Sorry for the long delay, got a stomach flu on the heels of my cold at the end of last week. Oh the joys of having a child in preschool. It's probably going to be a difficult winter, just to warn you, but I am doing Nanowrimo and made my first day's goal so...yay for competent beginnings.

The Fens

In the end, we lost six, including Jehan.

By the third day after the rescue, those who had suffered no worse than malnourishment had improved enough to be of some use around camp, though they still tired easily. The rest of the wounded had either died or were mending, and we had found the time and energy to finish healing our own soldiers, including Cassandra.

On the fourth day, after my first full night of sleep since our assault on the Citadelle, I took my usual companions, several soldiers, two scouts, and Loranil, and we cleared the ramparts before continuing east to the opened passage into the wetlands. The rest of the scouts were making plans to leave our northern camp, ceding it to the remnants of Celene's forces now that we no longer needed to hold the position and they were nearly well enough to see to their own needs. The Imperial troops there would, according to missives from Leliana, soon be bolstered by a contingent of soldiers from Halamshiral.

I hoped they meant to retreat again and not stay to fight the Freemen, which would place further strain on the Veil in the Dirthavaren, but of course no one was volunteering that information.

On the matter of my own ridiculous legend, it was precisely as Solas had predicted: Celene's soldiers were already telling wild stories to each other about the peace I brought to both the injured and the dying with my voice, and I hated that. But they were also telling stories of the kindness shown by my scouts, soldiers, and companions, and I found that development more hopeful. They might ascribe my actions to something divine with unearned awe, but they were merely grateful for and humbled by the compassion shown to them by the other members of the Inquisition.

I was proud of my people, and made sure to tell them so before we split up to attend our various duties.

Clearing the second set of ramparts was no joy, but there was only one arcane horror and we had become very efficient in putting down undead - even those that wanted to continue rising over and over again. No one was injured, and we were able to proceed east afterward, though we did stop to bathe when a stream presented itself. Undead ash had grown no less gritty and revolting for our time spent unwillingly wearing it.

Harding was waiting eagerly for us at our camp. "We've spotted the snowy wyvern you wanted, though it may be difficult to get to without fighting the high dragon that's moved into the fens - "

"High dragon!" Bull repeated, and I felt his eyes on me. "Boss."

"Bull, we're not prepared for this," I reminded him, heaving an exasperated sigh in his general direction.

"Boss," he repeated, pleading.

"I have a ball to attend in less than two months," I reminded him. "We're all supposed to be at Skyhold right now learning…manners and…dancing. Getting fitted for clothes. Whatever else one does before a ball. We would have to strategize and practice. It could take weeks ! We don't have weeks!"

"You're breaking my heart, Boss," he told me, sounding as piteous as a giant of a man his size reasonably could.

"You're not breaking mine," Dorian muttered in response.

"Okay, that's not all I have," Harding interrupted before I could even attempt to respond to them. "So…apparently this place - where we're camped right now - is called Ghilan'nain's Grove. I found an inscription in both Common and Elvish giving its name and recounting the story about how she became a halla - which was so interesting and tragic! I've never heard it before."

I glanced towards Loranil. "Do you know of this place?"

"Perhaps Keeper Hawen does," he answered, "but the clan doesn't typically come this far north. Too many shemlen - uh, human - settlements. And Revas'an, where they built their fort, is nearby."

"That's not even all, Inquisitor!" I could practically hear Harding bouncing. She was wobbling a little in my uncertain sight, too, but I couldn't tell if it was actual movement or just general blurriness. "There's this giant hand just sitting in the middle of an open area not far from here. The other scouts and I were trying to work out what it was and where it came from all day yesterday, until Remy literally tripped over a hidden dig site when he went to take a - well, that part isn't important. It looks like no one has touched it for months, but there's a barrier over the entrance that we haven't managed to bring down yet."

I smiled at my scout. "That does sound like an exciting discovery. We'll take a look as soon as we've taken down the snowy wyvern tomorrow."

"Do you think it's an elven ruin?" Harding asked. "Maybe something related to Ghilan'nain?"

"You can come with us tomorrow and find out," I told her.

"I was hoping you would say that." I could hear the relieved smile in her voice. "Thanks, Inquisitor."

"Re ma'neral. You know could ask, Lace," I pointed out, amused. "I won't say no without a good reason."

She laughed, clearly embarrassed even if I couldn't see her blush. "I know. It's just such a small thing, and you have so many people asking for things. I feel bad."

"Don't," I told her. "Otherwise I'll have to start worrying about whether I'm leaving you out of our adventures - it's much easier for me if you just tell me when you want in."

"Noted, Inquisitor," she told me cheerfully. "And…thanks. Again."

I spent the evening consulting maps - and Harding - about the fens and where the high dragon preferred to hunt. Luckily - though also unsurprisingly - the wyverns in the area kept away from her as much as possible, and there wasn't space for her to land among the some of the narrower canyons and in the heavy tree cover.

"I can't believe you're doing this for Vivienne," Dorian said when I rejoined everyone at the fire.

"Why?" I asked. "I don't even know what wyvern hearts are used for - she said it was a potion for someone on the Council of Heralds."

Dorian snorted a condescending laugh. "My dear, sweet, sheltered little Dalish lamb - wyvern hearts are traditionally components in potions of youth." He snorted again. "Not that any of them work, of course, no matter how rare the specimen in question. It's clear that someone has insulted her or she noticed a new line on her face, and she's determined to recapture the advantages youth gave her in her quest for power."

I turned his words over thoughtfully, but they struck me as fundamentally untrue. Whatever Vivienne's personal failings might be, threats to the power she wielded only seemed to make her more determinedly poised. And yet her hands must have been shaking badly to introduce a noticeable tremor in her usually-perfect copperplate calligraphy.

I didn't say any of that to Dorian though. Instead I propped my chin on my hand and stared at the fire. "What if you're right?" I asked.

"Pardon?" he replied, not understanding what I was getting at.

"What are the drawbacks to helping her if you're right?" I rephrased. "Vivienne is a Rivaini mage who has managed to climb into the upper echelons of Orlesian society - a society so infamously self-absorbed that even a Dalish clan in the Marches occasionally passes around jokes about it. She is, moreover, a woman - and I've observed that, for humans, youth is prized in women as it is not in men. Her power, though likely not pursued for the sake of the Inquisition, still benefits us at this point in time. What does it matter even if she has lied about her intentions and reasons? Perhaps she feared I would react precisely as you have if she revealed them."

Dorian was silent for a moment - everyone around the fire was, even the soldiers whom I hadn't really expected to take much interest in our conversations. The only sound was Bull trying to smother an appreciative chuckle.

"I didn't know you and Vivienne were on such good terms," Dorian said lightly.

"We disagree on almost everything, and I find her personally a little cold. I also wish she would stop playing the Game at me," I told him wryly. "Even so, I respect the skill and tenacity she has demonstrated in rising as she has, and I don't believe her unfeeling. She has just…learned to keep her feelings in check, because doing otherwise would be extremely dangerous in her position. Helping her doesn't lose me anything, and could gain me a great deal if she is telling the truth."

"The pragmatic idealist," Dorian teased me to avoid addressing anything I had said. "You are truly the rarest of flowers, my dear."

"Stop, Dorian," I grumbled, only slightly annoyed. I knew he would think over my words in private - he just really wasn't one for serious debate.

"You're both missing the important part," Bull informed us. "We get to hunt a wyvern! It's not as good as a real dragon, but it's pretty good, right?"

"Speak for yourself, Tiny," Varric groused. "Maker only knows what kind of poisonous crap is lurking in that swamp, and I'll bet you five royals that I'm going to end up half swimming through water up to my armpits."

"Not a swamp," Solas protested quietly.

"Thanks, Chuckles - I'm sure that's vital information," Varric shot back.

"Well," Harding put in, "swamps and fens have different poisonous crap. But we'll definitely be in water up to our armpits in spots. I already had a look."

"You sure you don't just want to take my place in this whole expedition, Braids?" Varric asked.

"Varric," I chided him, "there's a high dragon in the area. We're trying to avoid it, but based on how things went last time…"

"Right," he sighed. "Forget I said anything."

In the Fade that night, Solas and I finally explored the history of the region a little. He showed me the decorative stonework in the Citadelle du Corbeau, and we began delving into the history of Revas'an, though we didn't manage to make it back to a time before it had been a ruin. Still, we saw it as it had been when my people had held this land, long before the site was covered by a shemlen fort, with its strange statue of Fen'Harel in repose, staring benevolently out over the moss-covered stones. My ancestors stopped to leave offerings - as some did for Fen'Harel now - but they seemed calmed by the statue's presence rather than intimidated, and their words were, incongruously, addressed to Mythal.

"Why do you pray to Mythal at a shrine to Fen'Harel?" I asked one of the spirit-elves.

He shrugged. "It is the tradition, lethallan."

Another told me: "Perhaps he will, in his caprice, deign to carry our prayers into the Beyond, where we cannot go."

"How very odd," I told Solas.

"It's difficult to picture how such legends and traditions form," he agreed, brow furrowed.

No matter how long we watched, none of the spirit-elves seemed to know the reasons for the tradition, and eventually the morning called us away from the Fade.

Bull, at least, seemed to enjoy our slog through the fens the next day as we killed drakes and wyverns, searching for the wyvern we wanted. Varric, on the other hand, might not have stopped muttering complaints even in the midst of battle - though, to be fair, most of them were on Bianca's behalf, as he was concerned about getting her wet. Harding endeared herself to him further by keeping watch for shallower water and rocky islands where Varric could stand more comfortably. "Braids, we should talk - I might want to include you in my next book," Varric announced as Cassandra and Bull worked on carving out the heart of the snowy wyvern we had finally cornered and killed.

I smothered a laugh as she stammered something, sounding more confused than flattered.

It had taken us half the morning just to find the snowy wyvern, and most of the remaining half to corner and kill it as it had seemed to be less aggressive than other local species and had forced us to stalk it. At last, however, the heart was sealed in an enchanted pouch and we were free to turn our attention to the site Harding and the other scouts had located. We ate our midday meal basking in the sun on top of the giant hand that marked the site, and Varric finally stopped complaining after I asked Dorian to use a heat spell to draw some of the water from his clothes. For all her lack of complaints, I saw Harding's bright hair in that general area, as well, and knew she must have been as uncomfortable as Varric. I wondered whether she hadn't said anything because he was saying so much, or whether I should let her know that it was all right to voice complaints now and then, too.

No one had killed Varric yet, after all - not even Cassandra - and he was an unending font of complaints.

"Would you prefer to join them?" Solas asked, leaning close. He had apparently noticed where my attention was drawn.

"Is that a dig about my height?" I demanded, narrowing my eyes with mostly feigned indignation. I had been waist-deep in muddy water for much of the morning, but I categorically did not want my muddy clothes drying stiff against my body, as they certainly would with the application of Dorian's heat spell. That sounded more uncomfortable than remaining damp.

His eyebrows arched. "No. I believe I've made my expectations on perfection clear. I have none, and I've even fewer when it comes to physical characteristics over which you can have no control." He paused and one side of his mouth twitched. "I fear we must both thank blind luck that your appearance is so utterly without flaw."

My mouth fell open a little at the unexpected compliment. "Sweet-talker," I accused as I felt my cheeks and ears heat, shoving him with my shoulder.

He shot me a sly smile and sidelong glance. "You make it sound as though I'm insincere. I can assure you I speak only the truth."

If he kept talking, I was going to kiss him right here in front of everyone. "Solas," I told him, my voice dropping low, "if I wanted to get wet again there's an entire fen to oblige me. I don't need your help." He choked and then snorted a surprised laugh, but I raised my voice so everyone else could hear before he could reply: "All right, I think it's time for Harding to show us this dig site now."

Re ma'neral: It's my pleasure