It took a great deal and yet nothing at all for Kallian to accept that Alistair was alive again. She didn't understand how, and the prospect of why is frankly terrifying for the Grey Warden, but he was alive. The signs of change were strange and subtle - sometimes he went quiet just as the Calling in her head grew loudest, and there was no hint of Darkspawn taint - but otherwise he was just as she saw him the morning of the battle for Denerim.

By that evening his face had been pale and his hands lifeless, impossibly heavy, and she watched his sleep like a hawk for signs of death returning.

It had been weeks. He ate, he slept, he dreamed, he laughed, he fought demons and bandits and darkspawn and bears with her and yet she could barely smile, rarely had more than tea or bread or dried fruit and meat for a meal. They were an even odder pair than they'd been a decade prior, full of awkward silences where he watched her and she watched anything but him and Kallian knew that was partially her fault.

Entirely her fault, even.

But what could she do? Alistair being alive again meant that she had to take a good, hard look at the person she'd allowed herself to become in the last ten years and honestly, she hadn't liked what she saw in her reflection in some time. Nevermind trying to consider how he might feel, coming back from the dead to a love who had become bitter and half-mad while he was gone.

Not that it mattered, she told herself. She had to find a cure for the Calling before she worried that her soul might not pass muster any longer. She wouldn't let Alistair out of her sight, even when that task sent her past Tevinter and into the dust storms of the Anderfels, and Alistair, at least, seemed more than happy to follow her to the ends of Thedas.

The Anderfels were more barren and fractured - politically and geographically - than Kallian had expected. Grey Wardens, at least, had once been rather commonplace, the only sign of the law for many of the Anders, so no one questioned just two more traveling alone from Ferelden. At least there was plenty to do - plenty of darkspawn to fight, farmers to protect. Usually at the same time, like the evening they found themselves surrounded, overwhelmed nearly, until the someone called to Kallian.

"Hail, cousin."

The Architect stood not far from the fray, and the darkspawn sheathed their weapons and lined in formation. Kallian's cheek twitched in agitation - the Architect was darkspawn before it was anything else, and Kallian distrusted all darkspawn equally, ability to speak the language or no. Her weapon remained drawn, if not pointed at the creature. As it approached, Kallian put her hand towards Alistair, careful not to touch, always careful not to touch no matter how much it seemed natural, how much she wanted to. "I'll explain later." Because clearly, she would have to.