Let us take a short breather from all that tension between Tharin and Cullen, shall we? A bit of a quick palate cleanser, if you will…

Ghoulish.

That was the only way to describe the Fallow Mire. Just… ghoulish.

Truly, this was a land forsaken by the Maker. As its appellation suggested, the region was covered with bogs and marshes. But even the drier parts never remained completely dry with the rainstorms that came and went so frequently. As the sunlight waned, will-o'-the-wisps would radiate eerie lights through the precipitation, beckoning the travelers to their unknown fate.

Not that the Herald felt especially compelled to explore the source of those will-o'-the-wisps. His party was too occupied with fighting Avvars and the undead.

Most of the Fereldan inhabitants here were felled by a plague in the year prior and the survivors fled after Avvars arrived from the south.

It wasn't as though Tharin particularly disliked Avvars. He had no opinion on them whatsoever before, though he had imagined Kyr and himself living among them when the two discussed far-off places they could never visit. That the mage would never visit. They would have lived off the land as Avvars do, away from the watchful eyes of Theodosians, and with just each other to hold onto.

But this was now, and he certainly did not appreciate the Hand of Korth capturing Inquisition scouts and challenging him to a duel. The young man and his companions already had their hands full with the Breach and the Mage-Templar War without having to make a detour to this marshy backwater.

Still, Tharin was not about to let some misguided tribesmen execute the Inquisition scouts whose sole goal was reconnaissance, not combat. He had every intention of keeping his promise to the Commander, that he would serve and protect those without power to the best of his ability. If a megalomaniac who named himself the Hand of Korth wanted to duel him, then that was what the man was going to get.

At least the tribesmen were conscious and could be reasoned with. They even met an Avvar shaman named Amund who was downright pleasant. The undead were a different story.

The bogs and marshes were filled with decaying bodies of those lost to the plague and years of warfare. This meant that demons would have plenty of targets when they desired to leave the Fade and explore this side of the Veil. The result? An endless supply of possessed corpses. Every time someone in the party even dipped a toe in the muddy waters of the Mire, the undead would swarm and overwhelm the party.

Eventually, however, confronting the undead became repetitive and tiresome. The monotony was broken up by Cassandra and Varric, who apparently decided this was the perfect time to start arguing.

Marching stridently on the gravels of the old thoroughfare, the Seeker fumed, "All I am saying is that you have proven yourself to be most irresponsible regarding the important matters at hand. How can I trust you if you won't tell me where Hawke is?"

"I told you already. I do not know where she is."

"Lies."

The dwarf grunted before retorting peevishly, "You interrogated me! You punched me and threw the book at me, literally! And yet I told you everything I know!"

"More lies, Varric."

"Seeker, I'm warning you. You are this close to getting me mad. And Bianca was just warming up to you too."

Tharin welcomed the brief pause in between the argument. He turned and focused his eyes on the rain-soaked road. They had quite a way to go before arriving at Hargrave Keep where the Avvars made their base of operation. Of course, the ceasefire wasn't likely to last long.

Cassandra exhaled frustratedly and asserted, "I am not trying to hunt down Hawke. All I want is her help with the Inquisition. Stop being so unreasonable."

"I am being unreasonable? Ha! Seeker, you are ordering me to hand over my personal journal. The last time I checked, you can't boss me around like one of your tranquils.'

"That is a gross misrepresentation of the situation. And anyway, templars, and not the Seekers of Truth, guard tranquils."

Well, this was not about to get resolved fast, and their vociferous voices must have been loud enough to wake the undead. Tharin could see the reanimated bodies emerging from the water.

The Herald snapped, "Will you two please be quiet?" He almost shouted shut up but caught himself just in time. Varric would appreciate his vexation, but the Seeker was more likely to bristle at the suggestion. "I see at least six undead approaching. We need to put our guard up." He unsheathed his greatsword and jumped over the crumbling stone wall of the thoroughfare.

The dwarf was anything but serious. As he readied Bianca, he mocked, "Hey Seeker, maybe you can ask Hawke to take down those undead. After all, you expect her to do everything else, save the world and whatnot!"

"Very mature, Varric. I will read your journal, nonetheless. It may contain clues as to where Hawke may be located," Cassandra still insisted with her sword and heater shield at the ready.

One of the undead finally reached the party and lunged at Tharin. At the right moment Solas put up an arcane barrier. The undead looked mystified as it failed to inflict any damage on Tharin with its tarnished sword. The young man seized the chance and swung his greatsword as hard as possible to lop off its head. The rotting skin sloughed off as the skull rolled on the ground. The rest of the body simply crumbled into a pile of bones and decomposed organs

Feeling the thumps of his heartbeat in his ears, Tharin shouted, "I will steal Varric's journal and give it to you if you help me take down these undead now!"

Cassandra grunted and finally joined the Herald at his side.

As they leapt in and out of Solas's arcane barrier to slash at the enemies, the young man yelled crossly, "Much obliged."

The party ended up being interrupted five more times by groups of the walking corpses before they stumbled upon a high ground and encamped for the night.

After a full day of traipsing across the wetlands in the miserable rain and taking down countless dozens of the undead, there was only so much more Tharin was willing to do. At the new campsite he helped pitch two tents as quickly as possible, crawled into one of them, and lay down on his back with his hands gathered at his chest.

The steel armor was supposedly solid and sturdy enough to keep the chills at bay, but the young man still felt trapped in the cold. Every minute of every hour in this wretched land he was cold. And he was tired, tired enough to ignore his stomach growling angrily for sustenance.

He dozed off for a while, but the fatigue stuck to him like a leech.

The slumber came as lightning would but left as a snail would, leaving a sticky trail in the form of hazy mind that would not ease. It was pure luxury to lie in the darkened tent even while the reality of his situation crashed against the shores of his conscious. After conceding the fact that staring up at the ridge of the tent was not likely to help him achieve any additional sense of inner peace, the Herald sat up begrudgingly.

Tharin laboriously worked his hands to remove his leather boots one by one. He had those boots since before he left the Hasmal Circle. It was long past the time to part with them. Their seams were coming apart and they have begun to leak, which meant his socks were now wet and ripe.

He scrunched his face as he took the socks off as well. In addition to the musty, pungent odor that wafted in his face, the abrasive textile scraped against many blisters that came to adorn his poor feet.

He checked each sore but could not do much more than that. It was not as though they were back at Haven, where he could solicit one of many healers to tend to them. Nor were they at the Fisher's End Camp, the only established Inquisition campsite in the region, where there would at least be some elfroot and dawn lotus ointments.

At least Solas was here. The mage could help get rid of some of the blisters, despite there being so many of them. Tharin already began to feel sorry for Solas, who would have to handle his malodorous feet.

Grumbling silently, he stuck out his hands outside the tent flap to wring his disgusting socks dry. He would have to keep wearing them and the boots unless they could loot some decent new ones in one of the many abandoned cabins.

"Soup's on if you're hungry." Varric walked over and informed, giving him an inquisitive look.

As Tharin struggled to put the socks back on, he remembered the forgotten obligation. "Ah, Blight! It was my turn to cook."

"Don't worry. You looked beat. Chuckles volunteered and I helped."

"You did? What did you make?"

"Bouillabaisse, if you are Orlesian. Fish stew, if you are a Free Marcher."

The young man paused. "Uh… The fish… came from the marsh, didn't they?" Where the dead lie, he finished the sentence in his mind.

Varric snickered. "Don't worry. I poured the whole bottle of that liquor we found. What was it, Gar… someone's Backcountry Reserve? Boy, was it potent." The dwarf shrugged as his smirk grew, "That should have counteracted any dead body parts the fish might have swallowed, I hope… Besides, we gutted them first."

"Holy Maker, you make it sound like the most scrumptious fare ever."

"Just be grateful that someone at Haven had enough sense to put a packet of herbs and seasoning in Chuckles's haversack."

Varric turned to leave but his steps halted almost immediately. Looking obviously compunctious, he hummed, "Hey, I am sorry about the mess earlier."

Trying to squeeze his feet inside the sodden boots and failing, Tharin glowered. His voice, however, remained good-natured. "You mean how you and Cassandra argued, leaving Solas and I to eliminate all the undead?"

"Yes, that."

"No harm done. Plus, Cassandra was the one who provoked you, not the other way around."

Varric chortled and shook his head. "Right? Maker's balls, she's too much."

"Indeed."

Tharin exhaled sharply when he stood up. The blisters were painful, but he had to eat something. And the fish stew smelled inexplicably delicious. Together, the two approached the campfire and the pot. Without acknowledging their presence or greeting, Solas ladled two full bowls of the stew and handed them one by one.

After the supper warmed him up and fortified him considerably, Tharin sat on a mossy boulder by the campfire and busied himself with cleaning his armor and greatsword. It did feel somewhat meaningless, but it was an entrenched habit. Moreover, he had no desire to smell like the undead in addition to smelling like a wet mabari.

At least now that the sweat from the day's travels was dry, he only stank like a regular mabari. He confirmed by discreetly sniffing his cotton shirt. Yes, definitely a regular mabari. Constant adventuring made him appreciate the small things. Smelling not quite like a wild animal, just a domesticated hound, counted as a small blessing.

Potable water was precious in this part of Thedas, so he dared not waste it on cleaning his armor. Instead, he had to make do with puddle water on the ground in front of him. Fortunately, it seemed clear enough as he dipped the cleaning rag into it. He felt Cassandra approaching but ignored her until she was seated on the slab of stone that leaned against his boulder.

The Seeker made a noise that didn't quite translate into discernible words. When he paused his hands and turned, he saw the woman looking noticeably contrite. Rather unusual for her. "I apologize… for the fight between Varric and I."

He picked up a pauldron and began to polish ferociously. "You could have gotten us killed, Seeker."

Cassandra emitted a subdued hum. "I doubt that. You dispatched all the undead without my help well enough."

"Barely," the young man spat. But in all honesty, he could stay mad at the woman as much as he could stay angry at Varric. He liked her despite everything. The Herald faced her and gave a thin simper.

Looking curiously hesitant, Cassandra took a minute before asking, "How are you?"

The Herald snorted in amusement. "Fine and dandy. How about you?"

"I don't mean today. I mean being the Herald of Andraste."

Tharin turned and stared at Cassandra. Was it a concern in her face? There were deep grooves on her brows, and her full lips were curling downward. The olive brown eyes were warm and caring, reflecting the campfire like waveless lakes.

Feeling like he witnessed something he should not have, Tharin faced away. "It's… certainly an experience."

Cassandra leaned forward and spoke quietly, "I want you to know, I have no regrets. Maybe if we'd found Hawke or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn't have needed to send you. But he did."

"For what it's worth, I am sorry you couldn't find Hawke or the Warden."

"Don't be. I don't know what's to come, but… you're more than I could have hoped for."

The compliment felt genuine, but it was too much. "It's too early to say for sure whether my tenure as the Herald would be a success or a failure. We only have an untested hypothesis for closing the Breach."

"But we are here to rescue the scouts. You inspire people to do good. That's half the battle."

A shadow passed over the Seeker's face, and some part of Tharin braced for the unknown that was coming. "I do want to ask… if you are taking care of yourself. Do you perhaps… require lyrium?" Cassandra hastily added, "I do not mean to push you to take it. In fact, I am against it if you can help it."

Tharin relaxed and beamed kindly, "I know. You support Cullen in his effort to quit lyrium, so I don't doubt that you would support me."

Cassandra was one of the founding members of the Inquisition. She helped Tharin prove his innocence back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had the right to know.

"I courted a mage, back when I was in the Hasmal Circle. I assume Leliana found out and told you all about it?" Predictably, the Seeker nodded cautiously. "His name was Kyre. He helped me by making sure I took less lyrium every time. I never wanted to be a templar, and it seemed like a way to free myself from the Order.

"I suppose I never trusted the Chantry either. Anyway, you already know I've been free of lyrium for some time. It will stay that way. You need not worry."

With her expression soft, Cassandra intoned contemplatively, "It is strange to think that Divine Andraste sent someone so skeptical of the Chantry and the templars as her messenger." Her dreamy eyes snapped back into focus. "No offense."

The young man cachinnated freely. Dipping the cleaning rag in the puddle and watching the slime of the undead dissipate into now murky water, Tharin declared lightheartedly, "None taken. Look, I will do my best to help people and rebuild this world. I've already made that promise to somebody. And if that is the Maker's will, then so be it. I don't need some organization telling me to be good to do good."

Seemingly satisfied with his reply, the Seeker clasped Tharin's shoulder and offered, "Would you like some help with the other pauldron?"

"If you have time." Tharin produced another rag from his pocket and lightly tossed it to the woman.

She caught it with no effort. "For you, always."

Cassandra volunteered to be the first watch of the night and left the campsite to patrol while Varric drifted to sleep in the other tent, as evinced by his loud snoring. Tharin and Solas sat in their tent tending to the young man's blisters.

Despite his best efforts, Tharin's naked feet wafted salty, sour odor that made Solas's face crinkle in unmitigated disgust. Not to mention his boots and socks.

"Sorry about the smell," said the young man apologetically. But the mage did not respond as he applied healing magic. Solas's fingers moved nimbly as small bursts of emerald arcane energy surrounded Tharin's soles.

After several minutes, the blisters were noticeably smaller. The throbbing pain calmed as well.

Grateful for the healing, Tharin nodded and intoned, "That feels much better. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Solas gave a half grin that was probably the best he could do. The Herald had gathered that the mage wasn't exactly the emotionally open type. "Keep the feet dry tonight. By tomorrow morning the blisters should be gone."

The stench of his feet had so effortlessly overtaken their tent and it could use some airing out. They decided to leave the flaps open while they took a short stroll, taking advantage of a lull in the rainstorm. Making sure not to disturb the marsh itself, they sat down at the sandy water's edge.

The waters were peaceful and with rain clouds temporarily gone, the moons shone brightly, reflecting whole on the serene marsh. The air was still humid and Tharin could sense the vapors surround him. He heard frogs croaking their merry song. The land was almost beautiful this way.

With a deep breath Solas spoke quietly, "The Veil is extremely thin here. I can feel it."

The young man picked up a stick and proceeded to write names of Inquisition advisors on the sand in cursive for no reason. Cullen Rutherford. Sister Leliana. Josephine Montilyet. Cassandra Pentaghast.

As Tharin scribbled he countered casually, "It must be all the dead bodies, attracting demons and weakening the Veil." The young man cocked his head in curiosity. "Though, how can you tell? It doesn't feel any different for me other than the terrible climate."

"You are a templar. You are as attuned to the Fade as a potato is."

When Tharin turned brusquely and gave a look, he thought he saw a small quirk pass by Solas's visage. The mage must have been pleased with his own joke.

Having decided to ignore that little twist in the mage's mouth, Tharin inquired earnestly, "What about dreams? Couldn't anyone travel to the Fade in the dream?"

Solas hummed and gave a long answer, "Technically yes. But for non-mages, intentionality is lost. You can control your actions no more than the waves can control the moons. You dream what you dream, while your consciousness slumbers. Now, if you are still taking lyrium to maintain your templar abilities, that might make a difference."

"How so?"

"Lyrium is the material that creates a bridge across the Veil. It is linked to the Fade in ways you and your templar brothers and sisters are not. You must know that mages can enter the Fade with their consciousness fully intact by imbibing lyrium."

"Of course. I did pay attention while I was a templar. But I didn't think anyone truly understood how it worked or why it worked."

"Those are excellent questions that need further research."

"Which you are willing to undertake?"

"If the Inquisition requires it, then perhaps." Solas nodded deliberately, but if it was in assent or in dissent, it was hard to tell. Tharin put down the stick and waited for the mage to continue. It was obvious that Solas was not done yet.

"By taking lyrium you are strengthening your bond to the Fade. It does not mean that you will be able to roam the Fade consciously, however.

"With more lyrium in your system, your presence may become stronger in the Fade, felt and appreciated by more spirits. Your dreams will be more tangible there. In short, you are likely to be noticed more by the spirits, even if you cannot communicate with them directly."

Tharin felt fog-like dread approaching. He swallowed hard and asked timidly, "Does that mean that if I were to take lyrium, spirits… demons could target me? For possession?"

"Spiritual possession of an ordinary person is rare indeed. And only the individuals of this world can pervert the spirits into demons through corruption and preconceptions. Treat spirits fairly, and they will treat you well. You needn't worry."

The viscous dread refused to lift. Tharin picked up a flat pebble to skip across the water but remembered that it would stir up the undead. Instead of throwing it, he dropped it back in its spot and brushed off the errant dirt from his hands.

It was then the Anchor unexpectedly crackled. The verdigris beam broke into dizzy shards as Tharin held up his left hand and willed it to subside. After a good half minute of continuous crepitation, the Anchor slowly resumed its quiet coruscation.

The young man did not feel anything, but his heart was in his throat and nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Tharin glared at the hand, trying to think of different ways the Anchor could destroy him.

After staring at Tharin passionlessly amid interminable silence, Solas finally asked, "Has that been happening often?"

"No, but it does act up from time to time. I don't really feel anything." Tharin tried his hardest to put on a brave face. For what purpose, even he was not sure. But he still did. A smile.

"The Anchor is stabilized for now. I cannot guarantee that it will remain so."

Tharin felt his fake smile breaking.

"You must let me know if the Anchor pains you. Or if you keep having the same nightmare," added the mage coolly.

Solas looked like he wanted to say more, but no more came forth. Tharin nodded lightly in agreement.

Another day of traveling through the swamplands brought the party to the gates of Hargrave Keep, where the Hand of Korth awaited.

The Hand was not exactly a tough opponent. He lacked the basic skill and finesse that came from years of training. Instead, he swung a giant war hammer wildly, perhaps hoping to catch the Herald in one of those crazy oscillations.

Tharin was used to dodging. Cullen had emphasized it in their training sessions, and it was easy enough to repeat when the enemy was simply too vacuous to change the pattern of attack. In other words, the Hand of Korth was stupid.

The real problem was the party dispatching his Avvar minions. Two archers and one warrior circled around the great hall that had been transformed into an arena of a sort and hit Tharin and Cassandra alternatingly. An arrow here, a slash of a blade there. Their minds were too occupied with avoiding the Hand's war hammer to elude the minions' attacks as well. Perhaps a battle of attrition was their plan all along, exhausting the party before taking them out one by one.

But the Inquisition was one step ahead. Standing behind a pillar near the entrance, Solas cast Winter's Grasp and froze the minions in their places. While Cassandra taunted and kept the attention of the Hand on her, Tharin deftly stepped out of the arena, brought a dagger out, and slit their exposed throats. Their carotid arteries exploded, and blood squirted and sprayed. The ice that encased their bodies was dyed crimson.

The Hand of Korth howled in anger. The swings became faster, more deadly. The Seeker whirled to avoid the hammer but was caught in her left side. There was no loud crack of a bone breaking, but the woman still held her side and staggered. The Hand saw this and swung his hammer her way again. Tharin felt the time stand still. Cassandra was going to be decimated and he couldn't move fast enough to save her.

At that moment, an arrow sliced through the air and pierced the Hand's right eye. The war hammer slowed, and the Seeker dodged out of its way only just. Another arrow soon followed and struck the Hand in his left eye. The giant Avvar struggled, but soon fell to his knees. Not missing the chance, Tharin quickly stepped and impaled the man's heart with his greatsword.

The Hand collapsed face first and convulsed until there was a tiny groan and the body stilled.

The battle was over.

Tharin looked back and gave Varric an appreciative nod. Cassandra, winded from the exertion and the injury, still said her thanks to him as well. The dwarf beamed proudly and shouted, "You're welcome!"

When the Herald went through the Hand of Korth's armor, he found a rusted key. It opened the door next to the great hall.

The room was dark, except for a small torch on the wall. Tharin found the Inquisition scouts huddled together and shivering. Between the four of them they had one frayed blanket.

"Herald of Andraste!" One of the scouts croaked in a breaking voice. She immediately stood up.

Still out of breath, Tharin inquired, "I dealt with the Avvar. Is everyone all right?"

"Yes, your worship. The injured need some rest, but we can return on our own."

The Herald sheathed his greatsword and shook his head. "Nonsense. We shall return together."

"I can't believe the Herald came for us." Looking incredulous, one of the scouts crawled toward Tharin and lowered his head in deference.

With pure elation in her voice, the first scout clapped her hands together. "I told you he wouldn't leave us."

The mission was a success. It was time to return home.

Despite its ghoulishness, the Fallow Mire turned out to have a happy ending after all. Yet all Tharin could think of now was Cullen. He felt a sudden pang of yearning for the golden man. He couldn't wait to see the Commander again and talk about everything that happened.

Haven was far. They had better start soon.

Next up, a proper first date!

The next update will come in two waves – once on Saturday, January 9 at 2 pm EST, and another on Sunday, January 10 at 2 pm EST. Both parts deal with the same event, but from different points of view. Don't worry, there won't be any more chapters with alternating viewpoints after this one.

Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!