A/N: yes, I know, this is extremely late. I have nothing to say in my defense, other than claiming a massive case of writer's block. You know how it is: you've got it all in your head, how the scene will unfold, who will say what and when, but when you try to put it down on the page, the words simply won't come. *sigh*

Oh, well, at least it's done…

Chapter Three: A Leaping Shot

Cullen's boots pounded solidly on the chantry floor, venting his strong emotions across the stone tiles. The air echoed reassuringly with the crisp and purposeful sound, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of Sera's inane giggle or the Herald's frustrated groans that were able to penetrate the closed door. The girls had obviously—and very quickly—cleared up whatever trouble had occurred between them and were back to being fast friends. Now, if only he could reach the main door before Mother Giselle spotted him, he would be able to escape the stuffy confines of the chantry. His hand turned the latch, his mind already at his tent, with only the canvas between himself and fresh air…

…and only Varric between himself and the outside. He stared in consternation for a moment at the form framed in the doorway, his bid for freedom thwarted by a man half his height. He watched as the dwarf's face lit up, his broad mouth beaming a smile even as he started speaking.

"Commander!" He stopped as suddenly as he started, his eyes wide as they took in the frizzled edges of Cullen's hair. Cullen didn't flinch; instead he hardened his expression as if daring Varric to comment on the uncontrolled frizz.

Varric decided to let him off the hook, this one time. "Ah, good to see you up and about. I was concerned you might be suffering some ill effects after today's little accident."

It took him a couple of seconds before he could answer civilly, during which time Varric took the opportunity to step inside and close the door. "I'm fine, Varric, thank you for asking. Mother Giselle gave me a clean bill of health."

"What? Not so much as a sniffle? Nah," Varric's mouth twitched with anticipation over the approaching jibe, "I doubt there's a bug or virus out there that would dare infect you. You'd probably glare it to death."

Cullen resisted the urge to sigh, trying to plan a course around him to reach the door. "Indeed. Was there anything else, or could I return to my tent?" Mother Giselle had insisted he spend the night in the chantry away from drafts, but the room he'd been given was so small and the heated air so stuffy… He needed the openness tonight, especially after his conversation just now with the Herald.

"Actually, there is…" Varric's voice was barely above a whisper, a low sort of gravelly hum that Cullen might have missed if he hadn't been watching Varric's face and seeing his lips form the words. "No, no, Curly, just showing concern for a friend. By the way, have you seen Ruffles this evening? She wanted a few names from me, people I know in the Merchants' Guild. I think she's using my connections to try to beef up trade here in Haven," he ended with a light chuckle.

"I suppose she may still be in her office…" Cullen began, wondering if he had misheard those muttered words, as Varric seemed to be there for someone else. Then Cassandra entered the chantry, her scowl as dark as her hair. She absently nodded to them, hardly giving a pause, before stalking down the hallway towards the war room.

Maker's breath, Cullen thought to himself, there is something going on. He briefly entertained one final thought of escape, before he set aside his selfish desires and faced the problem at hand. "Er, I could walk with you, to her office. Come to think of it, there's a question I have for her, er, regarding a reliable source of supplies, er, and the like."

Varric tried not to wince, Cullen's attempt at subtlety was so painful and embarrassing. Though he was fairly sure no one in the chantry was paying them undue attention, he didn't want to take chances. What he'd seen this afternoon was not only worrisome, but potentially dangerous. "After you, Commander."

They started down the hall, Varric chatting about people and places in Kirkwall they might both remember, though truthfully Cullen never got out much in the ten years he lived there. Even when he did leave the Gallows, it was for duty, not pleasure. So, no, he didn't remember the little stall in the back corner of the Hightown Market that sold those vests with the cleverly hidden pockets. And the only time he had ever—EVER!—entered the Blooming Rose had been to question the, er, workers regarding a missing Templar recruit…

"Am I boring you, Curly?" Varric asked dryly.

Cullen gave a little cough, somewhat chagrined to have been caught yawning. "No, excuse me, Varric, but I am a bit tired after everything that's happened today."

"Well, I'll try not to keep you up past your bedtime," he murmured, yanking open the door to the war room. Cullen wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard him or not, and neither did he ask, following the dwarf and closing the door behind them. "Are we all here?"

"Mostly," Cassandra answered, looking around at Leliana and Josephine, "We're only waiting on Solas."

"He won't be coming to this meeting," Varric's voice remained uncharacteristically dark, due to both his peevishness with Cullen and the seriousness of the situation, "For reasons that will become obvious."

"That's rather ominous," Leliana hummed, arms crossed and a hip cocked.

"In case you hadn't noticed, our little Herald nearly died this afternoon!" As if he finally caught himself acting irritated, he forced out a bit of a jibe, "Or would have, if it wasn't for the efforts of her self-appointed knight in shining armor."

Adversely, Cullen felt relief when Varric's sense of humor was restored, even if he was the butt of the joke.

"Tell us something we don't know," Cassandra may have sounded a bit challenging, but she always came across short and surly. Varric, however, was ready to rise to the challenge.

"A mage was involved."

The silence that met his statement was like a physical blow. The air became electrified, instantly banishing any ill feelings over the inconvenient meeting. Varric seemed to enjoy the dramatic reaction. Now that he had everyone's attention, he relaxed and leaned against the armrest of a chair, tilting his head to look the others in the eyes. And waited.

"Are you sure?" Leliana was the first to break the silence, not because she doubted Varric, but because she wanted to know the facts for herself, and draw her own conclusions. "What makes you say that? Did you see someone?"

"Well, no," he played his part, drawing out the sounds and building the anticipation, "Not exactly. I mean, I saw something, not someone."

"Out with it," Cassandra demanded, her accent thickening with her frustration.

Varric sighed, deciding he couldn't push the others too far, at least not tonight. And not where the Herald was concerned. Yet it was hard not to indulge—just a little—in theatrics when the situation arose. "It was this afternoon, right before the Herald's latest mishap. I was up near the tavern, listening to Solas and Vivienne… shall we say… discuss the finer points of a mage's responsibility to society. The conversation was getting a little too warm, so I decided to take a walk and let the two of them work it out for themselves." Josephine gave a small cough at this, but didn't comment. "I went down to the trebuchets, where I had a good view of the lake. And the bridge that leads… led to the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

"You had a view of everything?" Josephine sought clarification.

"Sure, for the most part. I saw Sera come running across the ice, the Herald hesitating on the far side like she didn't want to follow, the scouts shouting and waving their arms at her. Then she—the Herald—decided to start out over the ice. There was no way she was going to catch up with Sera; that little Buttercup is too swift on her feet." He almost sounded prideful, but quickly went back to his narration. "Sera came off the ice not too far from me. She looked pretty upset, but I'd already had an earful listening to Solas and Vivienne, so I didn't stop her to ask what was the matter."

"It wasn't relevant," Cullen found himself answering, absently stifling another yawn. The others looked to him with varying reactions, from Varric's slightly miffed expression over his interruption, to Leliana's suggestively cocked eyebrow. He cleared his throat, knowing he'd have to elaborate, and not sure how much he could repeat. "I mean, er, I was talking, just now, with the Herald, about this afternoon. I wanted to make sure she was all right after her ordeal. She told me, that is, she and Sera had a, er, private discussion. Nothing serious. And not in any way related to what happened."

"What did they talk about?" Cassandra pressed.

"It was private," he repeated through clenched teeth, pressing his hand flat against his thigh to keep it from trembling. "If you must know, ask the Herald yourself."

"We're getting off topic here," Leliana broke in. "What happened next, Varric? What is it that makes you think the Herald's assailant is a mage?"

"As I was saying," he shot a glare at Cullen, warning him to keep quiet this time, "After Sera got off the ice, the Herald was about halfway across. I can't be sure, but when she tripped that first time, I think I saw something flash over by the bridge. At the time I wasn't worried about the Herald; Sera had made it across all right. Besides, Curly was racing out to her rescue, and I was too far away to do any good anyway. So I looked back at the bridge and saw another flash from beneath one of the arches," he paused for emphasis, "Just before the ice broke."

After three heartbeats, Leliana again was the first to speak. "What kind of flash?"

Varric shrugged. "You know, the kind of flash that's used in magic. Like sunlight reflecting off of a gemstone in a staff. Or maybe it was the magic itself, sparking off or something. I didn't know for sure, but the timing of the flashes and the Herald's… difficulties were too coincidental.

"I went to take a look. There was a crowd gathered around the lake by then, and it took a while to make my way through it. By the time I got to the bridge, to the arch where I had seen the flash, the mage was already gone. Left some footprints, though, large enough to be male. There were also indentations in the snow, round holes just about the right size for a staff, or a cane I suppose…"

"Anything else?" Leliana pressed. "Did you see anyone coming from that direction? Anyone in the crowd around the lake who looked suspicious?"

"Hang on there, Nightingale," he held up his hands placatingly. "I did the best I could. It was kinda chaotic for a time, everyone worried about the Herald and just standing around, watching you and your scouts pull those two to shore. I wanted to stay and make sure she was all right too, even though I knew I had to take a look at that arch. But I didn't notice anyone coming back from the bridge. Nor could I track the footprints very far. Whoever was beneath that arch blended his tracks in with the heaviest tracks already on the road. Essentially, he disappeared."

Leliana took the lead again. "I understand why you think the assassin is a mage," she mused, "And I concur. It would explain quite a bit, like how those stacked crates fell on the Herald without anyone standing nearby—some sort of spell could have been cast from a distance to push the crates. But do you honestly suspect Solas? Is that why he isn't at this meeting?"

"He's a mage, isn't he? And he just happens to show up, right when we need him, with just the kind of information we need. Bah!" Varric scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, taking a moment to breathe deeply. When his hand fell away, there was a lingering expression of pain that faded briefly. "I don't know. Maybe I'm getting paranoid. But after some of the things I've seen, not just here but back in Kirkwall…" his voice trailed away into a shrug. "I guess I just don't believe in coincidences. Not anymore."

Cullen was uneasy, having seen one or two of those things himself, such as what had happened to his commanding officer…

"There is one way to eliminate Solas from the pool of suspects," offered Josephine. Varric's eyes were hopeful as he looked up to her. "Even if he somehow managed to slip away from Vivienne right after you did, even if he somehow managed to get around you and see an opportunity to eliminate the Herald, even if he somehow managed to race to the bridge and find cover beneath one of the arches," she paused to steadily return his gaze, a slight twinkle in her eye, "He is an elf. I've noticed, even with all the snow here at Haven, his feet remain bare. His footprints would have toe-prints, would they not?"

The change in Varric was heartening. He positively beamed at her, jumping away from the chair to take her hands in his. "You're right!" he chuckled. "You're absolutely right! The footprints under the bridge were made by someone wearing boots; and Chuckles never wears boots. Ever. Oh, you've done my heart good, little lady. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome," she blushed, overwhelmed by his exuberance.

"You're rather relieved that the assassin isn't Solas," Cassandra stated flatly, "Considering a moment ago he was your main suspect."

"If it's one thing I've learned," he started, his voice sobering a little, "It's that anyone can betray you, even the ones you trust the most. The ones you should be able to trust no matter what." He tried damned hard not to think of his brother. "You bet I'm glad I don't have to suspect a friend."

"All right," Leliana stepped forward, uncrossing her arms to lean over the table, "Allow me to sum up what we know about our would-be assassin: he is male, a mage, and not elven."

"We can assume he's not dwarven," Cassandra said, "Since we're assuming he's a mage."

"And we can rule out qunari," Varric added. "The prints were too small to be one of those."

Leliana nodded in agreement. "Very well. We are looking for a male human mage. That does narrow the list of suspects considerably."

"But that list is growing," Cullen broke off a yawn midstream to interject. "Every day, more and more mages are coming here, everyone who's dissatisfied with the war, hoping that they can find sanctuary. And at the Herald's behest!"

"I don't think the newer arrivals should be suspect…"

"You never know," he broke over Cassandra's objection. "The assassin could have been in hiding somewhere nearby, thinking that he might stand out as a mage here in Haven. But now that there are other mages, he decided to join them and mingle with the crowd."

"That's a valid concern," Leliana allowed, wrestling for control of the discussion, "But unfounded. The truth is, we have no way of knowing which male human mage is the assassin. Yet at least now we know to watch these particular mages. Commander," she turned to look him directly in the eye, "My scout trainees are mostly busy watching the Herald. Could you assign a few of your recruits to patrol the streets? Especially wherever the Herald happens to be around any mages. If they could be former templars…?"

"I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't have enough men," Cullen admitted darkly, "Not if you want to exploit a templar's ability to cancel out magic. I could spare a couple, assign them as a sort of honor guard for whenever she's here in Haven, but I'm afraid…" he paused to exhale, giving his head a little shake. "No, too many of them still see every mage as a potential demon possession waiting to happen, especially when free of a Circle. There are one or two cool-headed enough to be tolerant, but I need them to train the others, to set an example of what we're trying to accomplish here!"

He was tired. He was too damn tired. That's why his voice cracked. That's why his fist struck the table. And that's why he couldn't stop yawning. He brought his fist up in front of his face, and when he muttered an apology, no one asked if it was for the outburst or the yawn. "But the Herald's life is important, of course. I suppose, under the guise of an honor guard, I could assign one of the more tolerant recruits, pair him with a moderate, and hope for the best. At the very least, they should be able to protect her from this assassin, when she's not chasing after Sera, that is."

"Thank you, Commander," Leliana inclined her head.

"That brings up another disturbing thought," this time Cassandra's voice grew dark, "What about Sera?"

"What about Sera?" Cullen repeated, feeling thick-headed.

"She was with the Herald just when this mage, whoever he is, was waiting under that bridge. Perhaps it was simply coincidence again, or perhaps the mage hired Sera to purposefully lure the Herald away from others, out over the lake, where he could break the ice and drown her."

"Ah, crap," Varric sighed, his face getting another pained expression. "Just when I was starting to feel hopeful again, you had to go and ruin it, didn't you."

"Coincidence or purpose," Leliana again played mediator, absently thinking that it should have been Josephine, "As far as Sera's implication is concerned, we have no proof. We could watch her as well, but I fear we are quickly running out of eyes."

"Oh, Maker," Cullen mumbled, "She's with the Herald. Right now."

"What?" demanded Cassandra.

"Sera is in with the Herald," he repeated. "After I stopped by to, er, make sure the Herald would recover, as I was leaving, Sera was arriving. I didn't think anything of it. The Herald is friends with her, so I left them alone together, to discuss some… matters."

Cassandra looked like she wanted to ask, but Leliana spoke first. "I don't think we need to worry, not tonight. Even if Sera is working for this mage—of which we have no proof—he wouldn't have her do anything right here in the chantry under our very noses. Besides, the Herald is probably fast asleep by now."

"Oh? Why would you say that?" Varric asked.

Leliana smiled coyly, one corner of her mouth lifting, the tone of her voice shining with the smile. "Because I saw Mother Giselle slip a sleeping draught into the mulled wine she brought to the Herald. If she had so much as a glass, she should slumber through the night."

"Maker," again Cullen cursed.

"What is it now?" Varric's suspicions grew as he saw Cullen's face redden.

"I had some of it." He paused to swallow, not daring to look at the others, fearing they would be laughing at him. "When I spoke with the Herald, she invited me to sit down. She offered a glass of the mulled wine, and I accepted. Manners, you know."

"Of course," Varric hummed agreement.

"I was only being polite."

"Sure, sure," Varric patted him on the back. "At least that explains your yawning."

Leliana managed to gain enough control over her humor to pull her hand away from her face before speaking. "I wouldn't worry about it, Commander. The Herald is half your size; I'm sure the draught won't work as strongly on you, as it will on her."

A sound came from Josephine, something like a strangled titter or a muffled giggled. Cullen stubbornly kept his eyes away from her, or any of them. Now that he knew about the draught, the tiredness seemed to intensify.

Varric, surprisingly, came to his rescue, sort of. "Come on, Curly. I'll walk you to your tent. Let's not keep you from your beauty rest."

"I'll be fine, Varric," he quipped, straightening his shoulders and pushing aside the fatigue. He wasn't about to allow anyone to send him off to bed like an errant little boy. "I'm merely tired, not on the verge of passing out."

"Actually, if no one has any other business to discuss," Leliana looked around at each of them in turn, "Then perhaps we should call it a night. We've done all we can, for now. Commander Cullen will assign an honor guard for the Herald, and the rest of us will watch for any strange behavior from the mages."

"And I'll keep an eye on Sera," Varric volunteered, "Just in case."

The meeting broke up after that, Varric and Cassandra the first out the door. Cullen wasn't far behind them, Leliana and Josephine remaining for a while, no doubt to gossip. At that point in time, he couldn't be bothered to care what or whom they talked about. His steps were growing heavy and his shoulders were wanting to sag once more. He needed to get to bed before he fell asleep on his feet. Out in the main hall he caught Mother Giselle's eye, saw her disapproving shake of her head, but he resolutely turned away from her and headed for the main door.

Again, it seemed fate would not allow him to escape. He had seen Varric and Cassandra reach the outside, seen the door start to swing closed, hastened his steps to catch the door before it latched shut…

"Oi, Jackboot!"

…and that was as far as he got. He stopped walking, straightened himself up even more, and very, very slowly turned on the spot to pierce Sera with a hardened glare.

She was unperturbed by his expression, coming right up to him and cocking her head in a cheeky manner. "I need you. Or rather, Harry needs you. Now." She grabbed his hands and started tugging on him, but he remained immobile. "You're the one with the right equipment. I mean, I could do it, you know, but it would be messy. Much easier if you could."

He finally managed to get his hands out of hers. "I never have half a clue what you're talking about," he tried to deflect, fearful that he did indeed understand her meaning.

"Some days I swear no one but me talks plain, or understands what plain is. Listen, I need your help, right? These things here," she reached out and took hold of the biceps of one arm, giving them a substantial pinch. "These muscly things. I don't got them, see?" Her hand went to her own bicep, the fingers almost wrapping completely around. "So if I try to get her into bed, I might drop her on her head. You won't."

Cullen was a little stunned, enough so that Sera finally managed to get him moving and into the Herald's room. "You want me to…"

"…Get her into bed. Right. Seeing as how she fell asleep in her chair. And I can't lift her. And you were the first one I saw what could." Truthfully, the Herald had fallen asleep quite a while ago. She had stood at the door, peeking out at those who passed by; and though there had been others she could have asked for help, she had been waiting specifically for Cullen. Sera had seen how her friend reacted to him, and had decided to try her hand at a bit of matchmaking

Cullen wanted to laugh. Or swallow. Or sit down and simply stare at Sera. He settled for a heavy sigh, before walking around the Herald's chair. She was there, just as Sera described, her empty goblet still in her hand and threatening to fall. He removed the goblet from danger first, and noted the Herald hardly stirred. As he leaned over her, he tried not to notice the heady fumes of the wine on her breath, or the subtle scent of something floral that hung about her like perfume.

He inserted one arm between her shoulders and the chair, the second scooping up her legs at the knees. He straightened, and was amazed at how light the Herald felt in his arms. He should have noticed it before, he supposed, but he had been preoccupied with other matters, like getting the both of them off of the dangerously thin ice. Now, however, he took half a moment to hold her, to settle her against his chest, to feel her—in her sleep—snuggle her head into the corner of his neck and shoulder.

The partial moment was over all too quickly, Sera's babbling tumbling into it like a cascading waterfall. He ignored her as best he could and took the few steps over to the bed. He set the Herald down gently, almost reluctantly, allowing her to roll onto her side away from him. Sera swept in, covering her with a blanket as Cullen pulled away.

"Right. Job's done. Nice and proper." Sera smirked up at him, "I guess I know who to come to, the next time Harry needs to be bedded, eh?" She dug an elbow into his ribs.

He had had enough. "Let's leave the Herald to her rest, shall we?"

Sera pouted, fairly prettily with her full lips, but Cullen hardly noticed, his mind still full of that soft and flowery scent. He took Sera by the elbow that had poked him and steered her towards the door. "Good night, Sera."

"All right, all right, I get it. Let sleeping Heralds lie, or something." She pulled out of his grip as they entered the main hall, shooting a glance over her shoulder as she rubbed her elbow. "I called it, though. Mabari lapdog."

Before he could even muster the energy required to try to be curious about what that cryptic response could mean, Mother Giselle bore down on him. "Commander Cullen, you should be resting."

"I was intending to," he turned to face her, allowing Sera to slip away, "Back in my tent…"

"Back in your room," she countered, her stern face brooking no argument.

Cullen glanced towards the main door just in time to see Sera disappear into the night. He was stiff and sore, half-drowned, half-drugged, befuddled by Sera, teased by Varric, worried by mysterious assassins… Maker's breath, he only wanted the day to be over.

"Yes, fine," he gave in, figuring at this point, one bed was just as good as another. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he headed towards the room he'd been given for the night, Mother Giselle dogging his heels lest he escape.

She was smiling inside her helmet.

It was her favorite helmet, and not just because Varric had given it to her. He had the helmet made specifically for her, similar to a skirmisher's hat, with a few modifications suggested by Varric. The toughened leather that covered her whole head was made from bear hide and cushioned on the inside with lustrous cotton. For added protection, small obsidian plates covered the sides and back, reminding her of dragon scales. But most importantly there were cheek guards that could be tied closed over the front of her face, leaving only her eyes showing.

It was her favorite helmet because it hid every secret.

But she wasn't smiling because she was wearing her favorite helmet. She was smiling because it was a beautiful day. She was out of Haven, exploring the Hinterlands, Cassandra and The Iron Bull and Varric in tow. Vivienne had come along, too, and though she would have preferred Solas to be there, she didn't mind traveling with the lady mage. She liked Vivienne—she generally liked everyone—and even if she didn't see why it was important for her to stand up straight, or lift her chin when she spoke, or wear well-made clothing and armor…

Well, she tried to see the good in everybody. She supposed Vivienne had her reasons for fussing over her appearance, so she took in all her advice and tried to follow it. She really did try. And within her helmet, she felt secure enough to look up at the others when they talked.

She had even felt confident enough to speak with the Grey Warden, when they finally found him. That's why they had come to the Hinterlands, to find this Warden, Blackwall, and ask him about the other Wardens. Unfortunately, he hadn't known the others were missing, having been out of touch for the past several months while he searched for recruits. He hadn't even heard of the Herald of Andraste—a refreshing change for her!—though he had seen the Breach. So she had stood there with her shoulders back, her chin lifted, looking him in the eye while she explained what had happened and what the Inquisition was trying to do, and amazingly he had agreed to join them.

He was her first recruit. Oh, sure, others had joined the Inquisition already, but not because of her. The Iron Bull and his Chargers had sought them out. So had Vivienne and Sera. But she had searched for Blackwall, she had talked with him, and she had convinced him to join their cause and throw the weight of the Grey Wardens behind the Inquisition. Well, all right, only one Warden, but it was enough to give the Inquisition access to the Wardens' treaties, and that was also very important.

And she had done that.

It was a very beautiful day.

"Watch your step," Blackwall said, his hand reaching out to take her elbow and steady her while they traversed a rocky slope.

"Oh, ah, thank you," she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn with chagrin having been caught daydreaming. Another reason to love her helmet. After gaining the top of the hill he let go, somewhat quickly in her opinion, but she tried not to take it personally. After all, they had only just met, and Blackwall seemed a very solitary man; he was probably even less used to dealing with people than she was, or had been, before she became the Herald.

A ghostly flicker of memory sent a shiver down her spine, her former life becoming more like an old nightmare, haunting when remembered but easily pushed aside in the full light of day. She cast about for a topic of conversation, something to banish the chill, and saw the abandoned campsite. "Looks like someone was here recently."

Blackwall hadn't noticed her shiver, already having seen the camp. "Yes," he answered simply, heading towards the fire pit.

"Mages or templars?" Cassandra asked, beginning to look around for clues.

"Templars," Varric answered, holding up a whetting stone. "Unless mages have taken to sharpening their staffs."

"Doubtful," Vivienne sniffed. "Much easier to conjure a sword."

"If you're a Knight Enchanter," Varric agreed, giving her a bow. "But ordinary mages might think differently."

"Madam Herald," Blackwall called to her, and she left Varric to his teasing Vivienne. Blackwall was kneeling by the pit, studying the ring of stones and the glowing embers within.

"Yes?" she asked, kneeling beside him.

"You see this?" his gloved hand pointed to the embers. "The ashes are fresh, still warm. Whoever they were, they were here this morning. I'd even hazard a guess that they left in a hurry."

Her brow furrowed as she tried to reason out for herself why he thought that. Her face brightened suddenly, but even that was hidden by the helmet. "Oh! Because the fire wasn't put out properly. I can see where a single boot scuffed the ground, knocking one of the stones into the fire along with some dirt, but not enough to put it completely out."

Bull laughed, a deep and hearty sound, and there was a distinct shade of fondness in his voice when he spoke. "She catches on quick, doesn't she?"

Blackwall leaned back to look up at him. "That she does," he said almost deadpan. She had a suspicion, that from him a comment like that was high praise. "Though she needs more practice with that bow."

Just as quickly her spirits plummeted. "I've been practicing," she defended herself, something she wouldn't have dared to do only a few months ago. "Varric has taught me a lot. So has Sera."

"But you've had no formal training."

Bull cleared his throat. "I think Blackwall and I should scout ahead, see if these templars are near enough to concern us. Why don't you and the others give us a head start, say a half hour or so?"

She nodded, standing up and dusting off her knees before going over to tell Cassandra the plan.

"I said something wrong, didn't I." It wasn't a question from Blackwall, just a statement of fact. "I do that. A lot."

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself," Bull reassured him as they started out, even though it was nearly impossible to tell whether or not Blackwall was being self-critical due to his taciturn manner. "Madam Herald is a special case. Not many know this, but…" he glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were far enough away not to be overheard, "She has amnesia. Poor girl can't remember a thing, not only what happened when the Temple exploded, but anything before that. She might have studied archery for years for all we know—for all SHE knows. But she doesn't remember it, if she had," he ended with a sigh. The girl's story was tragic enough to pull on anyone's heartstrings, even a tough old bastard like himself.

"Is that why everyone calls her by her title, and not a name? I thought they were being overly respectful, like she was a noblewoman or something."

Bull shook his head. "No. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, can't-recall-a-damn-thing-about-her-past amnesia."

They were quiet for a time, until Blackwall found himself asking, "So how did she end up using a bow?"

Bull ducked beneath a tree branch as they rounded another hill. "The way I heard it, from Varric so the tale might be a bit exaggerated, it happened about three days after the explosion. Seeker Cassandra was taking her to try to close the Breach. Along the way, they were ambushed by demons. Cassandra told her to stay put while she defended the two of them, but it wasn't long before demons cut them off from each other. The Herald spotted a crate of weapons nearby, broken open somehow, but the first thing she grabbed was a bow. Said later, she didn't want to get close to those things, because they scared her, and the bow allowed for that."

"Makes sense, I suppose," again he deadpanned. "But she still needs more practice."

"Looks like she might get the chance," Bull murmured, putting a massive gray hand on Blackwall's chest to stop him. "I think we found them."

Blackwall didn't mind the touch, and hunkered down in the shrubs beside the qunari. His steel-blue eyes studied the scene, no more than fifty yards distant near the edge of a cliff, his expression hidden beneath his unkempt beard. "I guess the templars left their camp in a hurry because they discovered these mages nearby."

"Sounds about right," Bull agreed, watching the templars and mages fight. The sounds of battle were familiar to him, comforting even, and he could feel his blood begin to sing with the tune.

Blackwall chewed on his mustache for a moment. "Think we should interrupt them, or find a way around?"

Bull smiled slightly, already knowing the answer. "The Herald will want to stop the fighting; she always hopes she can get both templars and mages to join the Inquisition. But they'll only start fighting us as well as each other. It'll get messy."

Blackwall nodded. "That it will." He tilted his head, and after a moment suggested, "We could try talking with them now. Save some time."

Bull laughed, "And get to the fighting part before the others get here, maybe take out a few, thin the ranks…"

"I was only thinking of the Herald's safety," he agreed. "The less there are to fight, the less chance one of them might get in a lucky shot at her."

"Blackwall," Bull reached over his shoulder as he stood, taking his greataxe in both hands, "I think you and I are going to get along really well. For the Inquisition!" he yelled, charging into the fray.

Blackwall hung back a moment, thinking that the qunari had forgotten the part about asking for a truce, but then decided it didn't matter.

The others weren't as far behind as the two had thought. The Herald had been agitated, her emotions stirred up, first with pride over having recruited Blackwall, then with embarrassment when her skills had been criticized. She couldn't wait the full half hour Bull had suggested, and her pace was far quicker than what was warranted. Therefore it wasn't long before she and the others came across the skirmish. Seeing Bull and Blackwall already fully engaged and harassed by both mages and templars, Cassandra spat out a curse and drew her sword. "Stay back!" she commanded the Herald before racing ahead, Vivienne keeping pace as she conjured a spectral blade mid-stride.

Again it stung her fledgling pride. She knew she wasn't that good with a bow and arrow, but she was getting better. Tears pushed at the edges of her eyes, threatening to fog her vision. It wasn't fair, her always being told to stay back, don't get hurt, hide behind that tree over there while the rest of us risk our lives…

"You all right?" Varric asked her, pausing between shots.

The Herald realized she had been standing there, the grip of her bow being wrung in her hands, while the fight went on without her. "I'm fine," she answered, her voice sounding small and helpless to her own ears, hiding as she was inside her helmet.

Varric also heard how scared and upset she sounded. "Come on," he suggested, nudging her with his shoulder, "Let's go stand by those trees over there. Should provide us with good cover, while we pick off a few of the stragglers."

Defiance swelled up within her chest; a new and heady sensation that robbed her of her common sense. She'd show Blackwall just how good she was at archery. She'd show everyone. She let Varric guide them closer to the trees near the edge of the cliff. They did have a good view of the skirmish, and having flanked both the mages and templars, they could shoot without much fear of hitting one of their own by accident. She fired several arrows, going through the steps Varric taught her: draw the bow, exhale half a breath, aim and let go, grab another arrow before bringing your hand forward…

Her movements were smooth, efficient, and her aim was reasonable, especially since everyone in front of her was an enemy. But it wasn't enough to be notable, not to her, not something she could brag about later back at the tavern in Haven, not something that Varric would put into a story. With a determined set to her chin, she picked out the toughest mage she could see and took careful aim.

"What are you doing?" Varric asked, but too late. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the Herald hesitate, seen her crouch, seen the arrow fly as she jumped backwards… "Damn."

It was a perfectly executed leaping shot, either due to beginner's luck or some sort of training she couldn't remember from her forgotten past. It was so out of the ordinary that he had to stop and admire it, turning away from the fight. He even found the time to shoot the Herald a congratulatory smile, before he was blindsided by the bolt from a lightning spell.

"Varric!"

She had performed the shot perfectly, letting loose the arrow and then jumping to a new spot so if anyone looked to see who had fired the arrow, the place it had come from would be empty. But her arrow had missed its target, catching an empty pleat in the robes of the mage. The mage turned to see who had fired the arrow, but since she had leaped clear, his eyes fell on Varric. He cast a spell, sending a bolt of lightning slamming into Varric's broad chest, instantly paralyzing the dwarf and making him crash to the ground. The spell was so powerful, that even though she stood a couple of yards away, the force of the hit was enough to knock her off her feet. She flew through the air, narrowly missing a low-hanging tree branch. She counted herself lucky at first, until she kept falling.

Trees and battle were swept from her vision, replaced by sky and clouds. The name on her lips was as much a cry of alarm over his fate, as a plea for him to help her. She was beyond Varric's reach, however, even if he hadn't been hurt. She felt herself falling, taking longer and longer to land on the ground, and knew she was in trouble. Ground raced past her, seeming to slide horizontally, tantalizingly close but still out of reach. Then her leg caught on something, a loud crack stormed over her body like a physical wave of sound, and her world went black.

A/N: interestingly enough, this happened to me in game the very first time I tried a leaping shot. Yup, I leaped backwards right off the side of a cliff. I lived, but my companions were stuck between trying to find a way down to me, and fighting off the rest of the bad guys. Decided right then and there, it would work great in a story…

P.S. I've mentioned this in my other stories, but I'll say it here in case you haven't read those. Rest assured I never post the first part of a cliffhanger (pardon the pun) without having the second part already written and ready to post in a day or two. See you then ;D