Carver turns his horse around on top of a mountain ridge and looks back at the area they've just left. The Fallow Mire disappears into the darkness at the horizon, covered with forever raining clouds. On the other side of this mountain ridge, the land is green again, even sunny at spots; swamps, rocks and gravel giving way for lush grass and tall trees. Some spots here and there show the blackness of Blight sickness but it still looks more inviting than the miserable wet bog they just left behind.
"Why, in the name of Andraste's dirty knickers, does anyone want to live there?" Varric says, steering the wagon carefully along the narrow path.
After his rescue from bandits and a panicked horse, Varric refuses to ride any more horses and has decided to become an expert in driving a wagon. Tuffel, the pony, and Varric have developed a respectful friendship over the days since they left the trek to answer a message from the Fallow Mire.
"People live in the strangest places," Merrill says, petting her giant horse. "My clan never understood why I decided to live in Kirkwall."
"Granted," Varric says, "many people in Kirkwall keep asking themselves the same thing."
"Do you miss it?"
"Kirkwall? Well..." Varric looks towards the northern horizon as if his gaze could cover the distance over all of Ferelden towards the Waking Sea. "I definitely miss city life, I could kill for a fresh drawn ale or a nice apple pastry from the market."
Dorian arrives at the hilltop on an elegant black horse that looks into the landscape as if the wind itself is a personal insult to her. Dorian slings a colorful shawl tighter around his neck. "I would kill for a sedan carrying me over these dreadful mountains."
Carver narrows his eyes at him. "A sedan carried by slaves?"
Dorian looks startled, "Oh, I..."
"Elven slaves?" Merrill asks with something that is not quite a smile. Rather the very opposite of a smile. She turns her giant horse around and Dorian's mare throws her head back and takes a step back, feeling just as threatened as her rider.
"I... yes, probably not something I should wish for," Dorian mumbles.
Varric nods. "Probably. We kind of know a thing or two about life as a slave in Tevinter and I don't think it gains you any favours in this group."
"No it won't," Carver says. "And there won't be slaves in the Inquisition either. Ever."
"Yes, got it." Dorian nods and steers his nervous horse away. He doesn't look back but pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders.
"Do you think he'll stay?" Carver wonders when Dorian has moved away.
Varric shrugs his shoulders but Merrill answers first. "I think he really wants to help. He left his family, his friends, his whole life behind, that's not easy." She looks after Dorian. "It's not easy to start your life anew when you don't know the rules of the place."
Of course, Merrill would know about such a thing, Carver realizes. She left her clan, her life among the dalish to live in Kirkwall, not knowing anything about the city. If anybody knows how it is to feel lost in a strange world, it's her.
"I'm gonna talk to him," Merrill says and convinces her horse to follow Dorian. How she manages that special feat is a mystery because she doesn't even hold the reins of the beast.
Merrill's horse is a rightful giant and has thrown off many experienced riders but she gracefully allows Merrill to ride her. It doesn't look like Merrill is steering her much though, it seems to be more a kind of mutual agreement of deciding on a general direction to go and the beast then takes the path she likes. So far the beast has made good decisions but Carver worries how Merrill will fare if she has to disagree with the giant horse. She calls the horse Feringdal, and Carver can only hope that the name means 'nice and agreeable' in elvhen.
Further back, still in the shadow of the Fallow Mire, more horses carry Solas, Cassandra, Blackwall and Michelle. Cassandra has left the group and rides her horse hard up the hillside to catch up with Carver. She rides a true warhorse, hardened by Ferelden wars and possibly darkspawn and unfazed even by Merrill's beast. Coming up next to Carver's horse she pulls at the reins and the horse skitters to a halt, dust and pebbles flying up around its hoofs. "Herald Carver, a word?"
Carver still feels like he is about to get scolded whenever Cassandra wants to talk to him like that and he involuntarily straightens his back each time. "Yes, Seeker Cassandra?"
A hint of a smile shows on her face at the little joke between them, her still calling him Herald and him calling her Seeker. Varric watches her, smiling, and he quickly writes something in his notebook.
"I would like to talk about what happened in the Fallow Mire."
"Apart from saving our soldiers? The Avvar think that Andraste is a false prophet and wanted to prove it by killing me," Carver says with a shrug. "They failed, so there's that."
"Yes, and thank the Maker for that. But I never doubted that. You even got the Sky Watcher to ally with us, he could have great influence among the Avvar and gain us more allies." She looks at Carver. "You truly are her Herald, of that I have no doubt."
"Well, I..."
Cassandra raises her hand. "No, you don't have to justify yourself to me or anybody else. You're humble and questioning, those are good traits. I believe what I believe and my belief gives me hope that you will save us all and close the Breach."
"I will give it my best," Carver says. "I hope Cullen and Fiona have worked out some sort of training for the mages and soldiers, we need a good working army where mages and templars support each other."
"Leliana's last raven didn't mention any difficulties." Cassandra has her horse trot next to Carver's, the horses gently sniffing at each other as they climb down the mountain into the green Hinterlands. "I trust Cullen, he is a capable leader and will make sure that you'll have all the support you'll need."
"Does Leliana still give classes for templars and mages?" Carver asks.
"I believe she does," Cassandra says. "Last I heard, she makes them sing phrases to remember."
The thought of Leliana ordering hardened templars and mages to sing, makes Carver chuckle.
Behind them, Varric and Tuffel complain about the steepness of the path. "We'll lose the wagon if we keep going like this," Varric says and stops.
Carver takes another look around. "Scout Harding said we should follow this ridge until we come to a copse of trees, I think we went too far down."
"You have to come up here," Merrill calls down from somewhere above.
Carver strains his neck but he can't see her at this angle. "Wait for us."
"Gladly," comes Dorian's voice, rather dryly. "It's such a delightful view from here."
"There's a corpse here," Merrill says.
"We'll be right there."
Carver's horse, a spunky mare with white and brown patches, hops around as if she is happy to go on a new adventure while Cassandra's horse needs a bit more convincing to turn away from the green pastures right ahead and to climb back up the mountain. It takes even longer to turn the wagon around and Varric has to have a very serious conversation with Tuffel to convince her.
Cassandra watches how Varric lays out his argument to the pony and she smiles like Carver has never seen her smile before. Guiding her horse over to the wagon, she gets ready to dismount but her warhorse nudges Tuffel behind the ear and the pony finally agrees to pull the wagon around.
"Looks like they're best friends, don't you think, Seeker?" Varric grins towards Cassandra as he climbs back on the bench. Cassandra makes an undefined sound in her throat and turns away, spurring her horse on to catch up with Carver's.
As they ride silently up the hill to the barely visible fork in the path they missed before, Cassandra's cheeks are still rosy. She plays with the reins in her hands, lost in thought.
Up ahead, Merrill's giant horse is grazing while she is looking at something on the ground. The area widens and Cassandra's horse comes up to his side. "What did you want to ask me?"
Cassandra startles and blinks at him. "What? Oh, I wanted to speak about the apostate."
"Ah, yes." Carver takes a deep breath, calling upon the memories of the mage who had hidden in the swamps of the Fallow Mire for years it seems and apparently had lost her mind at some point. "She said her name was Widris."
"You were talking to her for a long time..."
"But I still had to kill her in the end." The death of that woman has left a bad taste in his mouth. It was so unnecessary.
Cassandra shakes her head. "It was clear that she was not quite right, what were you trying to achieve talking to her?"
Carver pulls at the reins, stopping his horse and stares at Cassandra. "Are you telling me that I shouldn't have tried to talk to her first?"
Cassandra's mouth turns into a thin, hard line. "I know I sound heartless. But that mage was clearly not to be reasoned with and she was dangerous and you still approached her like that, you didn't even have your sword in your hand."
"Was it that clearly? That woman, Widris, built beacons to control the undead in the swamps, she kept notes, written in cypher, and maybe it was all gibberish but what if it wasn't?" Carver lowers his voice. "She has experimented with magic and veil fire, has anybody done that before? We could have learned something from her, who knows what she could have taught us?"
"But you endangered yourself for — "
"Yes, I tried to talk to her, she was a mage, not a walking bomb," Carver yells out.
"I must admit that it troubles me how trusting you are." Cassandra looks down to her hands, clenched around the soft leather of the reins. "I didn't mean to offend you, I'm responsible for your safety, you are — "
" — our only hope for the Breach, I know." Carver grits his teeth. "Void forbid something happens to your precious Herald of Andraste."
"That's not — "
"I know!" Carver kicks his heels and his horse lurches forward in surprise, galloping past Merrill and Dorian until he comes to the copse of trees Scout Harding promised to be there. He pulls at the reins, bringing his horse to a slow pace and pets her neck. "Sorry, girl, that wasn't very nice of me, was it?"
The horse wiggles its ears and gives a snort.
"Yeah, you're right," Carver mumbles. He isn't sure about what but someone needs to have a grip on things here and it isn't him.
Heavy hoofbeats from Merrill's giant horse come up behind him and he turns around to look at her. Her hair has slipped out of the braid and flies around her head in the changing winds up here on this mountain ridge. Her green coat flutters behind her and she gives him a soft smile.
"Did they send you ahead to set me right again?" he asks, a bite in his voice he didn't mean to let out.
Merrill stops her horse next to him. She looks down her horse's long neck and strokes over the gleaming black fur. "Why would I have to set you right if there's nothing wrong with you?"
"I'm sure Cassandra disaggrees."
"She's just worried. She reminds me of Anders sometimes."
Carver laughs out. "Really? How so?"
"How she believes. She truly believes, with the force of the burning sun. She believes you are the Herald of Andraste, sent by the Maker to save us all." Merrill looks ahead, far out into the Hinterlands stretching out before them. "I miss that sometimes, things being certain like that."
Carver nods. "Yes, me too." He looks over to Merrill. "Do you believe I'm the Herald of Andraste?"
Merrill turns in the saddle to face him with a shy smile. "I don't know if I can answer that question."
"Well, we got that in common."
Merrill absentmindedly braids the mane of the beast. Carver's horse eyes Merrill's horse suspiciously and is careful to keep a healthy distance between them.
"I can tell you what I know," Merrill says. "I know that you are Carver Hawke, that you always try to be good and fair. I know that you became a templar to protect your sisters and your mother. I know that you never believed that mages are evil and that they needed to be locked up but you still joined the templars. I never understood that but I know that you always try to do good."
"I had to — "
"No, let me answer your question. I know that Andraste was a real person, she fought with Shartan against the Tevinter Imperium. I don't know who the Maker was but I know that the creators, our gods, used to walk where we walk today. They were real and they left us, long before Andraste and Shartan died."
Merrill holds up her palm and a light begins to glow in it. She holds her hand over to him, offering the light in her palm and Carver feels his Herald-hand warm. He holds it out to her, palm up and the mark lights up, softly, little tendrils of green light stretching towards Merrill's magic. She looks to him as her magic entwines with his and it touches something primal in him, a connection that he feels in his very breath.
"I know that the mark on your hand is not from this time," she says. "it's not from this side of the veil. It is connected to the Fade, maybe even made there. It's magic of a kind that we don't know anymore. My ancestors probably knew about magic like this, it is old, older than the Tevinter Imperium, maybe older than humans."
"Older than humans?" Carver plays with the light in his palm, twisting and, sending out little sparks. He has gotten pretty good at controlling it. Out of the corner of his eyes he notices that Solas has steered his horse closer.
Merrill sends a spark into the dancing green cloud on his hand and he laughs out as it tickles up his arm. She smiles and closes her fist, extinguishing the magic in her palm. Then her face turns serious. "To answer your question — no, I don't believe you are the Herald of Andraste. Whatever the mark on your hand connects you with, it's much older than Andraste. I just hope..." she sighs and takes his hand in hers, stroking over his knuckles. "I just hope that none of the old gods are playing tricks on us."
"The gods would do that?"
"Yes, our gods were not kind. Only Mythal spoke for us and they killed her."
Carver looks down on her hand holding his. The horses are surprisingly calm, sniffing each other. "When you fail, when you have no hope, who do you turn to?"
"What do you mean?" Merrill looks in his eyes, a shadow crossing over her face.
Carver thinks of Leliana in the throne room, in the future that won't happen. Shooting her last arrows while praying: 'Andraste guide me. Maker, take me to your side.'
"People pray to Andraste for help, for guidance, when things look dire. Who do Dalish turn to?"
Merrill looks ahead towards dark clouds that hang deep over the land ahead. They have already swallowed the sun and the air smells of rain. "Maybe that's why my people failed and lost their freedom. We had no one to give us hope. Only the dreadwolf would help us sometimes but his help always came with a price."
"So we can't ask your gods for help?"
"I think our gods expect us to help ourselves."
"That's harsh," Carver says.
The rest of the group has arrived at the copse and with the wagon rumbling up and coming to a stop, preparations to set up camp begin. A while later, they sit with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea around the campfire, while the tents are airing out the collected moisture of the dreadful Fallow Mire. They exchange a few words and compare minor injuries but silence soon falls around the campfire.
Cassandra hardly says a word and Dorian hurries into his tent as soon as possible. Varric declares that he'll take up first watch on the wagon because he needs to write a few things down and a little while later, Carver and Merrill sit alone at the fire.
Merrill takes Carver's hand and squeezes it. "I don't like it when it is like this."
"Nobody talking and everybody brooding?"
"Yes, it's like having too many Fenrisses around," Merrill says. She digs into her pouch and pulls out a piece of paper and a small vial. Carver feels a chill down his spine when he recognises the shape of it.
"That's a phylactery. Where did you find that?"
"The body back there, where Dorian and I waited for you. It was a templar, he had a letter on him. His name was Mattrin and in the letter it says that the phylactery belonged to Ellendra."
Carver takes the glass vial from her and holds it up the light of the moons. It shines bright red, the blood preserved to never clot. "I think I met an Enchanter named Ellendra at the Crossroads. She told me that she loved a templar."
"He kept the phylactery to find her. But then something must have happened." Merrill angles the letter so that the light from the fire falls on it. The writing is shaky, it looks like the author's hands were trembling. "It says here 'The terrors are with me more often than not.' Do you think he ran out of lyrium?"
Carver looks to his own hands. They don't tremble, not yet, but if he doesn't take the dose in his pocket before morning comes, he won't be spared of that either. No templar can escape this destiny. "Yes, he probably means the withdrawal."
Merrill's fingertip wanders down a few lines. "He felt weak, too weak to withstand demons. He poisoned himself."
"He chose death over possession." Carver stares into the fire and silence stretches between them. He looks at the phylactery in his hand and shoves it into a pocket. "I'll give Ellendra her phylactery back, she should have it."
Merrill doesn't react. She stares into the fire, gnawing at her lip.
"Carver," Merrill says suddenly, startling him. "When you feel too weak, when you fear that demons could possess you, you will talk to me, yes?"
"Yes, of course." He takes her hand in his but she doesn't look at him.
"Promise me." Now she looks at him, uncharacteristically grim. "Promise me to let me help you."
Carver is taken aback by the seriousness of her voice. "I promise. I promise I'll let you help."
"Good." Merrill still holds his hand but she stares into the fire.
Carver looks at her for a long time, the fire crackling in front of them and casting flickering shadows on Merrill's face. "I don't really know what you can do, do I?"
Merrill turns her head to look at him. Her hair falls in front of her face and almost hides her eyes but he can still see them twinkle. "No, you don't."
Carver looks at her, her smile, her bright eyes, so innocently looking. But Merrill isn't the sheltered dalish girl from years ago that tagged along with his sister. That strange girl, who left her clan behind to stare at the buildings in the city and watch people getting robbed with delighted wonderment.
She has become stronger, a bit harder too but she never let go of her joyous nature. Carver knows something about powerful women, he remembers how his older sister adapted to become what the dreadful city expected from her but it changed her, it killed some of the joy inside of her. Merrill never allowed that to happen to her. With all her power, all her abilities, she is still wholly herself, never compromising herself.
Carver's heart makes a tiny jump as he watches her and he smiles. What an amazing girl he has.
