Her mouth opened, luscious lips again found wanting for words. All in response to him; how he acted and who he was- the King. Her commitment to the belief he was weaker than she, less willful and more inclined to bend to her whims proved aimless; nothing more than a hopeless attempt to preserve some remaining shred of her own dignity.

Act like a queen and give up Nathaniel.

The simplicity of this requirement was overwhelming. And yet, it felt like Alistair was asking her to heal a wound without elfroot. Why is this so hard? She wondered, knowing that Alistair's demand was entirely reasonable and her brokenness the only cause for feelings that said otherwise.

She watched him waiting for an answer, or a reaction from her to his words. But he grew impatient and muffled defeat and disappointment spread across his face. A deepening frown and angry furrow of his brow distracted from the sorrowful shine in his eyes. Those eyes, she admired longingly. Their deep hazel, so warm, welcoming, and full of hurt. They were searching her for an answer until he looked away.

"I've got King things to do," he said calmly, his tone even. She caught the aversion, what she heard as disgust under his breath. But his voice quaked as he looked back to her, "I can't imagine not loving you, Caoilainn. Not ever."

Then he turned and left the room. The door slammed shut behind him and her body flinched at the noise. She was alone.

Overwrought with sadness, an emptiness drastically different from the connection they had less than an hour ago caused her to tremble. One arm wrapped around her waist and the other lifted to her eyes as she shook. The pit in her stomach sank deeper. And her chest felt pain as though it was caving inward and some force from within claimed her ability to move. She cried hot tears that seemed to burn her face as they fell. Gasping for breath, as if drowning in despair, she tried to keep her head above the waves of desperation. Anxious thoughts convinced her she had somehow lost the man that just promised, as he always did, to love her eternally.

All the ways in which she had failed immensely as a queen and as his wife flooded her mind, reminding her of her expansive imperfections. How in the simplest of terms, at their essence, she did not compare to him. Alistair, for all his faults, was a genuinely good person. And Caoilainn was not. I'll never be the woman he deserves.

Alistair heard her sobs from the other side of the wall as he leaned against it. His own tears welled, and just as they fell, he rubbed them from his eyes with his hand. Heart heavy, the sick weight of loneliness seeping through an endless hole aching in his chest. He stayed the urge to burst through the door, to hold her, soothe her until both their tears ceased. Because that would mean continuing to excuse the affair. It would require him to go back to pretending. And he was not willing to pretend anymore. So he listened, lovingly, from the other side of the wall until her sobs peaked. He imagined he could hear her breathing as she settled. She needs to make this choice.

With a deep breath of his own he proceeded to the Ferelden troops to march.

Sobs lessened, but the sinking feeling in her chest prevailed. Both hands wiped the tears from her cheeks, red with heat from crying. A deep breath, followed by another helped her center.

Activity and the sound of rallying troops from the courtyard reminded her of her duties. Responsibility to her order, the battle ahead required her attention. She straightened out her armor, fixed her braid tighter. Chin up. Tits out. And marched to the Grey Warden forces.

The Inquisition and its allies began their march to the Arbor Wilds in pristine weather. The air clean and crisp with not a cloud in the sky after the previous night's storm. Waves of men split into sections, troops led by their commanders and the Inquisition as a whole led by Cullen Rutherford. On opposite sides of the mass of fighters, the Warden Commander led her soldiers, and the King of Ferelden led his. Both sat tall on their horses, the rumbling earth of the surrounding troops echoing the strength with which they marched. Alistair's compliment was outmatched head to head by the Inquisition's massive collection of armies, but their skill, dedication and loyalty made them no less formidable. Contrasting by appearance in every way, Caoilainn's ragtag collection of Grey Wardens formed its own living, breathing being. They expanded and contracted, twisted and turned through the environment like an animal, communicating wordlessly from within.

Strength in numbers multiplied many times over joined to fight for a purpose they all knew as a fundamental truth. That preventing Corypheus from gaining forces, to stop his access to resources that could make him even more threatening to Thedas brought them together from across the realm. Orlesians marched alongside Ferelden Royal Army and soldiers from Highever. Grey Wardens from Orlais who survived Adamant uncorrupted joined their Ferelden brethren. They were bonded by the same connection, despite their fealties on either side of the Frostbacks.

Though they were just on opposite ends of this mass of moving fighters, Caoilainn and Alistair were worlds apart. She often tried to spy him from across the sea of soldiers, but he was indefinable from her view. Fear she may have lost the inherent ability to spot him amongst a crowd increased as the sense of heartache crept in. And Alistair did the same, his eyes scanned the other Grey Wardens for the lone Commander on her horse to no avail.

The march continued, keeping a steady pace as if to a drum. They made their way through narrow mountain passages, taking nearly the rest of the day considering the magnitude of armies traveling. Eventually, as night fell, they reached the base and set up their camps. Again, Ferelden and Grey Warden forces stayed on opposite sides of the massive encampment.

Caoilainn knew Alistair was only a walk away. But as she gazed across the encampment, the distance seemed insurmountable. The gaping void in her heart seemed to grow as she studied the space between them. What is wrong with me? Five years spent avoiding him from her base at Vigil's Keep did not feel as impossibly far as this.

She was careful not to let her emotional strife impact her Wardens. Through the day trip she was consistent in her orders and spoke with her officers. Commanding came easily and provided respite from the sadness.

Grateful to be off her horse after a day of riding, and once the camp was set, she settled into the Warden Commander's tent. It felt far emptier than usual and far larger than she remembered. And though she knew she needed the space, the loneliness was haunting.

She removed her light armor and settled onto her cot. The thin tent walls did little to shield from the sound of a large camp settling as she stared at the ceiling. Then the fleeting question if he did the same from wherever he rested in the encampment triggered her tears. More tears, shed in longing for Alistair. She had cried more for him the last few days than all their years apart. As if somehow tears of her denied mourning had been stored and were finally released. Layers of sheets and blankets shifted with her slender frame as she rolled over, curling up on the cot to sob silently until she fell asleep. I love you, Alistair.

Elsewhere in the camp, in the Ferelden section, Alistair lay on his cot staring at the ceiling. Pools welled in his eyes and he blinked them away before they fell. I love you. Always.

The march continued for days, following a less direct route than the scouts preceding them. Ensuring they had adequate ability to navigate the environments and room for their armies to rest at night, the expedition was slow moving. After some nights as the trek carried them into the Emprise du Lion, the forces rested. The Inquisitor called a meeting of the commanders and some of her council. Cullen and Morrigan and a few of the Inquisitor's personal party joined. The other members of the Inquisition had remained at their base in Skyhold.

Caoilainn attended, her chest tight with worry, fear from the uncertainty of how Alistair would act toward her. It was a simple meeting. The Inquisition's commander checked with all other military leaders on pacing, the time he expected to cover the distance based on this rate, and reports of the surrounding area. Attendees of this meeting said little as Cullen addressed them.

But Caoilainn's eyes could not help but scan for Alistair as he spoke. She found him, staring in earnest and listening intently to Commander Rutherford. The sight made her eyes water, tears tempted to pour in excess to release the confused emotions she harbored.

As the meeting concluded, the commanders bowed and some spoke to one another. She spotted Alistair again chatting with Cullen. Smiling. Her heart sank. It may have been a sad smile. Or perhaps a pleasant smile with sad emotions somewhere underneath. But nonetheless, he was smiling. He doesn't need me. Caoilainn involved herself in what seemed mindless small talk with the Elf, Solas. He carried on about Elven history, and had her mind been in a different place, she may have been interested.

Then she spotted Alistair preparing to leave the tent. He bowed to the room, to the Inquisitor and Cullen specifically, thanking them for their time and then departed. Not once did he make eye contact with Caoilainn. The sadness, the sheer longing for his loving gaze pulled her to follow. But stubborn will and her own frustration, what was building into genuine anger grew inside. But am I angry with him or myself? She refrained from following and shortly thereafter, she departed for her own tent.

As she arrived, she saw a shadowy figure near the entrance.

"'Tis interesting to think the King is ignoring the Queen this time," a familiar voice sang from the shadows. Caoilainn recognized the source instantly.

"Morrigan," Caoilainn responded flatly. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for you, my friend," Morrigan answered calmly, but the slightest condescension in her voice was present as usual. "What ails the royal couple?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Caoilainn's answer was short, not because the desire to confide in her friend was absent but because she feared if she started she would fall apart. Caoilainn fought the heaviness in her head that urged her to shut her eyes and never open them. She took a few steps toward Morrigan.

"Of course not," Morrigan said gently, her arms opening in welcoming gesture as Caoilainn cautiously neared. With no other words, Caoilainn fell into Morrigan's arms and held her tightly. Neither woman had much to say, but the physical contact spoke volumes. Fully equipped with her armor and weapons, Caoilainn's head rested against Morrigan's nearly bare shoulder. A much needed sigh escaped from Caoilainn's lips as Morrigan gently wrapped her arms around Caoilainn.

"I'm scared, Morrigan," Caoilainn admitted without releasing from the embrace. "I'm scared I'll never be what he sees in me."

"I know," Morrigan echoed softly, feeling the authenticity of her friend's admission. It was a glimmer of the passionate young woman Morrigan befriended ten years ago. "You may never be. But you can try; he will love you, regardless."

Caoilainn sighed again, "I know."

Morrigan pulled away from the hug and held Caoilainn's shoulders with caring pressure. "I will enter the Temple with the Inquisitor in a few days," she spoke with delicate solemnity and studied Caoilainn's eyes. "Do you still seek the cure? Do you truly wish to have his child?"

Caoilainn held a long, pregnant pause. The answer to the question came instantly, and she searched herself for any doubt to her motives. With her mind, body, and soul aligned she took another deep breath and replied.

"I do."

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