It is idle curiosity that sees me march to the new camp at Lake Luthias. Our command over Calenhad's Foothold is well and good, but still we need water, and Luthias is the best source for such a thing that doesn't require travel across the killing field of mages and Templars. I have my sword at my hip and a pair of Inquisition soldiers, one elf with tired eyes and streaks of grey in his hair and a human with a hammer on his belt and a smile on his face regardless of what it is he sees, at my back.

The elf's name is Nash. I assume there's more to it, but he just smiles wearily when I ask. Nash, he says, is name enough for him. The human is Mathis, a former carpenter from north Orlais eager to prove his worth to the Inquisition as part of our small but dedicated group of engineers. Nash travels with me as an escort and garrison change, while Mathis is to ensure the palisade we are constructing around our small portion of the lakeside goes up well.

"A lovely day to get good work done," he declares, looking up at the cloudless sky above. "A lively day too, I hear."

I glance at him, an eyebrow raised. I've heard of nothing particularly exciting these last few days, not since we began fortifying Calenhad's Foothold. He smiles at me, innocent and kind. He's young, like so many of them. For a moment I see Barrett in him, though the two men look little alike.

I wonder if I'll kill this one too.

"Just idle chatter, your worship." he says, raising his hands. "A few of the scouts were talking about Ser Lysette leading a raid against the Renegade Templars last night. Apparently she did quite a bit of damage to a camp of theirs. Took an arrow, though it was just a flesh wound according to their healer."

So Lysette is still alive. Good news. I've heard little of Varric and his hunting trip, though no news may also be good news nowadays. A runner came back to camp last night with a ram carcass over her shoulder, which is promising enough for me.

"Good." I say, unsure of what else to add, so I just nod. "She acquits herself well."

"Ferociously, I hear." Mathis continues, ignoring my frown as I turn my attention back to the path ahead. "They say she all but single-handedly bested three Renegades in battle. Sent them straight to the Maker's side without a moment's pause."

I smile, despite myself. Ferocious. That does sound like her. I'm the one who fights without a shield, yet to her that great wall of steel is more of a battering ram than a tool for protecting herself. I wonder what it looked like. I wonder why I care.

"There, sir." Nash says, and I look to where he points and see the Inquisition banner flapping gently in the warm breeze. "Our camp. I should report to Sergeant Conn."

He waves farewell as he walks toward the standing pavilion right up at the water's edge. Mathis goes a moment later, a cheerful goodbye leaving him as he jogs to a pair of men hauling a fresh cut log toward the camp.

I stand at the lakeshore and look over the water. It is… it's beautiful. Crystal clear from shore to its furthest depths, a rich blue where it grows too deep to look beyond. Here and there along the shore small boats are docked at equally small piers, no doubt the livelihood of fishermen. The war appears to have left this place alone, for the most part. I see only one destroyed hut, far away on the other shore. I even see a man sat on the edge of one dock, casting a line into the water.

It's good to see. A reminder of what I'm fighting for. I look at the distant waterfall and remember that behind it, a dwarven hold awaits, infested with agents of the Carta. Then I look to my right, where one day Blackwall will lead his motley band of recruits against bandits.

That is the way I walk, leaving the camp behind. Perhaps not the wisest decision, but I'm hardly focused on my own well-being at the moment. My armour's been mended, sword sharpened and I have a hint of wanderlust after being stuck in the crossroads camp healing for three days. I need to go somewhere, do something. Whatever that something may be.

I walk for a long half hour, maybe more. It's quiet, almost serene. Without the pillars of smoke in the distance and the green maw in the sky, I could almost forget there were a war on in the distance, that the world is halfway to ending. The beats down, but a cool breeze off the water leaves me refreshed. At one point I squat down, cupping my hands and drinking. It's good. Like nothing Marcus tasted at home, downstream of the big city.

Ahead of me, there is a grove of trees growing by the lakeshore. I look over the lake again, seeing nothing of note… and then I hear voices from the tree line. One hand resting on the pommel of my sword, I duck low, creeping closer to the grove. I press my shoulder against the trunk of a tree, before peering around it into the shadows.

There are five men, three with axes, one with a bow and one with a crossbow. None seem particularly interested in paying attention to their surroundings, instead muttering amongst themselves. The bowmen looks the opposite way from me, toward whatever lay beyond their sparse cover. The axemen are all restless, shifting from foot to foot. The crossbow man seems to be the man in charge, whispering angrily at one of his fellows when he coughs.

Their armour is basic, padded leather with sparse plates of metal overtop. Bandits, like as not, gauging by the assortment of weapons and crude protective gear. And five… were it two, I would take them without a second thought. Three, I would be hesitant. Five? That's too near to suicide for my blood, though I do watch. These men look like they're waiting for an opportunity, an attack. If they're distracted in their ambush, and I can take them from behind…

Yes, I decide. That will more than suffice.

So I wait, for a long few minutes, keeping to my hiding spot behind the tree and listening to them argue as to whether or not they should move yet. I hear a few words, about farm boys and stupidity. Then one man drops the word "warden" and my eyes go wide, moments before the man with the bow raises his weapon and fires an arrow.

That seems to be their signal. The axemen charge, shouting and hollering randomly, while the crossbowman drops to one knee.

He hasn't the time to loose a single quarrel before he hears my footsteps and turns to see what's coming. All this affords him is the chance to witness my sword descending, before it cleaves across his collarbone and drives deep into his neck. He chokes and sputters on his warning cry, but that is enough for the bowman to twist where he stands, letting out a cry of alarm.

I've made a rather crucial error. My sword is stuck firmly in the flesh and cracked bone of my first target, leaving the second a chance to raise his bow and hastily nock an arrow. I abandon my sword in the man's corpse and rush the bowman. Instinct takes over when he takes aim, and I veer wildly to the left as he looses. The arrow meant for my heart instead scrapes a painful line along my upper arm, snagging in my chainmail.

Then I'm upon him, driving a fist into his stomach. He lets out a gasp as all the air is driven from his lungs, before his bow clatters to the ground. He tries to swing back but I lean away from the jab, before giving him a clean hook across the jaw. He staggers, before lunging forward and tackling me. I see his hands go for a dagger as we fall, and when he draws I grab the wrist holding it. He tries that stupid knife trick where you drop it and catch it with the other hand, but I bat it away in the air because I'm not blind, before punching him in the face again.

He's sitting atop me, legs astride my chest. He's heavy, heavier than me, and I have no leverage, but he hasn't actually pinned my arms so I reach up. Instinct takes over again; I intend to grab his throat and squeeze, but instead my hands find his face, and my thumbs go for his eyes.

He screams as I push them in, before throwing himself off me, scrambling to get away. I clamber to my feet, grab the dagger from my belt and, before he can run, grab him by the collar of his shirt and ram the short blade through his neck. He twists and instead I stab his shoulder, before he pushes me away with his weight. My dagger remains in him as he falls against a tree, gasping in pain. I almost fall over backwards, before lunging at him again.

He swings wildly with a backhand and I let him hit my shoulder, grunting at the pain when his fist strikes the arrow wound, before grabbing my dagger and tearing it from his flesh. He twists to face me with hands raised and I lift the dagger over my head, before driving it deep into his chest beside the shitty half-breastplate he wears, the sort that attaches to your shoulder guard by a pair of straps. He coughs up blood all over my front, and I pull the dagger free with both hands and let him fall.

"Fuck…" I gasp, staring at his dying form. "Holy… fuck…"

I wipe my dagger clean on his pants, before sliding it back into the sheath. I turn back to the dead bowman, walking to his still form and planting a foot on his back, before wrenching my sword free with a few moments of effort and a loud grunt. And with that, it's nearly done.

I go where the axemen went, emerging from the tree line bloodstained and battered, sword dripping with what's left of the crossbowman. Ahead, I see three peasant boys with axes and wooden round shields fending off two of my bandits from before, while the third takes on…

Shit. I was right.

Warden Blackwall. He neatly deflects his opponent's swing with a Fereldan claymore, before driving the blade into the man's head, burying it several inches into his skull. He says nothing as he kills, just ripping the blade free and advancing on the flank of the other two men. One turns just in time to duck under a broad swing of the greatsword, shouting a warning to his companion.

Blackwall is a precise killer, almost methodical in his technique. His sword whirls almost elegantly as he cleanly knocks aside one axe, before clubbing the other man over the head with the pommel. One of the peasants chances a swing of his hand axe and actually manages to hit the dazed man, planting the axe head deep in his enemy's back. Blackwall takes a half step forward and brings the sword around, lopping the bandit's head off before turning with the blow and reversing the momentum, disemboweling the last bandit almost vertically. The peasants all fall back in their makeshift shield wall formation, before Blackwall turns the sword over in his hands and plants it's blade in the dirt at his feet.

He wears his gryphon helm, a padded leather gambeson in dark green and a breastplate etched with the symbol of the Grey Wardens. It's different from the game, though; he has pauldrons this time, greaves and vambraces as well. It's rather battered, the metal tarnished somewhat by months of fighting. His sword's sheath hangs on his back, but he leaves the claymore in the dirt as he walks to the last dead man and squats beside his corpse.

I approach, and one of the peasants calls out a warning to the Warden. Blackwall turns, but by now I have a hand up in greeting.

"Hail, Grey Warden," I call to him. "I've dealt with the other two already."

Blackwall stares at me for a second, before looking at his three conscripts.

"Weapons down, conscripts." he commands. "This man's not here for you."

Then he rises to his full height and walks toward me. That's the other thing I notice; Blackwall is big. Not Qunari big, obviously, but he's taller than most men I've met, and wider too. He approaches me, and as he draws near I take a page from his book and plant my sword in the ground, leaning against it.

"Who are you, stranger?" he asks me. "And what are you doing up here?"

"My name is Markus Venier." I reply. "Former Templar, now an agent of the Inquisition. Some also name me the Herald of Andraste."

There's a long moment of silence. Blackwall stares at me, eyes narrowed.

"That's your lot down at the crossroads then?" he asks, suspicious. "With the sword and the eye?"

"It is indeed." I nod. "We've come to bring peace and stability back to the Hinterlands. I can see you are of the same mind."

I look to his conscripts, all of whom stand aimlessly, looking at the two of us talking. None are warriors; a less likely trio of farmboys and stable hands you're unlikely to see outside the pages of one of Varric's novels. But they stood and they fought, which is more than I can say for many out here.

"Grey Wardens have the power to take what we need, treaties and whatnot." Blackwall replies. "These men were raiding the local area, so I conscripted their victims and told them to fight. Next time, they won't need me."

He turns his back on me, an interesting notion, before beckoning to his men. They step forward, hesitant, and rolls his eyes.

"Come on lads!" he calls. "You're done here! Take back what they stole, go back to your families. You've saved yourselves."

We watch as they go, their excited voices receding as they talk about their newly saved home. He sighs when they're out of eyesight, before looking at me.

"So, what brings an agent of… what did you say?" he asks. "Inquisition, was it?"

"Indeed." I say. "Founded all of a week ago. I came because, to be honest, I was bored and in need of a walk. I found some suspicious men murmuring suspiciously amongst themselves, piquing my suspicion. Then they started attacking a Grey Warden and a group of farmboys with axes, which led me to the conclusion that they were hardly the heroic party in this affair."

"And so you charged in, all by your lonesome?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Two men with missile weapons are easy enough at close quarters." I reply. "I thought I may as well make myself useful."

He looks me up and down, frowning at my bloodstained armour and my sword still caked in blood and gore along the bottom edge.

"Looks like you made a good show of it." he says. "Thanks you for the help."

He walks back to his sword, kneeling down beside it and pulling a relatively clean rag from a pocket in his trousers. As he cleans his sword, I decide imitation is the highest form of flattery, pulling my own sword out of the ground and sitting on a nearby tree stump, before grabbing my own cloth and setting to cleaning the blade.

We stay like that, silent for a while, until Blackwall clears his throat. I look up as he slides his sword into its sheath, throwing it back over his shoulder afterwards.

"Say, Inquisition…" He frowns as he thinks for a moment. "You say you're trying to put this right?"

"As much as we can." I reply, shrugging. "It's been difficult to get things moving, but… someone has to do something."

"Have the Wardens…" he cuts himself off. "Have you seen any of us? All this mess with the Conclave and the Breach doesn't sound much like a Blight, but if the bloody world's at risk of ending…"

"Nobody's seen hide nor hair of Wardens in a few months," I reply, shaking my head. "We have agents searching, but no news yet."

Blackwall seems to think about that for a minute. His eyes close, and when I stand to go he raises a hand.

"Venier, your name was?" he asks. "If you're serious about the Inquisition… at a time like this, not being seen at all is worse than anything. I don't know where the Grey Wardens have gone, but it may do some good for a Warden to be seen acting. If you'd have me…"

I turn to meet his eye. He's unflinching, unwavering. This is a man who isn't sure who he is, what he must be… but in this moment, he is certain of something. He wants this. Deep down, in the part of him that is terrified of the hole in the sky and the songs of children long dead, he needs this.

I stride up to him, and offer him my hand.

"Welcome to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall." I say. "If you'll follow me, we have a camp along the lakeshore. I'll need to inform Lady Leliana of this."

Blackwall follows. I've done it then; I've broken sequence. What this means worries me. Blackwall was here before he was meant to. I know things occur in accordance with actual time here, not the progression of a main quest line, but still… what if I miss Dorian? Or Iron Bull? What happens if I'm too late or too early for some crucial story beat?

Fuck. This complicates things. Much more than I'd like.

"So, Ser Venier…" Blackwall breaks the silence between us as we walk alongside the lake shore. "You say you are… were a Templar?"

"Yes." I nod. "Anointed and armed all of a month and a half before the Conclave."

"Never met a Templar who went without a shield," he comments. "I've known them to use maces, axes, swords, but there's just about always a shield mixed in there."

"I'm trained in a shield and sword, but I showed particular talent in two-handed swordsmanship." I tell him, drawing on Markus' memories. "And I'm too short for most greatswords, so my options were limited. I could note the same of a Warden, though."

"The sword was a…" he frowns. "Gift from my old recruiter. I've held on to it since. I can use most of anything I need, though. Had to use a bar stool to fend off a pair of cutthroats a few months back."

I look at him, one eyebrow cocked, and he shrugs.

"Bastards thought they'd shake down the barkeep, and didn't see the gryphon on my chest." he says, shrugging. "And to be honest, I only used the stool on the first man. Broke a leg off right over his head. The other man came at me with a knife."

He taps his gambeson, and I hear a faint clicking sound.

"Most of them never expect a brigandine outside of Orlais." he chuckles, before his expression shifts to one of faint regret. "Sorry bastards. Would have recruited them, but they were hung before I could talk the village's headman out of it."

"So you recruit for the Wardens?" I ask. "Is there a need, with the Archdemon a decade dead?"

"Darkspawn trickle up to the surface all the time," Blackwall replies, shaking his head. "Grey Wardens are the best at killing them. Besides, the world doesn't have to be ending for it to need good men and women to fight for what's right."

"Very noble," I say, and when he looks at me with a frown I shake my head. "That wasn't sarcastic, Blackwall. The Inquisition was founded on similar principles. Our threat simply comes from above, rather than below."

I gesture to the breach with my marked hand, and he follows my motion. Then something clicks inside him, and he blinks.

"Hold on a moment." He stops where he stands, thinking for a moment. "You said folk call you the Herald of Andraste. That would make you…"

"I halted the expansion of the Breach." I nod once, seeing no reason to mislead him. "It cost many lives, and the work is incomplete. But yes, what is done was my doing."

I don't think he knows what to say to that. He just nods, and follows me back to camp in contemplative silence. I'm willing to wager that finding himself alongside a bona-fide chosen one wasn't quite what he was expecting, but I'm sure he'll adapt in time.

In the meanwhile, it's just good to have another ally for the road ahead. Apostates and Renegades must be dealt with, then I can account for the Chantry and set my stupid, dysfunctional half-plan into motion. I borrow a sheet of parchment and a quill to set to work on my letter back to Haven, informing Leliana of my finding a Warden in the Hinterlands and his lack of information on the rest of the Wardens.

Being able to end the letter with the words "Regardless, Warden Blackwall has chosen to stand with the Inquisition." lifts my spirits. As I write, I see Blackwall sitting on a tree stump on the edge of the treeline, watching several soldiers bury logs for the palisade. There's an almost nostalgic look on his face, his eyes narrowing when one of the men trips and the log topples into the field yet again, earning him complaints from his fellows.

"Scout." I greet the woman manning the makeshift rookery, feeding the ravens in their cages and waiting for incoming messages. "For Haven, with all haste if you will."

"Of course, your worship." she bows her head, plucking the paper from my fingers and laying it on the table next to a small map of the Hinterlands. "We had a message come in for you from our camp near Dwarfson's Pass half an hour ago. It's waiting at the crossroads for your retrieval."

Back to the crossroads then. At least my walk had a purpose, I suppose. Blackwall at my side, I head back down the hillside, following that winding trail between the stones again. The Warden is quiet by my side, only the clank of his armour and occasional grunt or sigh to mark his presence.

We make an odd site returning to camp, I'm sure. False Warden and former Templar walking side by side. The refugees watch and whisper as we cross their camp, the word "Herald" passing between so many people I start to automatically tune it out. Blackwall is a subject of intrigue for them as well; the rather blatant gryphon iconography and stoic demeanour make him an easily identified subject for most of these folk, many of whom saw Wardens a-plenty a decade ago.

"You are a bracing sight for the folk, Blackwall," I tell him, smiling. "These people remember your order well."

"Shame there aren't more of us about." he replies, frowning. "Though I reckon your Inquisition's doing a decent job themselves. These people look better than when I passed through last."

"You've been to the crossroad before?" I ask, looking his way.

"A few weeks back." he replies, shaking his head. "Only briefly. There was… there was a family on the road I was travelling. A man and his two daughters, his sister. They'd lost everything they had, taken by Apostates. I brought them here. The camp was smaller then, but less secure."

"You didn't stay?" I frown, and he sighs.

"The Templars… well, the Renegades seemed content to ignore these people." he says. "The Apostates as well. The presence of a Warden might have invited conflict. I thought it best to move on."

I bite back a retort. It's hardly as though he's wrong; he's a warrior, not a hunter. He would have been another mouth to feed, and a lone soldier, no matter how capable, would be hard pressed to stand against a dozen times his number in mages or Templars. Still… had he acted, stood in defiance, defended these people… how many might he have saved?

It's an irrational thought. But I can't help a bit of disappointment that trickles into my chest. He'll learn to stand, in time. He'll have to.

We reach the Inquisition camp on its little rise, passing two guards who salute me with fists clapped to their chests. I make for the rookery here, a larger establishment built into an old grain silo long abandoned before we arrived. Passing through the arched wooden door and into the gloomy interior, I see two of Leliana's scouts, one of whom has a dagger in her hand.

She stabs at the other man, who trips as he steps away from her and hits one of the tables, knocking it and himself over. The woman with the dagger stalks forward, but before she can try anything else I take her from the side, grabbing her wrist with one hand and wrapping my arm around her waist. She hisses like a wildcat, struggling against me. Her foot comes up and slams into my leg, but I twist and try to force her down to the ground. Then the dagger drops from her hand.

Knife trick. I realize it a moment too late when she stabs me in the thigh, and I bite back a cry of pain, staggering back as she slashes at my face. I deflect the swing with my vambrace, before Blackwall enters the brawl. He charges past me and drives one fist full into the woman's face, and as I noted previously; Blackwall is a large man. He hits her like a battering ram, her nose crunching under the hit and her entire body crumpling. She hits the floor like a sack of potatoes, Blackwall's follow-through forcing him to step over her now limp figure, grunting as he looks back to me.

I bite back another cry, leaning against the wall beside the door. My thigh is on fire, but the wound doesn't feel that deep. The man who was first attacked, who I see now is an elf, rises from the table with a groan, rubbing the back of his head. Blackwall comes to my side.

"She's not going anywhere for a while," he informs me, before dropping down to one knee and reaching for his belt. "Got some hard liquor here, should clean that wound out. You there!"

He looks at the elf, who stiffens up at the authority in his voice.

"Go tell whoever's in charge around here what happened." Blackwall commands. "Then bring a healer back here, immediately."

The elf hesitates, looking between myself and Blackwall for a long moment.

"Now!" Blackwall shouts.

He takes off running as bid, and Blackwall turns back to me, frowning at my wound. He prods it with a finger, checking the depth, and some small part of me that is Marcus remembers infections and sanitation and briefly panics. The part of me that is not from a world with painkillers disregards that panic.

"Not too deep…" Blackwall mutters. "I don't see anything like poison. Do you feel pain you wouldn't?"

"Maybe if you took your finger out my open wound I'd be able to tell you…" I grunt, batting at his hand with mine.

He chuckles, and I bite my cheek to stop myself from shouting. It feels rather like I've been stabbed; though I've not been stabbed enough to be an expert on the topic, I don't feel any pain that I would assume is different from the normal pain of being stabbed. The wound throbs and aches, but it isn't particularly cold, hot or anything between.

I do my best to relay this to Blackwall, who just grunts before suddenly and rather impolitely dumping some liquid from a small bottle onto my wound. And then the fire comes, and I let out an angry scream while he stops me from grabbing it by holding my wrists.

"Steady, lad, it'll fade…" he tells me, and I throw my head back and yell again, because this really fucking hurts.

"Shit fuck!" I shout. "Damned fucking… ah!"

"There's all the cursing…" Blackwall mutters. "I was starting to think you didn't know how."

"Shut the fuck up…" I groan as the pain slowly fades from a raging boil to a slow simmer. "Ow… what was that? Piss?"

"Brandy, though the taste is about the same." Blackwall replies, chuckling. "Now sit still and wait for the-"

I cut him off with a warning gasp, as the woman from before rises behind him, dagger in both hands. His instincts are remarkable; he turns halfway, taking her enraged downward thrust on the jutting plate of his pauldron, his hand going to my belt, before pulling my sword from its sheathe under me and drawing it across her stomach in a single clean blow. She gasps as she bleeds from the new wound, staggering back a single step before toppling to the ground.

"Fucking lurkers…" Blackwall mutters. "You alright?"

"Fine…" I shake my head. "You're… you're quick… how do you do that?"

"Practise." he deadpans, placing my sword on my lap after wiping the blade off on the dead woman's hooded shawl. "Now, as I was saying, sit still and wait for the healer."

I am reluctant, but I do as he says. Fuck this hurts. Twice now in three days; I sorely wish healing potions worked as they did in the game, but instead they seem to simply serve the purpose of general painkiller, and an accelerator of your body's healing process. It's thanks to a couple vials of green liquid that my chest wound was healed over in three days instead of a week and a half. I don't even want to consider what this will take. Four days, probably, and as little walking as I can manage.

"This is ridiculous." I groan. "What was she even attacking me for?"

"You did grab her by the wrist and stop her from killing the first man." Blackwall notes. "This happen often in the Inquisition?"

"Not as far as I know." I reply, shrugging. "First I've seen or heard of infighting."

Before Blackwall can respond to that, Ser Fallon strides through the door, looking around the room until he finds me against the wall, sighing deeply. He has his sword in his hand already, though he quickly replaces it in the scabbard when he sees the woman's disemboweled figure crumpled on the floor.

"Warden," he greets Blackwall with a terse nod. "Your worship. I see the threat has been dealt with."

"Warden Blackwall's work." I say, patting the larger man on the arm. "She managed to get a dagger in me, but she wasn't very good at it. Missed all the best arteries."

Ser Fallon doesn't laugh at my jape, but I'm not particularly offended. He's probably under a great deal of stress right now. I take Blackwall's offered hand and let him pull me up to my feet, before Fallon clears his throat.

"I'll run a full investigation of the camp." he declares. "If there are any more traitors in our midst, I'll have them found soon enough. Lady Nightingale will hear of this as well… it was one of hers who went rogue."

He crouches over the dead woman, investigating the corpse. Two more Inquisition soldiers stand by the doors as Blackwall leads me out, half-carrying me as I limp along. Every step with the injured leg sends a jolt of pain shooting down to my foot, which hampers my ability to walk. The healers tents are in sight soon enough, and I see a familiar face standing with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"Ser Venier," Enchanter Ellendra says, tone betraying her displeasure far better than her face ever could. "You're proving quite injury prone."

"I'm just a hot-headed youth, ma'am." I reply, grinning weakly. "I see a fight and I want to join in."

"Regardless of how many daggers are involved…" Ellendra sighs, before beckoning Blackwall to follow her. "Lay him down, soldier, and let me have a look at him. Help me with his trousers, would you?"

Soon, I am pantsless atop a plain white cot, my head on a straw pillow and another hand prodding my thigh.

"Not too deep…" Ellendra mutters, before reaching down to the multitude of pouches recently laid on her belt and grabbing a small bottle of viscous yellow liquid. "This will sting some."

It stings a lot more than what I would define as "some", but I manage to bite back any screams. There's a young man with a broken leg laying just two cots over; it seems rather rude to wake him from his slumber. After the torture masquerading as medicine is done, Ellendra gives my sweat-laden forehead a gentle wipe with a white cloth. Blackwall has taken his leave, giving me a hesitant pat on the shoulder and a "get better, lad" before departing.

"How's Mattrin?" I ask, voice strained.

"Better than he was," she replies, shaking her head. "But displeased. His writing hand survived, fortunately, and the amputation went well… a man with one hand has much to lament."

"He still has his life," I note. "And perhaps more importantly, he has you."

She smiles at that, cleaning my forehead again.

"Aye," she says, nodding slowly. "Perhaps you're right about that. I imagine I may be poor compensation for a limb."

"If he thinks that," I groan, shaking my head. "He's an idiot. He's lucky to have you. I'll say it to his face if I must."

"Flatterer." she deadpans, before smiling. "But… thank you, Ser Venier."

"Markus, please." I beg her. "I've been Herald and Ser Venier for so long I'm afraid I'm forgetting my own name."

"Very well," she giggles. "In that case, Markus, let me warn you; if you try to set foot outside this infirmary before I give you permission, I will personally hunt you down and tie you to this bed until Commander Cullen, Lady Nightingale and Lady Josephine give the order otherwise."

"Don't threaten me with a… a good time, ma'am." I reply, grinning weakly. "Bed rest… sounds wonderful right now."

She rolls her eyes, before recovering from her pouches a small vial of familiar green liquid, pressing it to my lips after popping the tiny cork out with her fingers. I drink it down as she bids, feeling a wave of fatigue overtake me as it always does when I take a healing potion.

"It won't when that wanderlust of your strikes again," she replies, before bending down and giving me a rather motherly kiss on the forehead. "Now shush yourself and rest."

"Yes... mother…" I murmur, completely missing her red flush at that. "I'm… I'm sorry…"

My eyes shut slowly, and for once in a long time I don't dream as I sleep.