To say the past months had been busy would be an understatement. Ever since the events of Halamshiral, now nearly a year before, Skyhold had been inundated in letters. Word of the Inquisitor's skillful dispatch of Florianne (and her assassination plot), before a backdrop of the grand ball, had travelled swift and far. The story growing in both scale and debauchery the more it was told. Now, countless others between Ferelden and Orlais suddenly required the presence of the Inquisition to help settle their disputes.
Sorting, answering and potentially scheduling the endless requests was a task no one man could ever hope to conquer.
Fortunately they had Josephine Montilyet, and she was worth ten.
It was solely by grace of her position as envoy to the Inquisition that the organization had not been crushed beneath a mountain of unanswered letters. Somehow, she had managed to turn the pile into a manageable list of replies, refusals, invitations, appointments, meetings and other obligations the Herald absolutely must attend to. But even her magic had its limits, and eventually a plan was made for representatives to attend a portion of the more pressing requests in person. Such journeys were not uncommon; travel to and from the fortress for business and politics was a regular occurrence, particularly in the warmer months — though at times the planning could be… tricky.
Finding and splitting willing party members into two travel groups for the tasks was hardly a challenge. The Inquisitor, Cassandra, Dorian and Iron Bull made up the first, on the road the longest at nearly seven weeks; while Solas, Varric and Blackwall would travel for just over a month.
Delegating the list of responsibilities between them and creating the schedule wasn't a problem either. While some may argue that they lacked for entertainment, the main roads between townships were hardly a bother, and no one truly minded the journey. The travellers more than competant in case of ambush, and injuries were rare.
The difficult part was deciding when and where to work in the supply-gathering detour to the Fallow Mire so that no one could weasel out of it.
Currently holding the title, 'worst locale in all Thedas', according to Varric, the Mire was at the bottom of most everyone's visit list. Between the putrid stench of the bog, the mist that hung in the air, and the constant threat of disease from both contaminated water and hordes of wandering undead, it made for poor respite. Damp clung to clothing like a second skin, making everything feel just on the wrong side of clammy, and worse for every day spent in its midst.
Yet against all odds a few small encampments had moved into the area and begun to build a sustainable village. While not terribly large, the people there had managed to lay down roots and find an unexpected home in the bog. A few farmers, a merchant or two, and some occasional foot traffic soon turned into a small settlement; and a surprisingly self-sufficient one. What they could not forage from the meagre resources within the swamp, they bartered for with Inquisition camps or neighbouring towns… and beyond all expectation, trade was booming. It turned out the area had one thing going for it: a rich supply of dawn lotus. The herb was a required ingredient for most types of healing potions, and wasn't found anywhere else — making it a valuable commodity that a budding village could depend on.
The Inquisition had managed to get by for the better part of a year on the last supply brought in from the area, but stores were running dangerously low by the time Josephine had set to work on making up the most recent travel schedules.
Both groups would pass near the Mire on their way back to the fortress, it was barely a detour. And given the ever-present risk of disease it simply made sense to redirect a party already on the road rather than send out new bodies. One of the groups need only spend a few extra days out, and the bushels of lotus brought back to Skyhold made it worth any discomfort they suffered.
At least, that's what she said every other time parties took an entire week to return from the area, slowed and sick from its flu.
But the benefits of trade far outweighed the risk, and it was Josephine's job to ensure said benefits were reaped.
Unfortunately, the Ambassador learned some time ago that simply asking would never yield the desired result, and so initially the Mire was not among either of the party's itinerary. Instead, it was sent out only after both groups had spent a month in transit. The note was delivered by raven, waiting for whichever group stopped first at the Inquisition's largest encampment on the outskirts of the Hinterlands.
As it happened, it was Dorian who was handed the scroll when his party made camp ahead of schedule. They'd barely settled in, having only just sat down to enjoy a hot meal when a young soldier approached and gave the message to the first body he saw. Upon reading it, the mage loosed a string of curses that even made Iron Bull sit up and take notice, then reduced the parchment to ash in a fit of pique.
Ten days, three fevers and several packs of dawn lotus later, the party found themselves back at the same camp. Predictably waylaid by illness, they chose to forego the last item on their schedule — a visit to Redcliffe — in order to reduce the risk of bringing the flu any further. By coincidence, their group converged with the other, and a brief discussion saw Varric and Blackwall reassigned to the Hinterlands while Solas joined the Inquisitor's party to help ensure they all returned to Skyhold moderately healthy.
Though after travelling with the sickened party for a day, he'd come to regret the decision.
Dorian had not stopped complaining about the squelching in his shoes since they left the Mire, adding it to the ever-growing list of grievances he aired to anyone who would listen. The constant prattling nearly drove Solas and Cassandra to an aneurism from the stress of remaining politely quiet. Meanwhile, both Iron Bull and Ellana had failed to completely shake the "Mireflu", and it left them absolutely useless on the field. Should the party run into trouble, the two were liable to cause more problems than they'd fix and so were delegated to the back of the convoy.
With each other.
And a gap between them and the other riders so not to risk the illness spreading any further.
Thus far, Dorian had managed to avoid falling prey to it and Cassandra — being the first to show symptoms — made it through the worst on less than a single day's rest. Though this came as no surprise, as she so rarely succumbed to illness. Solas, having arrived later, safely bypassed the most contagious stage.
By the time the party was half a day's ride from Skyhold only Bull had shown a modicum of improvement. Something he attributed to his heritage, rather than luck. And as the day wore on, he took increasing joy in lording it over Ellana. Braggadocio under thinly-disguised concern each time he caught her drooping in the saddle as she rode along beside him.
"I think maybe you should be taking my rest breaks too, boss," he said, watching her list to one side of her hart for the third time in an hour. "Now that I don't need the extras, you should take the opportunity to double up. You're not looking so hot."
She straightened, shaking herself awake with a few hard blinks to clear the vertigo. Replying, "Don't be absurd." The defence came out more slurred than she'd intended, and so she took a moment to affect her best impression of a healthy, well-rested, Elf before continuing. "We're only a few hours out, and I'm not going to be responsible for any more delays. I'm fine, I'm just tired. I haven't slept well and it's been a long journey." Pitching her voice lower, she grumbled a curse to Josephine and a quiet, "I don't ever want to be gone this long again."
"Right, well let me rephrase," Iron Bull began, and pinned her with a pointed look. "You look like shit."
From somewhere beyond them, Dorian gave a snort.
"No one asked you," Ellana yelled ahead, and coughed.
"He's right, you know!"
Ignoring him, she turned her eyes upon the beads of sweat that had gathered at Bull's temples and the pallid hue of his skin beneath. She nodded in his direction. "You're not exactly the picture of perfect health, yourself."
"Mm," he groused, "probably not." And conceded the point with a shrug. "But you look like you're either going to throw up or pass out and if you don't decide on one soon you might end up doing both. And that's going to be unpleasant for everyone."
She lifted a hand and, "Don't," she whispered. The mere idea made her stomach turn. Bull had spent most of the previous two days retching into bushes, talking about how often he was retching into bushes, and betting who would next be retching into bushes. And while she'd been fortunate enough to avoid the worst of the flu's effects so far, the persistent nausea was beginning to wear her down.
"I've managed not to succumb this time around and I'd like to hold that record all the way to Skyhold. Let me travel in peace."
If anything, she'd only encouraged him. He grinned. "Maybe it'll make you feel better. Let it all out. Just—" He made a dramatic, sweeping motion with one hand. Drawing an arc from open mouth to the ground. "—get it out of your system." Ellana made a disgusted noise worthy of Cassandra, and Iron Bull chuckled slyly. "I was puking all day yesterday and I feel much better. You remember, right? Of course you do. Dorian pushed me into the woods so I wouldn't get sick in the middle of camp like the last time. It was everywhere."
They'd all spent long enough serving in the Inquisition together to have seen each other in various states of wellness, dress, and dignity. But there was something uniquely uncomfortable about succumbing to nausea before a group of your well-respected peers. Something Bull was, predictably, unaffected by.
"I'm serious, Bull. Stop talking."
"Seconded," Dorian piped in. "You're making me visualize it."
"The more the merrier!" he retorted. The curl of his smile turned devious. "Just pretend we've been out drinking all day instead of sleeping in disease-ridden camps. It's the fun kind of sick, where the room spins every time you try to lie down and you can't remember your own name. Like that night a few months ago in the Herald's Rest when you drank half a bottle of that whiskey and Sera spun you out of your seat—"
Ellana coughed, and then gagged, giving the anecdote an abrupt — and apt — end. Not quite losing what little she ate at breakfast, but coming close enough to make her spit into the snow and wipe the her mouth against the back of her hand. She turned an evil eye upon the Qunari as she righted herself.
"See?" he proclaimed, as though he'd performed some impressive feat rather than sour her stomach. "Just a few more of those and you'll be right as rain."
"For the love of the Gods just let me make it to Skyhold so I can crawl into bed and sleep for days," she begged him in a low murmur.
"You assume Josephine would let you," Dorian quipped over his shoulder. "She's probably got another eight weeks of travel already lined up. Hours of important meetings await you at Skyhold."
She groaned. "Gods, I hope not."
But he was probably right.
It seemed like every day there was more to do; she'd hardly had a moment's peace during waking hours and couldn't even recall when the last time was that she'd managed to take an afternoon off for herself. This trip, while admittedly exhausting, had offered her more hours of quiet solitude than the last few months combined. It only lacked for intimate companionship. Something made all the more apparent by the presence of another couple throughout the experience.
Though she loved them dearly, by the end of a seven week stint witnessing every stolen smile and brush of their fingers just didn't hold the same adorable appeal it had at the start. Nor did night number 37 of overhearing things she had no want to overhear.
Somewhere around the end of the first week Cassandra had gifted her a pair of tightly coiled knots of cotton wool to stick in her ears, and though elven hearing was more sensitive than a human's it at least dulled the ruckus enough to let her fall sleep. But for all her annoyance there was a part of her that was deeply jealous of their shameless attitude.
There was an evening out near Highever where they stopped at a roadside inn, and after several rounds of drinks Iron Bull had rest his great forehead against Dorian's temple, closed his eyes, and smiled. And for a moment the world seemed to dim around them. The scene warmed her heart, before bruising it.
Not a thought was spared for the presence of an audience; they exchanged affections openly. Unabashed. Whether on the road, in taverns, or behind the thin walls of the tent they shared each night. They were jubilant, and in love, and proud, while her heart beat behind closed doors. Hiding from politics, formality and expectation. The closest equivalent she knew was the brush of Solas' fingers against her wrist, hidden beneath a table. Bull and Dorian's freedom was a luxury she longed for more than she cared to admit.
And never had that pain been brought into such sharp focus than it had the night before, when she'd come upon Solas at camp after his group unexpectedly arrived a few hours after her own. Her lonely heart soared at the sight of him, and though exhausted by illness she'd have done anything for the privilege to throw her arms around his neck and embrace him fully. Sleep for hours curled against his body instead of spending another blasted night alone on a straw mattress.
Now, thanks to the Mire, their reunion would be delayed even longer.
Damn this journey. Damn the Mire. Damn it all.
"—would miss us, admit it," Bull was saying. His teasing lilt brought her wayward thoughts back into focus, and she realized she'd been staring at Solas' back as he rode ahead of her.
She scoffed, to cover for the fact that she hadn't been listening, but it was Dorian who provided the quip she'd yet to muster. "I'm sure she's as sick of us as we are of this road, amatus."
"Is that what's got your stomach in a spin?"
The laugh came out more like a hiccough, which was followed by a decidedly unpleasant burp that she tasted in her nose. Wincing, she pressed her lips together tightly and held her breath. The threat of sick was pressed hard against her throat and she had no want to tempt it.
A quiet moment went by like that before Bull began again, "Just let it—"
"Please, Bull. I don't want to have to kill you."
"In this condition?" He snorted. "I'd like to see you try. Don't get me wrong, you're a good fighter — but not when you can't take more than three steps without needing to catch your breath."
"Maybe she can just vomit on you and get you sick a second time," Dorian provided dryly. "That might do the trick."
The Qunari was quick with his retort. "Careful. You're riding awfully close for someone who has yet to build an immunity, mage. Maybe I'm not done yet."
"Will you all please shut up?" Cassandra yelled from the head of the line. "This is truly disgusting. Solas—" She pulled on the reigns of her horse to slow it down, coming astride of him. "Surely there is something in your pack for this?" she plead, and the subtext of her request was clear: give them something to make them stop.
He glanced at the supply packs attached as saddlebags, frowning. "No, just herbs and salves for injuries I'm afraid. We did pass a glen with elfroot a few moments ago; it has been known to settle nausea and lower a fever. If we stopped here—"
"No!" Ellana interrupted, braving the risk of a rolling stomach to cut Solas' suggestion off at the bud. "No more delays! Just stop talking about it. Stop talking to me. Leave me alone and I'll be fine," she said, punctuating the statement with a pointed glare at Iron Bull. He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender, and finally — gratefully — quieted.
Not wanting to risk giving him an opportunity to start again, Ellana gave her hart a little kick in its' side to pick up speed. The rest of the group followed her lead, and soon all were traveling at a light gallop.
The terrain in this part of the Frostbacks was still fairly smooth, and the slight chill in the air as the summer met with fall meant the rivers had all but dried up. It made for an easy ride. One that could be travelled a touch faster than normal. Maybe, if they were lucky, the group could shave an hour off the time it usually took to cross the mountain pass and they'd be able to climb the Endless Steps to Skyhold before nightfall. They'd have to ride a little harder, but after so long without the comfort of a quiet room, lit fire, fresh water (and, perhaps, a chamber pot at the ready in case she felt sicker) she was tempted enough to risk the jostling a faster pace would give her.
Oh, but if her clan-mates could see her now: a lifetime of Dalish pride over sleeping rough in the forest, readily cast aside before the promise of a soft bed and a lover to share it.
Just then the hart gave a sudden jerk as it leapt over a broken stone in the road. Rolling her forward in the saddle hard enough to push her chest into the back of its head. The sudden impact sent a hot rush up the back of her neck, warning her that this vertigo was unlikely to resolve itself without her requiring the use of a bush.
Fucking Qunari.
She pressed two fingers against her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, but it only served to make her more nauseated. And when she opened them again, she caught the tail end of a concerned frown Solas was giving her over his shoulder. An unspoken plea clear in his eyes: do not stress yourself needlessly.
Ellana gave him a petulant stare in return, casting distain at the very idea that he might want to lecture her about her health after barely a day back in her company. But the look he gave her in return was so full of genuine concern that she didn't have the heart to keep it up. Reluctantly, she would admit he had her best interest at heart. He always did, when he worried over her; she'd come to find the trait endearing.
From behind her, Bull heaved a wistful sigh, and she felt her stomach flip in anticipation of what would surely be another attempt to purge her of sickness.
He did not disappoint.
"You know what I can't wait to get back to?" he asked to no one in particular. Nobody deigned to prompt him for the answer. Though he was hardly deterred, and took the silence as invitation. "Steak! A nice, juicy, steak. Not cooked though. I like it just a little warm. When you can still see the blood running out of it when you take a bite. You know how you can taste it on the back of your tongue? Mm, that's the best."
"Bull, I swear on all that is good and holy, I will end your life if you push me any further," Ellana muttered in a voice far too meek to properly convey the sincerity of the threat.
But he continued. "Some potatoes and stewed vegetables would make a nice side dish, don't you think? Just fill your mouth right to the brim with 'em. Wash it down with some of that nice Dwarven ale they've got at the Herald's Rest. You know, the good stuff that really burns. Just eat, and eat, and eat. I haven't had a good meal since we stopped out by Lake Calenhad and had that rabbit stew that old human woman was serving at the inn. Ahh," he sighed. "It's got nothing on what Cabot can do with some venison and rice, though. What about that really dense bread—"
In the seconds before she thought Bull's taunting might have pushed her just an inch too far, Dorian broke in and saved her the humiliation. "You know he's sweet on the apothecary girl. The elf."
It seemed to work. "Who? Elan?"
"Is that her name? I always forget. She writes him letters, you know."
Unfortunately, the damage was done, and seconds later she found herself bent over one side of the hart gagging hard enough to draw everyone's attention back to her. When it was over she sucked in a sharp breath, bringing a hand to her mouth and covering it tightly as though it might undo what had just occurred. Or at the very least prevent it from happening again.
Bull seemed to take the act as a personal triumph, instantly forgetting Dorian's attempt to distract him with Cabot's torrid affair with the herbalist. "There we go! Isn't that better?"
Not even remotely, she thought, along with some other choice insults. As loudly as she could.
Dorian was saying something — either to her, or to Iron Bull, she couldn't quite tell — and Cassandra was most certainly yelling at him. Atop it all she could just barely hear Solas' voice; the ringing in her ears drowning out the details. And while she was reasonably sure he was speaking to her she had no desire to stay and answer him in this condition. Before another roll could hit, she climbed off her mount and stumbled beyond the scrub brush on the side of the road. Searching for a more private location than the centre of a circle of her companions to be sick in.
An old, thick, tree stood a few dozen steps off the main path; surrounded by tall bushes that made a suitable partition between her and the road. She leaned heavily upon it, one arm folded across her forehead. The bickering of her companions faded to an indiscriminate buzz behind her, punctuated by the occasional shout from Cassandra, who had finally seen the end of her patience. She took solace in the idea that, at the very least, Bull was being appropriately shamed for his part in this.
No more than a minute went by before she heard someone approach. Then felt their presence at her side. The gentle touch of a hand upon her back rubbing slow, comforting circles between her shoulder blades.
"I thought Bull and I were in quarantine?" she muttered. There was no need to look up to know who had come to check on her. "Aren't you worried you'll catch it?"
"Well, let's agree to not exchange any fluids and I'll stay to hold back your hair," replied Dorian. Gently, he combed his fingers through a weft of hair that had fallen over one side of her face. Knuckles brushing over her temple, flushed and beaded with sweat from the strain of taming her stomach. He tucked the loose curl behind a pointed ear, then pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.
"You're not fevered anymore," he remarked, brows raised hopefully. "So at least you're out of the thick of it. Bull was right though, you're looking more than just a mite peaked. I'd suggest another stop so you could rest a few hours if I didn't already know you'd refuse it. I understand the want to get back, but you're pushing yourself too hard. How are you really feeling?"
Before offering an answer, Ellana lifted her head from the crook of her arm. Looking over Dorian's shoulder.
Catching on, he pitched his voice lower. "He's gone to find you elfroot, you can complain freely."
Some of the tension left her shoulders with a weary sigh. "I'm exhausted, Dorian," she admitted. "This last detour to the Mire has ruined me. I barely slept last night and yet can barely stay awake today, but there's not more than two hours left in this fucking expedition and I swear to the Gods I refuse to be responsible for yet another delay. We've wasted enough time already and we're so close to home I can taste it. On top of it all I'm positively furious that I cannot have a moment's peace to properly greet Solas after not seeing him for the better part of two months, not that I could without the risk of passing this on! At least you have had your lover here for you through this whole thing.
"Worse, I have no one to blame for that — perhaps Josephine at a stretch — yet it still rankles. It's just one more thing to be upset about and I am well beyond the limits of my patience!" She meant to go on, but all the righteous anger in the world wasn't enough to tame the twitch in her throat that insisted she quiet immediately, lest she succumb to it. So rather than continue the rant, she offered only a quiet, "Ugh," to mark its end.
After a pause, "I don't know that I'd consider the rest stops 'wasteful'," Dorian remarked. Choosing to ignore the rest. "Bull did improve once he had adequate sleep."
"All I've done this week is sleep," she countered quickly. "No one can possibly need this much sleep. This blighted journey—" she stopped. Breathed. And only after an exceedingly long pause managed a strained, "— is going to be my death."
Dorian sighed. Drew his brows in concern and rubbed his hand along her back again. "Shenanigans aside, have you eaten even one meal today?"
"Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth. When she'd emerged from her tent that morning she'd not felt even remotely like having breakfast. Barely managing to choke down half a serving of boiled grains before surreptitiously dumping the rest in the bush.
He gave her a look but said nothing to the obvious lie. It was clear he was running low on his stock of comforting advice and suggestions. "Well, can I help somehow?"
After a moment of thought, "Mm," she murmured, and nodded. "Help me get this damned corset off."
"I thought you'd never ask," he quipped.
Quick fingers went to work loosing the bindings of her leather amor. He didn't bother with her legs or arms, correctly assuming she'd just meant to remove whatever was touching her midsection. Once the lacings had been worried loose he gave it a tug down over her hips and then stepped back to give her the space to remove it entirely. She shimmied it down her legs and kicked it away, then pulled her blouse loose from her trousers and folded the hem down. But to her great disappointment, removing the pressure from her middle didn't provide nearly as much relief as she'd hoped.
Burying her face into a folded arm once again, she leaned heavily against the tree, closed her eyes, and breathed. And for a long and almost pleasant few moments, she stayed that way. Attention focused inward upon the rhythm of her chest rising and falling. The sound of the wind fluttering through the leaves. The feel of Dorian's hand upon her back, warm and firm. Somehow the peace allowed her to fight back the worst of the vertigo. Breathe in, breathe out. Count the seconds as they passed and allow the nausea to be carried away with the breeze. She'd almost begun to enjoy the stillness.
Until…
"We've been sent on these trips a few times now, and you weren't nearly so bad off," Dorian remarked suddenly.
Something about the way he said it caught her ear strangely. It wasn't so much that the comment was impolite — and it was impolite — as it was that his tone seemed off. Uncomfortable.
One eye opened. Narrowed. "Thanks, Dorian."
"No, no, I didn't mean—" He stopped. Or was stopped, more accurately. Thoughts grinding to a halt with lips still parted around an attempt at clarity that he couldn't quite get out.
Ellana lifted her head out of the crook of her arm to pin him with a glare, but her indignation was quickly cooled. He was staring at her with the most peculiar expression. Brows knit deep and eyes a little wide; as though he'd only just now seen her for the first time. It was as curious as it was unsettling.
Stranger still was when he finally found his voice. "Ellana," he said carefully. Rarely did he use her given name, preferring to call her by endearments and nicknames even in official capacities when Josephine would really wish he wouldn't. And he spoke in an odd, stilted manner that she'd never heard him use before. "When was the last time you had your monthlies?"
The question was so bizarre she had to pause for the space of a few breaths before she could even begin to consider her reply.
"My... what?"
Dorian took half a step toward her, repeating, "Your monthlies," in a low whisper. The way he emphasized the word made it clear that he was expecting her to clue in to some shared secret. But whatever coded message he'd meant to impart didn't translate, and in her state she could not recall a single instance where he'd used the term. Additionally, her thoughts had slowed to a trickle; all she could focus on was the quiver in her throat and the roll of her stomach. The prickling heat began to creep back into her face again.
"Gods Dorian, just speak—" Her mind stubbornly refused to find the words. Elvish. Tevinter. Common. Normal. Plainly? "—Plainly! I'm in no mood for riddles."
The mage heaved a sigh. Pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a curse under his breath. "Maker help me, I never thought I'd need to have this conversation with anyone." He clasped one hand firmly upon her shoulder, and turned her to face him. "What do the Dalish call it when, as a woman, you come of age and bleed?" he implored with a quiet urgency that begged her to understand.
"Oh," she exclaimed, finally catching on. "A moon blood?"
The small success briefly thrilled him. "Yes, that! How long has it been since your last one of those?"
She narrowed her eyes, searching him for some explanation for the bizarre direction the conversation had—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Taking note of the change in her demeanour, Dorian's brows lifted hopefully. A gesture of silent hope that she had made the connection on her own and he wouldn't need to break this down any further.
She met his gaze, and frowned deeply. "That's not funny, Dorian."
"I'm not joking." That was clear enough by the hard edge in his voice. "Just be a dear and count it up for me, will you?"
With gaze averted she did as he bid her; sifting through the last few weeks worth of travel and weighing it against her cycles.
Two months past Josephine and Leliana had come to her to finalize the plans. Once everything was confirmed she dismissed herself for the evening, and found Solas waiting for her in her tower room when she came to it. Knowing the length of time they'd endure apart, she insisted he spend every night they had left in her bed. A proposal he eagerly took to heart. The night before she was due to leave she'd been so reluctant to let him go that he agreed to stay through until dawn, soaking in every last moment they had in each other's company before obligation would separate them.
The first few weeks on the road were a blur of activity.
They arrived at the border of Orlais ahead of schedule, and from there were escorted by horse-drawn coach to their many appointments, in many locales. For the next two weeks it seemed they stopped at a different city every day. Finally reaching Val Royeaux two evenings past when they'd been expected to arrive, roped into staying another day and a half to mediate a negotiation and one incredibly boring dinner party.
Following that, the party made their way back toward Ferelden, heading east, and then south on the imperial highway so they could visit half a dozen villages along the way. The order to detour into Fallow Mire was waiting for them when they camped at the edge of the Hinterlands, just days before they'd meant to attend their last appointment in Redcliffe and then head back to Skyhold.
Two things occurred to her then.
First: that she'd begun feeling worn down well before they'd entered the bog. She'd blamed it on travel fatigue and poor diet.
Second: that she had yet to use the cloths she'd packed for her blood. They were neatly folded in an interior pocket, untouched, right where she placed them the day before she left Skyhold.
Two moons had passed. She hadn't even noticed.
A heavy weight dropped into her stomach, the sensation stealing a choked gasp from her lips. And when she turned her eyes back to Dorian she saw the gravity of the situation dawning on his face, too. The understanding, when she whispered a weak, "Oh, fuck."
A sudden voice drew their attention away. Solas had returned from the grove.
He emerged from the brush behind them with one arm raised, clutching a small handful of herbs. "I've brought some elfroot," he announced. Seemingly pleased by the chance to tame a bout of queasiness. That eagerness was tempered once he got a chance to properly survey the scene. "If you are still feeling unwell, you can—"
For a moment everything went very, very still.
Dorian and the Herald stood barely an arm's-length apart with the mage's hands firm upon her shoulders. Staring fretfully at each other until both turned their faces to Solas as he entered the glen.
Ellana's face was sickly white, and for whatever reason Dorian didn't look too much better.
Solas eyes flickered between them. "Is everything alright?"
If Ellana had any answer to give, it was lost when she doubled over and vomited onto Dorian's feet.