Frannie was glad to be on the road, again. There was a sort of bored helplessness that went along with waiting inside the Chantry for news. Traveling was both productive and procrastinating at the same time. With each day, they were closer to their destination, so there was a measurable progress, but there were no sides to pick, no people to save or damn, no life-altering situations that would twist her belly and keep her awake at night.

The most important decision that day was where to make camp and after all the other things they had all suffered, it was a welcome triviality. There had been a few suggestions and grumbles made, but when a small clearing appeared in the clump of forest, it was agreeable enough.

Tents were pitched and Rastaban wandered off by himself to collect firewood. Leliana began preparations for supper and teased Alistair about the flavors of his motherland. He just muttered something in retaliation. It was odd. Alistair had been incredibly silent since he'd returned from Redcliffe Castle. They'd banished the abomination and the village was saved, Fran had figured that they'd done well, all things considered.

Silfee was laughing more; she'd even offered to powder Adele's face. Adele declined. Nema and Rastaban had kept to themselves, not that, that was particularly noteworthy. Frannie frowned. Oghren and his booze, Leliana and her songs; nearly everyone was acting as was expected, but then there was Alistair, who just seemed off.

A shriek cut across the camp and pulled her from her thoughts. High pitched and hysterical, Oghren choked on his ale and Sten had his sword out.

Edgar Cousland clawed his way out of his tent wearing underclothes and little else. His eyes were wide and incredulous. "I don't know what they taught you in Antiva," he spluttered, "but believe me, that was in no way a massage!"

From the tent, Zevran's laughter tinkled out. Fran groaned and rolled her eyes.

In the dirt, Chester was sprawled out and he was doing his best to rip a ball of twine to shreds. Frannie gave the mabari's head a pat as she made her way over to the small cooking fire. Alistair sat on a stump of a log and stared at the pot of water as if willing it to boil.

"You know, if you watch it like that, it'll never cook," Frannie told him. "But if you turn your head away, even for a second, the whole forest will be on fire."

He nodded. "True."

"That's it?" She plopped down next to him in the dirt. "No smart comeback? It's not like you. You are Alistair, aren't you? It's not a very good impersonation if you're not."

"Curses, you've found out." He didn't smile. "I'm not Alistair at all, but the philandering rogue, Roderick Ulmsbottom."

"Alistair, what's wrong?" Frannie asked.

He turned to look at her. "Can I talk to you?" he asked. "Seriously, for a moment?"

"Sure."

"About Redcliffe," he said. Alistair dragged a hand across his cheek. "What happened in the castle, I mean."

The tone of his voice made her frown. "You've been really quiet," Frannie said. "Are you okay?"

"Lady Isolde sacrificed herself!" Color flooded to his cheeks and his voice lanced over the dull hum of the camp. "With blood magic! How could we do that?"

"Alistair-"

"We could have gone to the Circle of Magi!" he fumed. "We could have tried harder! We should have tried something that didn't involve blood magic, that's for sure."

Fran could feel her mouth twisting, not entirely sure what to do. Was just listening enough? "Is that what happened in Redcliffe Castle?" she asked.

"And you still have to ask!" He threw his head back and stared at the darkening sky. "This is the arl's wife we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?"

Frannie shrugged. "We did what we had to. I don't know what you want me to say, Alistair."

Alistair sighed. "I just don' t know why you weren't there," he said. The anger was draining out of his voice, but his jaw was still tight. "You could have done something, you could have had my back. They would have listened to you! How could they have made that decision? A woman's dead- a good woman and Donal's a hero now for helping to butcher her?"

A lot of what Alistair was saying didn't make much sense. Frannie only knew that he was deeply upset and that pained expressions didn't suit his features. "I'm sorry," she said. Frannie placed a hand on his shoulder and let it lay there limply. If it had been Leske, it would have been easy. She'd have swatted his arm and insulted his manhood. Somehow, that didn't seem quite like the right thing to do and she wasn't entirely sure if she knew how to employ a more delicate touch.

"You can't be sorry, you weren't there to be sorry!" He brought his head down to his hand and rubbed his forehead. Alistair laughed, suddenly. "Why am I yelling at you?"

Because it would be bad form to yell at Donal Amell who still weakly staggered around due to his involvement in the mess in the castle. Frannie kept the thought to herself and instead, she shrugged again. "Beats me. I've been told there's something about my look that makes it easy to scream at me."

That made him frown. "Who told you that?"

"Let's see..." Frannie counted off on her fingers. "The guards in the Diamond Quarter, all of the Merchant Quarter, my mother constantly... Oh! There was this one bartender a long time ago..."

Leske would have been laughing drunkenly by this point. Her nonsense might have even garnered a disapproving smile from Rica. Alistair's frown had deepened.

"A brand joke." She tapped the tattoo on her cheek. "You were supposed to laugh. Don't tell me that Leske was right all along and all my jokes are garbage."

"I'm sorry that I yelled at you, Frannie," Alistair said softly.

"Huh?" He should have been laughing. Everything she was doing and saying was resulting in these strange, serious looks that seemed to goad her on to new, unfound heights of idiocy. Maybe it was compassion that crinkled his brow. She hoped desperately that it wasn't pity.

"I had no right to yell at you," he said. "I was just frustrated. And an idiot."

"Yeah, well-"

"And it's criminal for you think that anyone has the right to speak to you like that just because of a silly mark on your face."

That stopped her. Frannie wished she could appreciate his sentiment. Something about the nobility of it all grated on her. Logically, what he said made sense, but Alistair just didn't understand Dust Town. It didn't matter how many dragons she killed, Orzammar would see a brand and that was that. Still, Alistair meant well.

"Old wounds," Frannie told him. "But I'm a big girl. They don't bother me anymore."

"No one has the right to speak to you that way," Alistair said.

She sighed. "Aye."

That got a half smile out of him as he turned to the cooking fire. "Leliana's been whining about how we can't make a proper Orlesian cream sauce on the road," he said. "Nothing to thicken it up with. But I think she just lacks the creativity necessary for the kitchens of Ferelden."

It was the reprieve she was looking for. The old Alistair was back. "Oh?" Fran raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know what a fantastic thickener is?" Alistair said. "Dirt. You think she'd like that? A lovely mud pie."

"Maybe you should ask her." Frannie gestured over to Leliana. The bard had taken to brushing Adele's hair while Silfee attacked the elf's face with a powder cake. Adele, for her part, looked thoroughly miserable.

"Nah." Alistair slumped back on his tree stump. "I'll get her later."

Just then, the characteristic hissing and bubbling from the pot grabbed Frannie's attention. "Water's boiling!"

"Ah! Perfect." Alistair hopped to his feet and dusted off his backside. "Now we just have to find plants, maybe. Bushes or leaves or some such that give off the semblance of vegetables."

Frannie stood up. "You're serious, are you?"

He laughed. "Of course not. I think there are some parsnips in my sack. Maybe an onion. Come on."

Frannie nodded and followed.