Gasping for breath, Carver feels the memories drifting away and he grasps what he can recall: Merrill smiling, green light, floating rocks, butterflies, Warden armor, hollow sounds, white eyes.

The tarp of the tent flaps softly in the wind and through the gap he can see the fire. He gets up, his heart is beating too fast to sleep anyway and he needs time to think. Putting on all his clothes and armor — not again will he risk being caught fighting in his smalls — gives him enough time to calm his breath.

Merrill. He has seen Merrill. Kissed her!

It had been the Fade but it had felt so real.

Outside, the second moon has risen, giving the night a sharp silver light with inky black shadows. The fire with its yellow flicker looks like it doesn't belong in this world of dark shadows.

The guard next to his tent, Michelle, nods at him and gives a hand signal to another guard in templar armor. The newly painted inquisition symbol on their chests stands out white in the moonlight. Carver walks towards the fire to drink a ladle of water from the leather skin. He listens to the sounds of the night, the crackling of the fire, the scurrying of small animals in the bushes, the call of an owl somewhere above him. He has missed this the most in Kirkwall, the quiet sounds of nature. There wasn't a single night at the Gallows where you could hear something as innocent as the hooting of an owl.

Just outside of the light of the fire, the owl sweeps down and the squeak of an animal pulls him out of his reminiscence. Maybe life out here actually isn't quite so peaceful.

Carver steps back into the darkness, waiting a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He flexes his left hand, focussing on the green light in his palm. Gone are the soft tendrils of light, once again it flickers with sharp spikes, even hisses as he wills it to light up.

Making his way around the camp, he passes the tents. Snoring comes from Cassandra's and Varric's tents, both in a similar rhythm and he grins to himself. He's pretty sure that both would deny that they snore in tune.

One small tent sits further outside of the camp, it's barely more than a tarp hung over a rope. But looking straight at it, it melts into the background, as if it's not even there. Carver steps closer. Something creeps up his legs, cold and thorny and the tent shifts again. He knows this feeling, he has crossed a magical ward. Even though Circle mages were forbidden to set them up on their own, they did practice them sometimes, under a close watch by templars. Carver remembers how it felt to cross a ward like that, how it made it difficult to move, but this is no ward from a Circle mage. The very air traps his legs where he stands, he can hardly move and nausea crawls up his throat.

Carver draws a deep breath and calls upon his templar powers to nullify the magic in the ward. A blast of Spell Purge frees his feet and he steps closer to the shifting tent, only to be caught in another ward again. He fights, gathering the power of the lyrium in his veins when with a jolt, the wards disappear. He stumbles, almost falls flat on his face from the sudden lack of resistance in the air.

Solas steps out of the perfectly normal looking tent, a frown on his forehead.

Carver shakes off the retreating nausea. "What in the Maker's name was that?"

"I apologize," Solas says with a curt bow. "Whenever I venture into the Fade, I set up wards to protect myself. My travels take me deep into the Fade, my body would be vulnerable in the waking world without the protection."

"Those were some impressive wards," Carver says, keeping an eye on the tarp innocently flapping in the wind. The way it tried to disappear from his vision as he approached it, deeply unnerves him. One should be able to trust what one sees.

"As I said before, my knowledge of magic exceeds what your average Circle mage is allowed to learn."

"You always set up these kind of wards when you go to sleep?"

"It is necessary that I protect my sleeping form."

Carver flexes his Herald hand again, remembering how it had looked in the Fade. "When you enter the Fade, what exactly are you doing there?"

"As a non-mage, such things may be difficult to imagine," Solas says with a smile that reads more condescending than friendly to Carver. "I've journeyed deep into the Fade, in ancient ruins and battlefields, to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clashed to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."

"Can you interact with those spirits?"

Solas looks at him and for a moment the smile on his face disappears. "What strange questions you ask." His smile returns, a little too quickly, and he lowers his head. "Mostly I'm just watching how ancient heroes have fought in the past. Every great war has its heroes. I'm curious what kind you'll be."

"Aren't we all," Carver says quietly, more to himself than to Solas. "Those places you visit in the Fade, they were once real?"

"As real as all we see. Battlefields steeped in death, ancient buildings that withstood the rigors of time. They all attract spirits. These spirits press against the veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I find memories no other living being has ever seen."

Carver keeps looking at his Herald hand, willing the green light to glow. It sparks and twitches. "Do you ever meet people you know in the Fade?"

Solas glances at him with a frown. "Spirits and demons live in the Fade, not real people. I find remnants of dreams, sometimes thousands of years old, memories of great wars and warriors and the thrill..." He let's the sentence trail off. "I have not known templars to ask me questions like that."

"I'm not a templar anymore."

"Your inquisitiveness is commendable — "

"I was in the Fade last night," Carver interrupts him.

"The Fade is unlike any dream a non-mage like you could know," Solas says with another polite incline of his head.

"I know," Carver says. "But it wasn't a dream, it was the Fade and I..."

"That's impossible," Solas shouts, suddenly appearing to be taller, imposing even, staring him down. "You're not a mage. The Fade is not open to you."

"Trust me, I'm well aware." Carver holds Solas' gaze and the mage returns to his normal, unimposing self again. Once again, Carver has to question how much he can trust his own eyes. "I met my... I met a... a friend in the Fade."

"A spirit?" Solas asks softly.

"No, a person, a very good friend, a mage. I spoke to her."

Solas studies him as if he sees him for the first time. He takes hold of Carver's glowing hand and his magic brushes against the mark like an invisible touch.

"I must admit," Solas says, "I find this most unsettling. As much as I have studied your mark, a Fade connection has never occured to me."

"Do you think it'll happen again?"

Solas still stares at Carver's marked hand, his eyes glassy as he is deep in thought. "I am unable to say. It will require further study."

He turns abruptly and walks back to his tent.

"What, now? Are you going back into the Fade?" Carver calls after him.

"I must. I need to research this. If the veil is so thin in this area..." Solas waves his hand in a complicated form. "I'm setting up my wards again but they will not affect you."

Carver still takes two steps back. The feeling of being held by thorny air is still fresh in his mind and he doesn't want to repeat the experience so soon. In front of his feet, wards glow in white patterns on the ground for a moment and disappear again.

"Don't take too long though, I'm relieving that guard over there for now. But the sun will come up soon and then we'll have to get going."

"You can leave me here, I'll be protected."

Carver shakes his head. "Ehm, no, sorry, but you're our only mage in this whole magical craziness. I need you with us."

The frown on Solas' forehead softens and he inclines his head towards Carver. "Very well. Please wake me when we pack up." With that he ducks under the tarp and white patterns light up all over it.

Carver walks over to the guard, who is about to fall asleep where he stands, and orders him to take some rest. When he looks back to Solas' tent, it seems to try to disappear again.

Not being able to trust his own eyes has become an unnerving new normal for him.

*~~~(())~~~*

It takes them another two days of traipsing through the countryside to get close to the Crossroads, interrupted by various bandits, brainwashed templars and even a group of mages. Lost circle mages in this case, starved and barely able to take care of themselves. They quickly abandon the idea of attacking them for the promise of protection and soup.

Having a group of mages with them, brings a whole new slew of problems with it. Even it they're inquisition soldiers now, their guards with the blinding white Inquisition symbol on their cuirasses have been templars for most of their lives. They have accepted Solas so far, for reasons Carver doesn't quite understand, but the circle mages somehow bring out the worst in them.

"Herald, the mages refuse to stay in their assigned section of the..."

"Fucking void, Gernlem," Carver interrupts the young guard, "they're not prisoners, they can go where they want."

"But what if..."

"What if what? What if they do magic?" This is the third time someone has complained to him about the mages and Carver has quite enough of it. "They've been doing magic for as long as you have been swinging that sword, they won't encase you in ice, unless you ask for it."

"But Serah..."

"Just be on watch and let the mages be."

The young man bows, hiding his face behind his shield. "Yes, Herald, as you say." He salutes and turns back to the trek.

Varric appears at Carver's side. "A word, Junior?"

"What?" Irritation makes his voice sound hard and he isn't even sure why he is so angry.

"Save your breath, I'm not here to tell you what to do."

Carver stops walking and stretches his back. "I'm sorry. You know, I would love to have someone tell me what to do for a change."

Varric pulls Carver to the side and hands him a waterskin. The trek of Inquisition soldiers and mages slowly moves past them as they drink. Cassandra glares at them but keeps on walking.

"Junior, not everyone is as easy around mages as you are. You've lived with apostates for as long as you remember. But a kid like that, all he's been told is that mages will kill him if he doesn't smite them first."

"Shit." Carver kicks a rock, causing a fennec to run away with its long ears flapping. "All this fear and now with the Breach, people gonna start killing each other." The last group of inquisition soldiers trots past them and they follow them at a distance.

Varric hurries to keep up with him. "Carver, you're working against hundreds of years of chantry doctrine. 'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him' and all that. You have to give people some time."

"I don't know if we have that much time," Carver says. "I'm gonna have to talk to Gernlem, am I?"

"Afraid so."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime, Junior."

Carver hurries to catch up to the young man, Gernlem, who trots after the trek with his head hanging low.

"Gernlem, can we talk for a moment?"

"Yes, Herald." The young man bows his head respectfully and falls into step with Carver.

"I know this is difficult and it goes against everything you know but I want the Inquisition to be a place where everybody is welcome. This will not be a new chantry and templar order."

"But as templars, it's our divine right..."

"We're not templars anymore."

"Of course, Herald, I just... I don't know how else to do this." Gernlem looks truly troubled, not malicious, as his worldview crumbles around him.

Carver puts a hand on his shoulder, metal gauntlet scraping against templar shoulderguard. "I understand, really, but you have to see mages as people like you and me. Your job here is to protect everyone, no matter who or what they are."

"What if one loses control?"

"Then you'll do what is necessary to protect everyone. And I mean everyone," Carver says. "My father was a mage, my two sisters are both mages and yet I still live. An angry man or woman with a sword is just as dangerous as an angry man or woman with magic. We'll have to find a way to live peacefully together."

Gernlem nods slowly. "There was a boy, worked as a stable boy on our farm and one day, my father caught him doing magic and had him taken away by templars. He was just putting some ice on my sister's ankle, she'd tripped and sprained it and he was just helping. A few hours later, he was gone, we had noone to work the stables and my sister couldn't walk for days and was crying all the time."

"And you thought it was right."

The young ex-templar looks up to him. "Yes, everybody said so."

Carver sighs again and rubs his temples. "I understand that his goes against everything you've learned. Andraste's arse, I've learned all this too. But we can't keep going on like this, fighting among each other."

Gernlem turns his helmet in his hands. "It's just... I've lost friends in this mage war you know and now they look at me like... like..."

"Like they've lost friends too? They probably have."

Gernlem is silent for a long time, his helmet turning and turning as he keeps walking. Finally, he looks up. "You're the Herald of Andraste. If this is the path you think we should go, then I will follow you."

"Thank you," Carver says, hiding his discomfort at being addressed like that.

Gernlem bows and then hurries to join the other ex-templars.

Varric comes to his side with a chuckle. "Have you told Cassandra of your grand plans for the Inquisition yet?"

"Not in all details."

This time Varric laughs out. "Oh, please let me be there when you do, I want to see her reaction."

Carver ignores his remark.

But Varric can't let up. "I'm so glad that the Herald of Andraste knows the path."

"Shut up," Carver grunts at him. "I'm not even sure about the path to the forward scout camp."

"We'll get there, Junior, we'll get there."

They only get lost once on the way.

*~~~(())~~~*

The scout camp sits atop a beautiful hill, with sturdy tents built in the shade of old trees. A pretty dwarf lady with a captivating smile greets them as they drag themselves into the camp on sore feet.

"The Herald of Andraste, a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Lace Harding," she says, looking amused as Carver more or less falls to the ground, pulling his boots from his feet. "I see you had a tough journey."

Carver groans. "I haven't walked this much in the last ten years combined, I'm sure. My blisters have blisters."

"We have ointment and potions here," Scout Harding says and turns to a sturdy table at the side. "Some elfroot salve should help but please use it sparingly, we're almost out of elfroot."

Cassandra leans her shield against a tent and unlaces her boots as well. Her feet also bear the marks of the long walk. "We have elfroot with us," she says as she sits down on a log. "The Herald insisted on collecting it whenever we came across it."

"Good thinking, Herald," Harding says.

Carver puts his sword and shield to the side and lies back, stretching out his sore back muscles. "Why do you all have to call me The Herald? My name is Carver."

"I find myself incapable of calling you by that name," Cassandra says, "I could call you Hawke?"

"Oh void, no, that's my sister." Carver shakes his head. He unties a cloth bag from his hip and holds it out for Harding to pick up. "That's the elfroot, it should still be good."

"I see that you know what you're doing," Harding says.

"I saw people who survived the battle of Ostagar, only to die from an infection because we didn't have any elfroot." He closes his eyes, letting the memories of that cursed battle wash over him.

"Your group is larger than we expected." Harding has climbed on a rock to look over everyone.

"We picked up a group of circle mages, who have agreed to join us," Cassandra explains. "They are not used to living outside of the Circle's routine and protection."

Carver bristles at calling the Circle a protection but he's too tired to argue.

He wakes to the smell of fresh stew.

"Herald," Cassandra says next to him, holding out a bowl of stew.

Carver sits up and digs into the food before he is even fully awake. "Thank you," he mumbles between spoonfuls of thick stew. His feet feel much better but he doesn't look forward to putting his boots back on.

With the stew settling in his stomach and some fresh water to drink, Carver begins to feel like a person again. He waves Scout Harding over, who is engaged in a conversation with Varric but doesn't look quite happy about it.

"Yes, Herald?" she says, leaving a strangely flustered Varric behind.

"Did Varric bother you?"

"No, he just asked if I've ever been in Kirkwall, cause then I would be Harding in Hightown, and I'm not sure what he means by that."

"I swear, his jokes are usually better than that, you must make him nervous."

Lace Harding snickers at that and blushes adorably.

Carver treats himself to a fresh pair of socks and begins the dreaded process of putting his boots back on. The elfroot salve and a minor health potion have helped to heal his feet and other scrapes and bruises but with the distances they have to cover, his feet will hurt again soon enough.

"Harding, in the long run... oh the irony," he says with a chuckle, "in the long run we can't run this Inquisition by running on foot all the time."

"Hah, good one, Junior, let me write that down," Varric says as he comes over.

Scout Harding also laughs. "Sister Nightingale never said that you're funny."

"I have my moments." He pulls the laces of his boots tight and his surprised how well the elfroot salve has worked. At least for now, he can walk pain free. "We need horses for the Inquisition, do you know where we could get some? Preferably as a donation."

Harding nods thoughtfully. "I see. Around here we say that Master Dennet has the best horses. Hardy, fereldan breeds. He might be open to help the Inquisition if the Inquisition helps in securing the village." She points down the hill. "Down there is the King's Highway, if the wind stands right, you can hear the fighting all the way up here. The village has been safe so far but rogue templars and rebel mages are moving along the highway towards Redcliffe Castle. It's only a matter of time until the village is drawn into the conflict."

Carver nods and adjusts his armor. "Please send a raven to Sister Nightingale that we're going to talk to Master Dennet about horses. But first we have to get to the Crossroads and I'm supposed to speak to this Mother Giselle."

"She's helping the refugees at the Crossroads," Harding says. "She's supposed to have influence on whatever has remained of the chantry but she's truly a good person, doing what is right."

"I don't care much for the chantry but we need helpers like her," Carver says. "People out here have to see that the Inquisition helps everybody, mages and non-mages."

Scout Harding looks at him with interest. "Is that your plan for the Inquisition?"

Varric chuckles quietly. "Junior here keeps surprising us all the time."

Carver stretches his neck, trying to shake of the tiredness from the travel. "I only hope this won't go up in flames around me."

"I'll keep Cassandra away from the matches," Varric says with a straight face.

"Very helpful, Varric."