Cassandra barreled through the entrance of the tent, slapping at the flaps of wet canvas hard enough to shake the entire structure. She threw down her shield and sword, then pushed aside the bedrolls and satchels to clear a space. She hastily unbuckled her gauntlets and tossed them away, then reached back through the entrance. The guards carrying the Inquisitor hoisted her up so Cassandra could grab her limp form beneath the arms and drag her inside. She placed her down as gently as possible, sitting back on her heels and settling Trevelyan's head in her lap. Trevelyan groaned and writhed in pain beneath her, face contorted in agony.

"Blast this weather!"

Dorian burst into the tent, followed closely by Iron Bull, who had to practically fold himself in half to fit. "Here." The mage wiped the rain out of his eyes, then produced a small torch and handed it off to Bull, who was kneeling by Trevelyan's feet. He ignited the torch with a flick of his wrist and Bull held it aloft over the Inquisitor, illuminating the two arrows buried deep in her left side.

Scout Harding had said that the Western Approach had to be the worst place in all of Thedas, but for Cassandra's coin, that title belonged to the Fallow Mire. If she never set foot in this place again, it would be too soon. Everything stunk of rot and decay, and the air was thick like rancid soup. All she could think about was the scalding bath she would take the moment they returned to Skyhold.

Naturally, neither nasty terrain nor foul weather bothered Trevelyan. She lead their small party cheerfully south, onwards through the marsh towards the Avvar stronghold. She didn't even appear disturbed by the undead that continued to rise from the murky water, or the Avvar leader whose only goal was to apparently best her in a duel. Trevelyan had defeated him with ease, quickly placing two arrows in his neck, right in the joint between his helm and breastplate. On the way back she had even managed to recruit the Avvar priest the party had encountered earlier. When Trevelyan got Amund to offer his services to the Inquisition after only speaking for the briefest of moments, all Cassandra could do was shake her head.

She had still been thinking about that as they made their way back to Fisher's End, reflecting on Trevelyan's relentless optimism and confidence in the dreadful conditions. And not just in the Mire, but whenever they encountered a new problem or seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Nothing fazed the young woman.

Were it anyone else, Cassandra was certain she would find those traits insufferable. But when it came to the Inquisitor, it never seemed to bother her as much.

She had been lost in her thoughts, unable to stop thinking about Trevelyan's easy smile, when the splash came. Bull had been taking up the rear, carefully matching the steps of the smaller party members in front of him, but apparently he had misjudged. Cassandra had drawn her sword and spun around to find the Qunari submerged to his knees in muck and the Inquisitor fruitlessly trying to yank him free. The arrows had flown from across the marsh a moment later, striking Trevelyan twice with dull, wet thuds.

"Help me get this off her!"

Dorian's order snapped Cassandra back to the present. The mage was tugging at Trevelyan's heavy scout coat, his fingers slick with mud. Cassandra quickly unlaced the thick leather ties on Trevelyan's front and yanked her arms through the sleeves, ignoring the other woman's yelp of pain. Unsheathing the dagger strapped to her own thigh, Cassandra set to work on the plain tunic underneath, slicing through thin cotton just under Trevelyan's left arm to expose her ribs.

"Why aren't you wearing any mail?" Cassandra seethed as she worked.

"Too tight." Trevelyan spoke through clenched teeth, her breath coming out in a tortured wheeze. "Harritt's making a new set." She looked up at Cassandra, eyes wide with panic, lips trembling.

Cassandra sheathed her blade and bent over Trevelyan, looking firmly into the gray eyes. She fought to keep her voice steady. "Try to relax," she said, cupping the side of Trevelyan's face. "Breathe."

"Easy for you to say." The Inquisitor tried to flash that bright grin of hers, but at the last minute it twisted it into a grimace instead.

Cassandra scowled, but kept her hand on Trevelyan's cheek. "Really? Even now you make jokes?"

"You can lecture me later, I promise."

Cassandra was about to say that the she would gladly do so when they returned to Skyhold-and the first lesson would be about proper armor-but she swallowed her words when Trevelyan jerked in her arms, arching off the ground and inhaling sharply. Cassandra looked over and saw Dorian prodding at the arrow embedded near her hip.

"Don't you have a potion to give her?"

"No time to make it. These need to come out now." Dorian shook his head. "I can't see. We need to roll her."

Trevelyan moaned as she was turned onto her uninjured side, burying her face in Cassandra's lap. Her left hand reached up to grab at the back of the Seeker's neck, opening her side to allow Dorian a better view. Cassandra could feel Trevelyan's blunt nails dig into her, even through the leather of the gloves she wore. A jolt of energy shot through Cassandra as heat began to rise where Trevelyan's hand was pressed against her neck, and she realized the magic contained within the Anchor was flaring in response to the injury.

Dorian pulled gently at the arrow and twisted it, careful not to detach the shaft from the head as he determined how deep it was buried. "Ah, good. No bone. This one won't be difficult." He gave his diagnosis with the same smug confidence he always had. The mage withdrew a small dirk from his belt then cast a small flame in the palm of his other hand. He waved the blade through fire until it glowed slightly. Cassandra was buoyed at the site. For all his cockiness, Dorian clearly knew what he was doing.

Dorian turned his attention back to Trevelyan and made two quick incisions on either side of the arrow shaft. He eased the wound open with the flat of the blade, then began slowly working the arrow out of Trevelyan's side. The Inquisitor gasped and began shaking, still clutching desperately at Cassandra's neck.

"Keep her still," Dorian ordered.

Cassandra wrapped her entire arm around Trevelyan and clamped down, hugging the other woman into her as tightly as she could. Her other hand went to Trevelyan's head and began stroking her hair. Cassandra watched as Dorian continued his methodical extraction, more and more blood seeping from the wound as he worked.

After a moment the mage let out a triumphant sound and pulled the arrow out with a flourish, the three-bladed broadhead dripping with bright red blood and bits of viscera. He handed it to Bull, who eyed it critically.

"Was it poisoned?" Dorian asked.

"Hard to say." Bull brought the arrow to his mouth and gently touched the broadhead to the tip of his tongue, then spat. "I don't think so," he said with a dismissive grunt, throwing it over his shoulder.

Cassandra let out a small sigh, hoping the Qunari was right. "Almost done." She lowered her head so her lips almost brushed Trevelyan's ear. Trevelyan only nodded, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

Dorian had moved on to the second arrow now, the one firmly buried in between her ribs. He used the same technique as before, gently pulling and twisting to determine the exact depth of the arrowhead.

"At least it didn't get her lung," he muttered almost to himself as he examined the shaft. He gave it another turn and it came off in his hand. He cursed in frustration and tossed it aside.

"Is everything rotten in this fucking bog?" The dirk appeared again. He performed the same ritual as before; casting fire and then running the blade through the flames. He made two deeper incisions, then looked over at Cassandra. "Hold her down. This is going to hurt."

Cassandra exchanged glances with Bull. Trevelyan's legs were stacked on top of one another, and Bull planted one massive hand on her ankles, his fingers so long and broad that they were almost able to wrap around both of her legs. Cassandra tightened her grip as she felt Trevelyan tense beneath her. Dorian paused for a moment, exhaled, then plunged his fingers into the wound.

A cry ripped from Trevelyan's throat and cut Cassandra straight to her core. The Inquisitor thrashed against the hands holding her down, trying to arch her back away from Dorian. She was stronger than she looked, and Cassandra was forced to squeeze even tighter; so tight she was afraid she was hurting Trevelyan even more. In response, Trevelyan just buried her face deeper into Cassandra's lap and began senselessly gnawing at the Seeker's thick leather breeches. Cassandra grimaced but kept holding on, ignoring the fear rising within her.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cassandra leveled a glare directly at Dorian.

"I can't very well leave it in her, can I?" the mage snapped. Blood trickled down from the wound in Trevelyan's side, steadily dripping onto to the ground next to him. The metallic scent drifted through the tent, mixing with the thick stench of decay from the bog. Cassandra could taste it in the back of her throat; the tang of death and rot and things unholy. Trevelyan let out a low, deep groan and she began gasping for air. Cassandra could feel the Inquisitor's heart pumping wildly beneath her arms.

"Hurry up," Cassandra snarled.

"Oh dear, I am being rather leisurely about this, aren't I? My mistake!" Dorian didn't even bother to look up, and Cassandra fought the urge to throttle him. Despite his flippant reply, though, the Seeker saw that his brows were knitted together and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He continued probing with his fingers, each motion drawing a new convulsion from the Inquisitor. "It's wedged between her ribs, near her lung. I can't get to it."

"That's not good," Bull said. Cassandra bit back a snide reply about stating the obvious, and instead turned her attention back to Trevelyan. The Inquisitor's face was pale, her lips ashen. Sweat began dripping down the her temple.

Dorian extracted his fingers and shook his head, silently admitting defeat. Trevelyan relaxed slightly, but Cassandra felt no comfort in it. The mage held his palms over the Inquisitor's ribs, muttering softly to himself as a gentle glow emanated from his hands and spread across her injuries, and Trevelyan let out a sigh.

"Hopefully that will stop the worse of the bleeding." Dorian dug through his belt, removing several bandages and herbs. He placed a dressing over each wound. "Hold these," he directed.

Bull pressed his massive palm against the wound on Trevelyan's hip, and Cassandra moved her arm so she could hold the bandage over her ribs. Her other hand went back to Trevelyan's hair, now completely drenched with sweat. Cassandra and Bull kept pressure on the injuries while Dorian set about mixing a poultice in his hands. When it was complete, he motioned for his two companions to remove the dressings, now dark with blood. He quickly rubbed the mixture into the Inquisitor's side then produced fresh bandages. Bull held Trevelyan up as Cassandra and Dorian passed the roll between them, wrapping the dressing around her hip and ribs, then gently set her down and rolled her onto her back. Finally, Dorian mixed a quick healing potion.

"Here," he said, handling it to Cassandra. "This will help for now. I will have to make more."

Cassandra pushed Trevelyan up into a sitting position, wrapping one arm around her waist but careful not to touch her injuries. The Inquisitor moved her head just enough to allow Cassandra to pour the potion down her throat. Cassandra then grabbed one of the bedrolls she had thrown aside earlier, placing it under Trevelyan as she slowly lowered her back down and slid out from underneath her. The potion was already taking effect, and her eyelids fluttered closed even as she tried to protest. Dorian nodded, then gestured to the outside of the tent.

The rain had dissipated, turning instead into a damp, thick mist, but Cassandra's leathers were so soaked through she couldn't tell the difference. Bull and Dorian stood off to the side, the Qunari offering his waterskin so Dorian could rinse the blood off his hands.

"We need to get her back to Skyhold. Now," the mage said, wiping his hands on his cloak.

Cassandra jaw clenched. "Can she even travel in this condition?"

"She will have to," he said. "I did the best I could to prevent tainting the wounds, but in this filth there's no guarantee. She needs a surgeon to remove the arrowhead. If not, she'll succumb to fever and infection in a matter of days."

Cassandra quickly did the math. They were at the northernmost border of the Mire, thankfully, but still far east of the Frostbacks and Skyhold. It had taken them a week to reach the bog, and that was travelling light, with limited supplies and a small party. Even if they rode through the night, the best they could do was five days, maybe four and a half, once they made it to the Imperial Road. But that would be without any sleep or meaningful rest. She shook her head.

"It will take too long to reach Skyhold., if what you say is true."

"Redcliffe?" Bull rumbled, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying concern. "It's closer. And there has to be a healer there."

Redcliffe was practically due north from their position. They would have to navigate over the twisting rivers and lakes that lead out of the Mire, and there was no main road, but it was possible. No doubt the entire village would be in an uproar at their arrival, as it always was when the Inquisitor appeared, but that couldn't be worried about now.

Two days. They could make it in two days.

Cassandra nodded. "We'll leave tonight. Wake Harding; we'll need her to help scout ahead."

"I can carry her," Bull said, gesturing towards the Inquisitor's tent.

"No," Cassandra said, perhaps a little too quickly. "She will ride with me. Your horse would be too burdened. Go with Harding and make sure our path is clear. Dorian and I will stay back."

Dorian and Bull exchanged glances, and Cassandra braced herself for an argument. None was forthcoming, however, and Bull simply grunted in acknowledgment and set off to raise the head scout. Dorian looked up and wrinkled his nose at the foul weather, his mustache drooping noticeably in the damp air.

"I will make more potions and send a raven to Skyhold to inform them of what's happened. Hopefully it will take off in...this." He waved a hand vaguely at their surroundings and grimaced. Cassandra nodded and returned to the tent.

Trevelyan was passed out with her head flopped over to one side and both arms laying limp next to her, palms skyward as if she was waiting to receive a benediction. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her face was pale, and the ripped tunic had fallen open to reveal her breast and the left side of her torso, blood streaked across dark tan skin. Cassandra knelt beside her, gaze lingering for a brief moment, and gently spread what was left of the garment to cover the other woman's chest.

As she examined the Inquisitor close up, Cassandra saw for the first time the effects of months of training and expeditions. Her fingers brushed over Trevelyan's shoulder and she could feel the hard muscles just beneath the surface of the skin. Trevelyan would always be smaller than Cassandra, with her years of heavy training as a Seeker, but she still had filled out notably. Long, ropey muscles ran down her arms, her shoulders had broadened, and one could clearly see the definition in her neck. Even her face had hardened, the youthful fullness of her cheeks having been gradually whittled away. The hair hadn't changed, though; it was still an unruly mop that looked as if someone had plopped it on top of her skull and just left it there. Cassandra sighed, then reached out and brushed Trevelyan's bangs out of her eyes. The Inquisitor didn't move. Cassandra turned away and started gathering her things to depart.


Dorian had been right, of course, which just made the entire situation even worse. The fever set in immediately, before they had even cleared the Mire. Trevelyan fought gamely against the infection at first, and indeed at first the potions and healing magic had kept the worst of it at bay. She even regained some semblance of awareness and began squirming in the saddle, fighting against the Seeker and trying to twist around to mutter vague protests about riding on her own damn horse. Cassandra needed to clamp her entire arm over the other woman's shoulder and chest to keep her still, and only after she put her mouth to Trevelyan's ear and threatened more bodily harm if she did not shut up did she finally quiet.

Her body went limp soon after that. She sagged against the Seeker's broad chest as she began drifting in and out of consciousness once more. Cassandra kept an arm wrapped protectively around her, feeling the heat radiating off the Inquisitor's face and neck. A low, disconcerting rattle took up residence in Trevelyan's throat, and it gradually grew louder in Cassandra ear. The Seeker grimaced with each stride the horse took, knowing that the arrowhead was slowly being driven deeper and deeper into Trevelyan's side.

They kept up a brutal pace, one that made even Bull huff slightly in protest, only stopping for brief moments to eat and rest their mounts. Dorian grumbled under his breath for most of the journey. And although he kept him complaints to himself, he also kept just out of Cassandra's range, only coming in close to inspect the Inquisitor's wounds and hand over another potion. The Seeker was surprised and grateful at the mage's uncharacteristic restraint, as more and more of her energy went towards keeping Trevelyan upright on the horse, diminishing her capacity for his flamboyance.

The party reached Redcliffe near dusk on the second day. By the time Cassandra, the Inquisitor, and Dorian passed through the gates, a surgeon was already waiting for them. The tall, thin woman was named Clara, and she took one look at Trevelyan and immediately lead them all to a small clinic near the center of town. She was brusque and businesslike and Cassandra liked her instantly, especially since she wasn't asking questions about a Seeker of the Truth travelling with a Qunari, dwarf, and a mage.

Cassandra had actually hoped they would be able to maintain their anonymity, but that was impossible when the surgeon began stripping off Trevelyan's clothes, and pulled off her gloves to reveal the glowing mark on her left hand. She looked up at the Seeker, eyes wide with surprise, and all Cassandra could do was just give a silent nod. Clara then quickly set to work, setting up her operating table with practiced efficiency and beginning the procedure to remove the arrowhead; it had gone as smoothly as they could have hoped for.

But that was three days ago. The Inquisitor had yet to wake up.

"Cassandra."

The Seeker looked up and rubbed at her eyes. She had taken up vigil next to Trevelyan in the small room as soon as Clara had finished, and hadn't moved an inch from the Inquisitor's side since. Dorian was looking down at her with a frown. Cassandra marked her place in the book splayed open on her lap. She couldn't even remember the words on the page she had just read.

"You should take a break. A walk, perhaps?" The mage came around the long table Trevelyan was stretched out on, lifting the thin sheet to check her dressings. "Or maybe a bath?" He glanced over at Cassandra and arched a brow.

Cassandra glowered at him, but could not muster a reply. She had barely slept at all in the pats three days and exhaustion was finally starting to claim her. Her limbs felt leaden and a steady, insistent throbbing reverberated through the back of her skull. Her heavy gaze swept across the Inquisitor's form and she sighed.

"Go, Seeker. I will stay with her."

The kindness in Dorian's voice was so unexpected it was disarming; all Cassandra could do was just nod and rise out of her chair. Her joints popped and cracked when she stood, protesting hours of inactivity they were not accustomed to. She grabbed the sword leaning against her chair, belted it around her waist, and stepped out of the clinic.

Redcliffe was bustling in the early autumn afternoon. Things had returned to normal rather quickly after the forced departure of Alexius and his Venatori, to the point where the village now seemed as if it had never been disturbed at all. All manner of people walked by Cassandra as she made her way down to the shores of the lake, too engrossed in their own business to recognize or acknowledge her. She was surprised at her anonymity, considering their party's presence in the village had not gone unnoticed. She caught excited whispers about the Inquisition and the Herald and speculation about the activity around the small room in the back of the clinic, but no one seemed to immediately place her as a member of the Inquisition. Cassandra supposed it was going to get out sooner or later, despite Clara's discretion, as the Anchor attached to Trevelyan's hand was impossible to hide.

Cassandra actually hadn't thought about the Anchor for months. The last time she and Trevelyan had even discussed it was back when they had their first real conversation at camp, after the incident by the cave. Trevelyan hadn't shown any signs of discomfort since. Cassandra had never realized it glowed constantly like that; previously she had only seen it when it roared to life whenever they encountered a rift. It also explained why the Inquisitor was rarely seen without her gloves, a trait that Cassandra had originally assumed was archery-related. She couldn't imagine carrying the burden of magic like that.

She wondered if it still hurt.

The smell of smoked fish and burning wood met her as she reached Lake Calenhad, and she began walking along the docks. The image of Trevelyan's haggard, limp form was burned into her mind. Cassandra had been worried about the Inquisitor before, in the aftermath of the attack on Haven, but this was different. Back then, she had been sure Trevelyan was alive, with the same certainty as she knew her own name. Now any reassurance that she might wake had all but evaporated.

Abruptly, she stopped walking, her legs refusing to carry her further. She sank into the damp grass near the water's edge, clutching at the handle of her sword to steady herself and wishing she could just strike the blade against the nearest tree. Everything they had fought for, everything sacrificed would be for nothing if they lost Trevelyan. Surely the Inquisitor was not meant for this. If she was to die, it should be in battle with Corypheus and his Archdemon, defending all of Thedas from the magister's threat. Not felled by some filthy corpse arrow in a Maker-forsaken bog because of an inattentive Qunari. Not even Varric would be so cruel as to write an ending like that.

Her weight shifted, and she felt a sudden twinge of discomfort. Reaching back, she found a lump in the back pocket of her breeches, and pulled it out to reveal a small book. Trevelyan's journal had fallen out of her coat during the chaos in the tent, and Cassandra had completely forgotten she'd even picked it up. She held it in both hands almost reverently, her thumbs gently grazing the unmarked leather cover and worn straps that kept it securely closed.

Trevelyan wrote in it nearly every night. Not stories, she would say, but facts. Truths. The exact order in which things occurred. Cassandra did not understand the Inquisitor's obsession with record-keeping, but had come to appreciate her devotion to the ritual. The Inquisitor would settle in front of the campfire, her boundless energy finally stilled, quietly unwrap the journal and begin to write. Cassandra would often watch her from across the camp, noting the way her brow furrowed ever so slightly when she was thinking, and how she gently she grasped the charcoal with her long, lean fingers. In those moments, Cassandra always wondered what event Trevelyan was documenting and in how much detail. Whether it was notes about another Fade rift, or political minutiae, or strategies to use against Corypheus.

Whether it was something about her.

Cassandra's hands began to tremble and the book almost slipped from her grasp. Hastily, she stood and jammed the journal back into her pocket. She began walking back to the clinic. This had been a mistake. The fresh air had done nothing to clear her head, and instead just made her feel more agitated. She needed to rest.

Dorian was sitting in her chair when she returned, playing with a small flame burning in his open palm. A full pitcher of ale and several glasses sat on the table next to him. Cassandra had no idea where he procured the drink or who could have brought it to him, but decided it didn't matter. Dorian curled his fingers closed when she walked in and arched a brow at her early return.

"Back already?"

"Obviously."

He sighed. "I suppose I will have to enjoy this elsewhere, then." He grabbed the pitcher ad glasses and stood to leave, probably to go find Bull. The Qunari had mostly avoided the clinic, choosing to spend most of his time in the nearby tavern, where he and Dorian had rented a room. He had poked his head in from time to time, twisting his head with an almost comical effort to fit his horns through the door. Cassandra supposed in different circumstances she would have found some amusement in the image, but whenever he appeared all she was reminded of was his clumsiness in the Mire. She knew, deep down, that she was being unreasonable and it hadn't truly been his fault, but she still couldn't help seething in his presence.

Cassandra undid her belt, easing off her sword, and slid into the recently vacated chair. Dorian hesitated, then poured her a pint of the ale and carefully placed it next to her elbow before walking out of the room. She let out a heavy sigh after he left, rubbing at her eyes. After a moment's thought, she scooped up the pint and drained half of it in one large gulp. It was sweeter than she usually preferred, but at least it wasn't watered down. She put the ale down and leaned forward, the tops of her elbow on her knees, head hanging down.

"Cass…"

She jerked back up, unsure if she had imagined hearing her name. Trevelyan's eyes were open, the grey irises barely visible through heavy lids. Cassandra exhaled deeply, as if she'd been holding her breath for days and hadn't realized it.

"Inquisitor," she breathed, relief washing over her in a wave that was nearly overwhelming.

Trevelyan's brow furrowed, as if she was contemplating something, then she licked her lips. "Water. Please." Her voice was nothing more than a soft croak.

The Seeker leaned over her and brought a waterskin to Trevelyan's mouth, sliding her other hand behind the Inquisitor's head. Trevelyan drank until the effort became too great and she pulled away with a grimace. Cassandra gently lowered her head back down to the thin pillow, then returned to her seat.

"I smell fish." The grimace deepened and Trevelyan swallowed hard. The rattle in her throat was less noticeable when she spoke.

"We're in Redcliffe. You've been unconscious for three days now."

"Three days?" A confused look crossed Trevelyan's face, then her mouth curled into a smaller version of her usual grin. To Cassandra it looked like a single ray of sun emerging from behind a cloud. "I think I missed a meeting with some Orlesian nobles. Josephine is going to be pissed."

Cassandra felt a smile of her own tug at her lips. "I think that should be the least of your concerns."

"I feel like I was run over by a herd of druffalo." Trevelyan twisted beneath the sheet, testing the wounds in her side, then tried to sit up.

Cassandra put her palm on the Inquisitor's shoulder and easily pushed her back down. "Do not strain yourself ." She lingered a moment before pulling back her hand. She expected an argument from the Inquisitor, but none came.

Instead, Trevelyan's brow furrowed again and she looked at the other woman quizzically, as if she was trying to discern something. The grey eyes opened wider and her gaze sharpened. "Were you here the entire time?"

Cassandra shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Yes. But so were Bull and Dorian."

"I see." She glanced away. Cassandra was glad to be free from that gaze, but was immediately struck by a pang of guilt at the feeling. Trevelyan cleared her throat. "Thank you for saving me. Again."

"There is no need to thank me, Inquisitor."

Trevelyan let out a short, dry laugh. "It's Everly, for Maker's sake. I thought we'd be past titles by now." She sounded weary, as if it was a conversation they had numerous times before. Her eyes were back on Cassandra, and the Seeker felt her throat tighten. She swallowed once, hard, and when she spoke there was a thickness in her voice she didn't recognize.

"Of course...Everly."