarchs require a name, don't they? Your father is called the Savior. Your grandmother – the Rebel Queen. You should have one."

"Let me guess," he replied, "You have some prepared."

"Indeed. Cailan the Resilient happens to be my favorite," Isobel murmured, her fingers sliding into his golden hair. He imagined he would never get used to the look in her eyes when they fell upon him. They were a stark contrast to the many different glares he remembered from the beginning of their journey. How had annoyance, frustration, and anger led into such a look of reverence? "Should I talk to Brother Genitivi about this?"

"I was hoping for something like Cailan the Indomitable. Or perhaps Cailan the Steadfast." He paused, giving his bottom lip a thoughtful chew. "I like the sound of Cailan the Handsome."

Isobel swallowed back her laughter, pulling herself up onto the balls of her feet to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her arms loosened their hold from around his neck as she fell back down, hands coursing over his forearms until they clasped around his wrists. Turning in the direction of their bed, her lips parted in a warm smile. "But, oh, you're so much more than just a pretty face."

Grinning, Cailan followed her, chuckling all the way. "Oh? What else am I, then?"

"You're kind," she began.

"Mm-hmm."

"And you're clever."

"So very clever."

Biting back a laugh, she grinned instead. "You're strong."

"Not nearly as strong as you."

Isobel narrowed her eyes at him, dusting stray strands of gold away from his forehead. Her fingers trailed down his face until they pressed against his mouth, holding it closed. "This isn't about me," she murmured, "This is about you. So shut your mouth and listen. Do you understand?" He nodded. "Good."