A tiny blue bird trilled a call from somewhere above the hastily launched medical tent. The breeze that tickled her nose was frosty, but she was warm, wrapped in heavy blankets. Starling felt her eyes begin to flutter and snap open. She sat up abruptly, breath ragged, eyes rapidly scanning her surroundings. She tried to stand, to adjust herself, and noticed that her right arm had been bound in a sling against her chest. She felt her heart begin to calm. This is your new home, she reminded herself as her eyes fell upon a familiar symbol; A longsword driven through an eye in the sunburst of The Chant. You're not in the fade. You're not at Haven. You are home. They had found her, but she had no ability to measure how long she had been back. Every time she awoke from fitful sleep, it was the same; her heart fluttering like a hummingbird, palms and feet sweating. The anxiety of not knowing where she was took command of her body. Was she in The Fade? Had a demon corrupted her heart? Did the bloody templars find her? Am I alive? Adan, her curmudgeonly yet gentle caretaker had suggested decorating the interior of her temporary abode with a flag of the Inquisition. A kind reminder. I am safe. The irony of a human religious symbol as comfort was not lost on her.

Outside, she heard the familiar sounds of a camp; chickens clucking, fires crackling, the sounds of laborers fixing broken things, but the best was the sounds of speech. Familiar voices talking; though the tone was grim and argumentative. She heard Commander Cullen, the drawn but gentle warrior, his voice plaintive, trying to convince the others. She reclined on her cot. Starling felt as if she had been holding her breath for years. A breath that contained it all; loss, life, mistakes, things unsaid. She let it go, feeling a strange pressure in her ribs release.

She did not want to think about Corypheus, the strange darkness of the fade, the blood; so much blood. Images that drilled into closed eyelids and broke her into sweats and shivers. It didn't take much to trigger a nightmare, though she had convinced herself they were coming fewer and fewer. Many people came to visit the elf in her recovery. She wanted to see them all, to touch them, to hear the sounds of their voices, and listen to their stories, but she was exhausted. Marydale, with her clear voice and open heart, sang part of a new song to her. Starling, The Herald of Andraste, flew home. Starling mostly blushed, simultaneously embarrassed and pleased.

She had been rescued by the people she swore to protect. A new family; a new clan, perhaps? She had finally slept, emerging from her tent only to be tossed back in with a bowl of soup (surprisingly tasty!) and restorative potions (unsurprisingly disgusting.) "I am fine, really," she would respond to the lucky person chosen for Starling-duty. She suspected they were drawing straws, or losing at Wicked Grace.

"Yes, you are very pretty, Starling, your delicate elven features captivate all of Thedas," Dorian mocked her with flourish. "But your legs are not, and they will not get you far." He smiled, handsome as ever, placing a bowl of warm stew in her hands and a small bottled potion on a crate-turned bedside table. He sat with her for a while, telling her tales of Tevinter and making sure she took the healing draught.

Sera had practically pushed her back onto the bed. Her bedside manner the same as a nurse counting the days to retirement. "Don be stupid!" she barked incredulously, "eat this, it may taste like shit, but it'll fix you, so they say anyway. An don't even try to stand up again, or Commander Boringbutt will prolly come in here and read to you or somefin." Sera threatened to pour the medicine down Starling's throat, and refused to leave until she saw her take it. "Elf medicine. Fucking weird," she said. The blonde and wily elf stayed with her for a bit, but Starling could tell that her friend did not like seeing her small and cloistered.

"No no, my dear." How Vivienne had made a soft voice so commanding was beyond her. "Lie down, for you are still resting." Starling went to protest, but the Orlesian mage produced a small mirror and thrust it into her face. Starling's usually lively eyes were sunken, dark rings; her freckled face, pale and covered with red bumps and angry red craters. "The ice bite has left its toll on your skin. Let's hope it clears up completely, darling." Vivienne said and her dark eyes shone with concern. Now that Starling was no longer in mortal danger, her friend was occupied by an equally terrible fate, ugliness. Starling, who could not bear for Madame du Fer to think she cared about her own appearance, feigned a chuckle and shook her head, drawing a spoonful of soup to her dry but improving lips. Vivienne left her the mirror. Starling did not complain any more that day.

Someone had placed the fabric doll she rescued from Haven's destruction next to her bed. Closing her eyes brought the image of the dead child to the front of her mind; one of many who had died due to her recklessness. At first, The Inquisition had been somewhat of a lark. The Mark on her hand; sexy, mysterious. An elf, first bound in chains; proved her own innocence, and transformed into a hero! It was the stuff of legends. She could elevate The Dalish! She could change everything. Starling had tried to prevent blood shed in her name, but she had detached herself. She justified deaths as necessary casualties, or she pretended they hadn't happened at all; a fantasy world. You stupid girl. You didn't even know the kid's name, her brain chastised. She touched the doll's charred arm with a finger. The fabric crumbled, revealing soft feather stuffing. I can stitch you back together. Sleep was out of the question, but being awake caused fidgeting frustration. The more days that passed, the more restive Starling became. Lying alone, stuck with her thoughts; her tent grew more and more unbearable.

The elf had propped herself up in a chair when when Blackwall called from the outside. "Herald, might I come in?" he said; his gravelly voice rough against her ears, though not in an unpleasant way. She responded in the affirmative. The tent flap opened, momentarily blinding the interior with snowy daylight, and the massive human entered, much quieter than she thought he would be. His face broke into a gigantic smile.

"You are, indeed, alive!" His endless blue eyes were wide in surprise and disbelief. Starling closed the book she had been reading, or trying to read, and looked up at him. Their eyes met, and Starling recalled the last time she saw him.

Blackwall. Warrior. Warden. He was in the center of three templars. Sword arm cutting them down. Shield poised. Those same endless eyes wide with fear, searching for her.

"We never stopped looking for you, Starling." His voice softer now, tremulous, interrupting her bad memory. "I'll never forget the day I saw him carrying you in his arms. You looked like a little child, so small. You looked- Your eyes...they wouldn't open." He rambled at a surprising and uncharacteristic speed. His eyes shone. "They wouldn't open!" he repeated, and then cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Herald," his voice firm again. She stood up, placing the book onto the floor.

"They are open now, Lethallin." She reached over with her left hand and took his lightly, slightly taken aback by his outburst. "I didn't mean to frighten you," she said, softly.

He gasped, laughing, and pulled her in for a hug. "Of course that's what you'd say! Little freckled bird, always worrying about me, your friends, even the little nugs on the ground get your attention!" he said. He hugged her tightly, slightly crushing her injured arm. She didn't care. He smelled good, like wet leaves and smoke and snow. She'd never met a human that smelled so much like the Dalish. She had noticed it when they first met. As if he were a long lost giant of a brother with round ears. She never had a brother. But she did now. He released her; a small sniff; a large hand wiped his eye.

"Now that we are done with the emotional part," she said, grinning, "are you here to break me out, Blackwall?" Her tone was light, though she spoke only half in jest.

He smiled again at her, eyes still shining. "If only I could. Solas'd have my head, and he'd only be first in line," he said. He tilted his head as he spoke, and his normally reserved countenance still gave way to a small smile.

Solas. She'd dreamed he'd- No. Not possible. "So, he is my gaoler?" she asked, lowering herself onto her cot. Starling motioned for him to sit in the chair beside her. She thought the smile upon her lips continued, seeming easy, but something in her eyes must have betrayed her.

Blackwall complied, and sat. "He was by your side all that first day, when you would not wake up. I don't think Adan had the stones to tell him to leave. And if he does... well," Blackwall exhaled, a quick hissing sound. He noticed the book on the floor that Starling had left there. He picked it up and placed it in his lap. "You know what he is like." The man rubbed the back of his neck. He did not want to talk of this. The mysterious elf apostate was the only subject upon which they disagreed. The Grey Warden did not trust Solas, but he made it clear that he trusted Starling, and that was that.

"He has not come to see me since I awoke." Starling spoke plainly. She was not the type to over share her emotions, but something about her absent friend was troubling her. Her large eyes studied Blackwall, in hopes of gaining some kind of answer.

"Once you were out of danger," the warden continued, "he set up a spot on the furthest edge of camp. I think he's been doing magic there. He takes his meals alone, or with Dorian sometimes..."

The other responded with a soft, "Oh." Starling wrinkled her forehead, confused at her own emotions. "I am grateful for what he, for what everyone, has done for me," she stated in her usual polite manner.

Blackwall rose from his seat, handing over her book. It looked small in his large calloused hands. When they first met, she wondered what those hands might feel like on her skin. Now, she found the comfort of a brother's protection, and she would not trade it for the world.

"I must let you rest," he said. Starling made a squeak to protest. She didn't want to be alone. He would have none of it. "I'll bring by some cards later, I promise. And, I'll bring Varric... with Cassandra."

"Both of them? Together!?" Starling said, chuckling. "I already sealed the breach, Blackwall. We don't need to open a new one!"

He grinned, humoring her; his white teeth large and shining. "You could use a little entertainment," he added. "I am glad you are in good spirits..." Blackwall paused, as if considering his next statement carefully. "It's different at night though, isn't it?" His face darkened in sympathy, knowing that she would never want to burden him with her struggles. He had slept close by and many of them heard their Herald cry out in her sleep.

Starling nodded, stiffly, the tension flowing into her neck. Her eyes drew down, and she stared at her hands. "Just some nightmares," she said, her voice no louder than a whisper. She looked back up at Blackwall. "Do you get them?"

"The first time I saw battle, I couldn't have been more than twenty. Younger than you, I'd wager. I saw things..." He trailed off. "Didn't sleep much after. I want to tell you it gets easier, but … Some days are better than others." He swallowed loudly.

Starling's own mouth went dry. "I see … Children, a child." Starling swallowed in turn; she could feel the knot forming in her throat. "It's..." She didn't continue. She shook her head, her eyes focusing on her hands again.

Blackwall reached over and touched her shoulder, his large hand covering it completely. "So do I," he responded, his voice low.

She nodded, a small weight lifting from her chest. The heaviness would be there, but the confession helped. She was not alone. She looked up at him again, returning his gaze. "Thank you, Blackwall."

"Don't thank me yet," Blackwall said. He patted himself down, searching his pockets. "I almost forgot." He pulled out a small bottle. Another draught of healing. Starling groaned and fell back onto the cot, her good arm flailing back in defeat. "Bottoms up. To better days," he said, somewhat cheekily. He placed the potion onto the crate next to the cot.

She feigned a pout but couldn't hold it for long. He turned to go, but stopped at the doorway, keeping his back to her.

"He cares for you, little bird. He might not admit it, but he does."

"How-how do you know?" she asked. A strange sensation grew in the pit of her stomach. She felt silly for asking.

Blackwall didn't give an answer. "Get some rest, my lady," he responded. The tent was blasted with light again as he opened the flap. He stepped out into the daylight, leaving her alone with her thoughts.


He didn't tell her how loudly the elven man had screamed when they saw her fall. Blackwall didn't know the language, but there was no need. The howl of a man's heartbreak is always the same. He didn't tell her how it had taken three of them to keep him from climbing down after her. He didn't tell her that as the days went by with no sign, and the Inquisition's leaders reluctantly began to plan their next move, Solas argued tirelessly that she would be found; that she was alive. He didn't tell her that as the morale of the Inquisition sank, Solas kept an unwavering and tireless vigil. He didn't tell her that when Solas had carried her back to camp, triumphant, Blackwall had seen the elf smile for the first time.