Through A Cloudy Looking Glass

by OldDDGuy

What if a group of people found themselves on Thedas, but they knew little or nothing about it. How would they adapt? Would they? What if they were able to defend themselves with modern weapons, but nothing else? Would they be able to make things better or worse? Rough language, some adult situations.

18. Haven's Fall

To my readers, thank you for reading my story. I am sorry that I have taken so long to publish this chapter. I have been trying to improve my craft, and I have gotten busy with Real Life. I have more chapters in process and hope to have them out soon.

Thanks go out to:

CherryJamOnToast,

Shadeslayer113, and

Efion63,

who have encouraged and supported my meager efforts.

There is coarse language.

This is a bridging chapter with a fair amount of exposition. Sorry in advance.

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Haven's Fall

The celebration was in full swing, and it was a genuine party! The food was plentiful, and Flissa was generous with the ale.

Everyone was having a great time — everyone but one.

Inquisition Lieutenant Commander John Gray was standing outside the Maiden, watching and listening as music played and dancers weaved around him.

Patty's tenor voice led the Maiden patrons; surprisingly, they sounded pretty good. They were not drunk singing. Drunken singing would be on the way to hammered rambling when workers with wheelbarrows would arrive to help the besotted back to their tents.

John could not help a chuckle as he watched them; they all deserved a celebration after all they had been through.

With the Breach closed, most thought the crisis was over. But, in the quiet of the night, they all knew that closing the Breach was just the beginning.

"We be soldiers three, pardona moy, je vous an pree, lately come forth of the Low Country. With never a penny of money," Patty's voice floated above the din.

John hummed along; he knew the words by heart; he had taught them to the guys as a bonding ritual. It was a song he and Mariah had learned while they reveled in their guilty pleasure of costumed renaissance fairs.

"Here, good fellow, I drink to thee. To all good fellows, wherever they be," Patty's voice blended with the others in the Maiden, it wasn't a well-rehearsed church choir, but they sounded full of fun and the joy of life.

It was bittersweet for John to hear the song; it reminded him of Mariah and better times.

John and Mariah had been dating for months; he wanted to do something different, but like most career soldiers, he didn't have a lot of cash.

Eric and John were standing in line at a Walgreens when Eric saw a poster for a small ren' fair outside of Saint Louis.

John had never been to a renaissance fair; until Eric, he had never known anyone who had. So, like many people, John assumed those fairs were for geeks with no life. But Eric had been to the fairs and knew the couple would have a great time.

"Come on, moron! You two will have fun, and think of how she will look in a corset!" Eric teased his friend, knowing that Mariah would look hot in the costume.

"Fine asshole, but she will shoot me down, and I will kick your ass," John elbowed Eric as both men tried to adjust themselves; neither could help but imagine a corseted Mariah.

"John, that sounds so wonderful; I would love that," Mariah responded to his invitation with genuine enthusiasm, and no one was more shocked than John Gray.

The young duo walked, shopped, ate, and laughed. The two-hour date went on all day. John bought Mariah a wreath with silk flowers and ribbons for her hair.

They stayed until the skies grew gray and cloudy; with a May thunderstorm, they hid in a tent as the rain poured. Mariah confessed storms made her … passionate.

That motivated John to want to find someplace more private. Mariah laughed as he immediately took her hand and headed for the exit, only to find the little brook; at the entrance to the park was more river than a stream. He scooped Mariah up and carried her across the submerged causeway. Halfway across, she kissed him, and on impulse, John popped The Question; she screamed her 'yes' and kissed him again. The crowds on both sides cheered. She wore the wreath and ribbons for their wedding.

Their first wedding anniversary was celebrated at the same fair, with Mariah dressed as a high-born lady, and he was her loyal knight … later in the night, she would be his wench, and he became her rogue. Both her costumes had corsets.

"Sing for the brave and sing for the strong. To all those living and those who have gone, with never a penny of money," Patty's voice was melancholy at that line, the crowd as well.

"Mariah would have loved all this," John smiled faintly, his eyes surveying all about him.

The song was about soldiers and the consequences of war; Maryden played the tune well.

John hummed along, but he wasn't really listening.

No, he was watching.

His focus was on Serrada, who was standing on the top terrace. She was also watching, but she concentrated on the revelers.

The 'Consort to the Herald of Andraste' was wrestling with a question that had his mind going in circles for days.

His feelings for Lady Trevelyan. There was no doubt that he found her attractive, she was beautiful, and if you got a couple of fingers of whiskey in him, he would have admitted she was more attractive than Mariah. She was intelligent and kind, and she was as tough as any man he ever knew. Yet, with all that, he still felt uncertain. So, he watched her.

She looked regal, like a young Queen Elizabeth at her coronation; he half expected her to do the princess wave.

Or perhaps the heroine of a movie, where a young girl comes of age and saves the world.

Except this was not a movie, real people died, and Serrada saved Thedas.

Was that it? The fact that she was so much younger than he? She certainly was young, beautiful, and confident, and …

If he could see himself, he would have noticed the rueful grin. Mariah used to tease him about it; she said it was the smile of a cat who got the cream.

As he watched Serrada, he was again struck by the perception that The Herald did not know how she appeared to others. John was sure that in her own eyes, she was just a young woman looking over a crowd enjoying itself on a beautiful early spring day. A spring that had not yet touched the slopes of the mountains around Haven.

He doubted she saw the devotion in the eyes of those who were celebrating, and if she did, he knew she would attribute it to their commitment to the Inquisition, not to her. He knew they marked the closing of the Breach, but more, they honored their Herald.

Before Therinfal, John had heard the whispers inside the soldier's camps. The snatches of conversation revealed loyalty to The Herald bordering on fanaticism, and some were so far beyond the border they would need a passport to get back.

John glanced toward the mountain and the smoldering ruins whose red glow softly lit the scarred sky.

The Conclave catastrophe had uprooted these people and shredded the foundations of their lives, their most fundamental beliefs.

John had seen how disaster and war could destroy communities, even entire societies. But for all that, the Conclave and the Breach?

They were different, even more profound, deeper, and more personal.

He had not experienced such a fundamentally destructive event as the Conclave explosion. No one on Earth had in millennia; it would be as if the Vatican, Jerusalem, or Mecca were wiped from the map.

John could only shake his head at the thought; he did not want to imagine what would happen if a nuke detonated in any of those cities. Earth would crumble, and millions, more likely billions, would die.

All that made him feel even more disconnected. He wanted to enjoy the moment, savor the success of closing the Breach, her success, but he couldn't.

He could not explain why; he never could. When his shoulder blades itched, he just knew … like an engine misfire or a wrong note in a song you know well, it was just … wrong.

Not that anyone listened. He had tried to warn his parents, but they just laughed and told him not to worry.

Then they were gone, and he gave up on trying to explain.

Ever since the funerals, he took precautions, war-gaming every situation. Planning and reworking plans, trying to anticipate and prepare for every outcome.

Unfortunately, he was not omniscient; Africa taught him that losing Mathew had shown him in brilliant, painful colors, mostly blood red, that no one was.

Now, the older and wiser John Gray stood in Haven, and his shoulder blades were on fire.

He glanced at Serrada, who at that moment was looking at him. She looked away immediately to shout at Varric, who glanced at John with that smirk.

"I will kill that dwarf slowly if he writes any of this," John must have looked dower since Varric's smirk turned into a genuine smile. In salute, Varric raised a flagon of ale, then turned away.

John could not decide whether his shoulder blades itched because of Serrada. He was hoping he might gain some insight one way or another by watching her.

She glanced his way; their eyes met; this time, she did not look away. His heart pounded, and his blood froze and boiled like a kid on his first date. He was held by her eyes, a deer in the headlights, but not frightened, just held.

Even from this distance, her face, her eyes, all spoke to him.

He was convinced Serrada was worried too.

But was she unsettled about how close she came to death at the Breach, or was it something else? He was unsure, but thought he knew her well enough to know she was uneasy.

"Something troubles you," Cassandra's words caused him to jump.

"Jesus, Cassandra!" John responded, gathering himself, blushing that he had been so focused.

"I am sorry, Lieutenant Commander," Cassandra tried to suppress a chuckle and hide her joy at startling him; it was not an easy thing to do since few took John Gray by surprise. Finally, however, the slight curl of her lip gave her away.

It took a moment, but John relaxed and returned the Seeker's smile. Cassandra looked up at Serrada, and John did as well. The Herald's attention was elsewhere now, and he felt foolish for hoping she was looking at him.

"Nothing, it is just…." John felt the itch run down his back to his waist; this was the worst he could remember.

"What? Eric has told me of your gifts; you are troubled, please tell me," Cassandra asked again.

'Wait, what gifts? And, since when was he just Eric?' That was a question for later, but regardless, he was happy for his friend; his face bore a sardonic grin 'good luck, Eric, you are going to need it.'

"Eric has told me you have often sensed danger, before the danger was apparent," Cassandra looked squarely at him; her eyes had no skepticism.

"He has said you were usually correct, so much so that all your companions thought it supernatural. Here we would say, magical; perhaps I should have you tested?" Cassandra commented more to herself, "Latent magical talent, perhaps?"

John realized that the Seeker had grown up with uncommon abilities; such things were not unusual to her. The idea of being tested held no attraction for John Gray. He started feeling like an insect under a microscope.

The Seeker held his gaze and searched his eyes, then pressed. "Do you sense something?"

John sighed; he had spent enough time with the woman to know she would not give up on a question if she wanted an answer.

'It is best just to give her what she wants and or thinks she wants,' John remembered Eric's admonition about the Seeker; Eric had added, 'Cass was like a dog with a bone. She won't give up on something till she gets what she wants.'

"Commander?" Cassandra's voice was a little sharp; she was not known for her patience.

"I can't help feeling that this was all too easy, that there is another shoe to drop." The only answer he would give the Seeker, his eyes had again returned to Serrada.

Since the kiss, he had resolved never to call her by anything other than Serrada.

He sighed again; he did that a lot lately.

Since that kiss, she had avoided him; he had assumed she regretted her actions. He had accepted her need for space. She avoided him, and he avoided her; they avoided the fact that they avoided each other.

He had not wanted to continue their separation, but part of him felt guilty, ashamed that he had somehow betrayed Mariah, which was stupid, and worse, somehow betrayed Sarah. But most of all, he was afraid that he wanted another kiss, and another, and ….

"Too easy?" Cassandra scoffed, thinking of the efforts of the Herald. Let alone those of Eric and the others with him. Even though John led the Therinfal expedition to Cassandra, it was all Eric.

"I hope never to see what you consider difficult." The tone of her voice betrayed forced humor and a strain that said she feared he was serious.

As they watched the party, John laughed, seeing the humor in her comment; even the potions master seemed to enjoy himself.

"I suppose you are right, but every time I have ignored this feeling…." His parents, the Africa mission, not to mention Iraq. Something was wrong; he knew it; he did not know how; he just knew.

"Yes, Cassandra, something is just not right." His shoulder blades were on fire. "I am sorry, I have to go." John turned and walked away toward the barracks.

Cassandra watched him go, then called to one of her templars while climbing the stairs.

John started moving toward the barracks, uncertain what he planned to do. Then, luckily, he saw Gliril dancing with a young elven scout.

"Excuse me, I am sorry for interrupting," he felt foolish but continued, "Gliril, I can't explain, but something is wrong. Get to the cabin, pack everything you can, and meet me at the Chantry." His voice had an edge that made the elf girl shudder.

"Right away," she replied and melted into the crowd.

John looked up to the rampart of the small courtyard. He caught Serrada's eye, and she somehow knew his thoughts; she nodded, became grim, and started talking to Cassandra, who had just come up to stand next to her. John noticed The Herald loosened her daggers and was stringing her bow.

He turned and ran down the stairs and out through the main gate.

Bursting into the barracks, he expected no greeting and wasn't disappointed. Most of the Newcomers had other places to be now that they were more integrated into the Inquisition, and then there was the party. To his surprise, he saw Sera and Rachelle in the corner making out; their making out was not all that unusual; it was just done in less public spaces.

"Sera, Rachelle, I think something is going to happen. Go find Eric and LJ, then gather everyone you can; get them packing to move out of Haven just in case." John shouted over his shoulder while bounding up the stairs to his room, closing the door on the shouted questions. He heard muffled words between the women, the front door open and close, then silence.

He threw what he could, what was valuable, into his pack, then snagged his Go-Bag. When his eyes fell on the silver-framed photo, he froze for a moment, remembering his daughter. He wrapped it in a t-shirt and stuffed it in his seabag. Then, he shouldered all his gear and turned to leave. But at the door, he paused and took one last look around the rooms he had learned to call home, then closed the door behind him.

He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Eric and Little John burst through the door, both panting; Eric was bent at the waist, his hands on his knees.

"Sera found me," Eric finally got out between gasps of air. He had been sitting in the Maiden; lately, he had been doing that a little more than was good for him. He entertained himself watching those trying to get into Flissa's panties, he did not have the heart to tell them they were wasting their time, but it did not stop him from taking bets.

In truth, the Maiden gave him a place to think. He was trying to decide what to do about Cass; the woman made him giddy and jumpy.

"Rachelle found me," Little John added; he was less winded than Eric; LJ had been working out with the Chargers. Bull seemed to enjoy training with him; they did long runs, just the two of them.

"What is the matter, boss?" LJ asked, not wanting the answer. Well, perhaps afraid of the response was more accurate. He knew John almost as well as Eric, and if the boss was spooked, then a shit storm was not far behind.

"Something does not feel right; get geared up and ready; meet me at the chantry asap. We need to be ready an hour ago." Then they glanced at each other and were gone.

John looked around the room, the house he had helped build; he could almost see the ghostly figures of people moving through it, the good times and bad; mostly, he could see Serrada in the room; he thought he could smell tea and fresh-baked cookies.

Somehow, he was sure he would never be in this room again.

Without a backward glance, he turned and bolted through the door crossing the alley to the other building.

He did not bother knocking and entered; he found Sam and Rachelle in a heated argument, with the other handful of Sam's team gathered around the women.

"Rachelle, that is nonsense; nothing is going to happen. There are rings of scouts; John is just imagining…." When they saw John, the room fell silent.

"Believe what you will, doctor, no harm, no foul if I am wrong, but if I am right, your work will be shot to shit if you don't move now." He held the leader of the thick-headed scientists in his gaze; she looked away.

"All right, everyone pack; we need everything ready in 10 minutes." She looked around; no one was moving. "NOW!"

Her voice cut through the air like a blade. Suddenly, the room was all commotion and activity. Rachelle smiled at John and followed him out the door. She grabbed his arm, and he stopped turning to her.

"Something is coming, commander John. I don't know what, but I feel it too." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Be careful, please."

A snowball flew out of the shadows and smacked John on the left side of the head. "Quiet snogging, my girl!" The elf voice, half-serious but also half laughing, shouted, then there was a thump and cursing as another snowball caught Sera between the breasts.

"Stop throwing snowballs at the Inquisition staff; besides, she kissed him!" Charter appeared from yet another shadow, smiled at Rachelle, and was gone before Sera's return shot flew through the space Charter had occupied.

"Sera! You stop that this instant and get down here and help me pack!" Rachelle stomped her foot, and a slightly pouting Sera appeared beside her. Rachelle kissed Sera's cheek and said, "you can fold my small clothes…." Then, with a mischievous grin, Rachelle disappeared inside the building, and Sera giggled and followed, her pout gone.

John turned and ran back through the gate as fast as possible, trying to find Cullen or someone to warn. He knew he sounded utterly nuts, but he hoped he had bought some respect with the command staff.

Instead, he found Dorian and Barris, both speaking quietly.

"Something is coming; you need to get ready. Dorian, find Fiona and let her know; Barris, get with Lysette and tell her to get ready. I don't know what, but something is coming."

John turned away, moving fast; however, Dorian had not reacted, but Barris did.

"Dorian, I suggest you do as he said; he has good instincts." Barris ran, looking for Lysette. Dorian looked after Barris, then shrugged and ran off, looking for the others.

Only luck allowed John to run into Crem and Okanog, who were coming out of the Maiden; John ran into them.

"Crem, go find Bull; tell him to prepare the Chargers for battle now." He had settled on an approach.

"Don't ask why; it does not matter; just do it." Crem knew how to take orders and immediately was off to find Bull and get the Chargers ready.

"What do we do?" Okanog asked with genuine eagerness. The big Qunari had been looking for a way to get into the fight, which sounded like a ground-floor opportunity. However, he was disappointed with John's reply.

"Nothing," John responded, too preoccupied to notice his huge friend's expression. "Just get your people ready to move; I don't know where but be ready quickly; I don't know how much time we have."

Okanog considered what to say in protest, but John was already gone; Okanog watched his friend take the stairs toward the Chantry in a single leap.

"Andraste's sticky knickers!" Okanog muttered, loud enough for a passing Sister to look at him, shocked.

"Sorry, Sister." The big Qunari moved toward the worker's camp as quickly as possible. "As if I am going to do nothing!"

John tried to get to Serrada, who was holding court above the party below, but the crowd was too thick; everyone wanted a blessing or a dance or something.

Besides, John noticed a half dozen of Leliana's people were surrounding their Herald, so he went to the chantry to see how everything was going. He discovered Mother Giselle was 'chatting' with Chancellor Roderick again.

John disliked Roderick intensely and butted in.

"Mother Giselle, I know this sounds foolish, but I am concerned something is coming; we need to be ready for … something." Although he sounded less assured, he felt he was again standing before the mother superiors' desk back in his Catholic school days.

"What do you fear, Lieutenant Commander?" Giselle asked, concern written on her face and in her voice.

"His own shadow," Roderick scoffed until John turned to look at him; Roderick became silent.

"I don't know, but something feels wrong." John was in no mood to explain, "Just get packed and ready to move, oh and if you see José, let him know."

"Haven is defenseless against a determined attack; we must be ready to bug out." John turned and ran without looking back.

"Running in a Chantry, shameful!" Roderick was disgusted; he tried to return to his conversation partner before he was so rudely interrupted. Only to find she, too, was gone. Mother Giselle, robes hiked up, was running to find her healers.

On his way out of the chantry, John met Eric and LJ coming up from the cells.

"The doors are still fucking locked," Eric suddenly looked around, realizing where he was, then mouthed a sorry to the sisters working on packing. They took no notice.

"We can't get in, but we have our gear and side arms, and we are loaded up. I will look for…." Eric never got to finish that sentence.

Bells began ringing, then a loud commotion— everyone responded to the call to arms.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Eric was shouting inside the Chantry. "I really hate it when you are right, boss. I fucking hate it." But this time, he did not care who heard.

John just turned and headed out the door.

Serrada was gone when he reached the spot she had been watching.

He jumped down near Varric's bonfire, and in the glare, he thought he recognized a slight figure passing by. He instinctively caught the elf's arm before she slipped away, but he struggled to remember her name for a moment.

"Minaeve," John just remembered her name, "What is happening, and which way did the Herald go?"

"I don't know, but I think we are under attack; the Herald ran to the gate." The elf mage was shaking.

John tried to level his voice to calm her.

"Minaeve, check on the tranquil and send them to the Chantry. Then find Adan and gather as many potions as you can, then meet us there." He saw her consider what to do, then she glanced at his uniform and seemed to decide; then, he released her arm.

"Yes, sir," Then she was gone.

The noise was deafening, with shouting, bells, and general chaos.

John got to the gate just in time to see Serrada, Cassandra, Sera, and Vivian run through.

"Cullen, what is happening?" John asked at the gate; the scene was chaos, made worse by too much drink earlier in the evening.

"We are under attack from some unknown force!" Cullen shouted over the din. "They came up the pass. I did not think anyone could make it, but they did; now, they are moving up on us through the valley. We still hold the bridge gates, but if they control that, we are done for. Small groups have used rope lines to get across the gorge, but we can handle them; the main force is the problem."

John was already gone by the time Cullen finished the sentence. John was a gifted tactician; he had proved it many times in the past, he could take a small force and deploy it to counter a larger one, but he knew well that there was a limit. If it got near Haven, a large enough force would overwhelm them all; the key was not to let that army get near.

Climbing the stairs three at a time, he got to Leliana's tent. She was shouting orders, moving scouts, and keeping the panic in check.

"Leliana, I need the key to the cells now." He burst through the crowd, not even asking for space.

"Why?" she asked; the surrounding scouts had hands-on daggers and swords; they moved between her and this potential threat.

"Oh, here!" She pulled a cord from around her neck, tossed it to John, and returned to work. She forced her scouts to forget about the 'rude' man.

John ran back to the Chantry; he realized it must have been between her breasts since it was warm, and the leather cord smelled of Andraste's Grace. He felt like a bit of a pervert sniffing it, but damn she smells nice.

Racing to the cells, he did not even shout at LJ or Eric, who were organizing what they could. Eric saw John going down to the cells, shouting that they were still locked; when he saw John did not stop Eric followed. When he caught up, he saw John putting the key in the locks.

"Wow, who did you have to blow to get that?" Eric always thought he was funny.

John did not laugh; between being questioned, or more accurately tortured, and then blown up, he was not a big fan of the cells. Instead, he wanted to get what he needed and get out as fast as possible.

"Leliana," John didn't even look up as he popped open the first container, "Eric, Serrada is fighting fuck knows what, but the bridge is the real problem; if we lose control of the bridge, we're all dead."

John continued his search, rifling through the containers, one after another until he found what he wanted; when he pulled it free of the other equipment, Eric's eyes went wide.

"John, you can't be fucking serious!" Eric took a step forward and stopped; John's look froze him in his tracks.

"It is the only way; we need it done now!" John shouldered the pack, then pushed past Eric. "Get everything ready to go; get it all upstairs now. You leave nothing behind. If …"

He stopped and turned back to his oldest friend; his voice was suddenly grave.

"If I fail or those bastards win, promise me you will blow everything before …." John stopped. "Promise me."

"Yes, sir, I understand," Eric replied, his voice as grave as John's was. "Good luck John."

Eric turned back to the lockers and started to drag one out. When he got it through the cell door, John was gone. Only his pack remained. Eric noticed the corner of a small silver picture frame peeking out of the top.

John trotted up the stairs and out of the chantry. Not an easy jog, considering he carried the heavy surprise package, his M4, mags, and armor.

He headed toward the main gate; once through, he could see the artillery emplacement across the path, soldiers desperately fighting red templars while the trebuchet crew was working on loading and preparing the beast. Then, in an instant, all the other combat melded into the background.

John almost stopped when he saw the auburn hair peeking out from her helm; she was fighting corrupted templars. She seemed to be doing well. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to go to her; he almost gave in to it.

He wanted to go to her, but he knew if he did, soon there would be far more than she could fight. So he turned and kept running. Finally, passing the stables, he snagged a coil of rope that God or the Maker had left.

'I am going to have to thank Dennet … if he survives,' John chuckled as he ran, "Fuck, if I survive!"

He had just reached the far trebuchet when a small group of Red Templar scouts emerged on the path, their weapons stained with blood. His M4 barked, six up six down, but it cost most of a mag, taking three rounds for each templar…."

He stopped for a moment to see if there were any survivors he could help. The dead trebuchet crew littered the ground, but one was still alive. She was not bleeding but just stunned, it tore at him to leave her, but she would be dead anyway if he did not finish his task.

The inner gate was still closed and manned. The guards bore the stains of combat and looked overwhelmed.

"The far side is not answering; we can still hear fighting…." The gate captain answered a question that John hadn't asked.

"Just let me through, then when I signal, order the other side to withdraw. Cover the retreat, then get to the main gate. Do you understand?" John did not have time for lengthy explanations. "And there are some wounded back at the trebuchet, don't leave them."

John was halfway down the bridge before they responded in the affirmative.

The coil of rope was long, much longer than the bridge was wide. Cutting the rope in two, half for climbing, and the other would lower and secure the surprise.

He looped the tie line around the battlements and threw the rest over the far side.

He tied off his climbing rope to the opposite battlement, then threw the rope over.

He stowed all his gear, except for the backpack and pistol. Then he tied himself off and swung into the void.

Anyone who saw him would have been surprised that he hated heights. When he was young, tall staircases would give him vertigo, but he had learned to overcome it by rock climbing. It might be dulled, but the fear was still there—now dangling like a spider high over razor-sharp rocks and only frozen water to cushion if he fell; the dizziness threatened, but he swallowed hard.

He used his momentum to swing across the bottom of the bridge to catch the length of rope dangling over the other side. He nearly lost his grip more than once, but his gloves saved him. The wind caused him to twist the far line like a snake, but he wrapped it around himself.

He cinched the two lines to the center of the ancient stone structure above him. The climb seemed to take forever, but it was only moments. The sound of battle still rang at the outer gatehouse. Those men did not know, but their lives were buying all of Haven's time.

He reached for a handhold, but the stone broke free and fell a couple of hundred feet to the rocky, frozen stream below.

The satchel charge was a last-minute addition to their gear for Iraq. It was an insurance policy.

They had no firm understanding of the site, perhaps a trap or a secret Saddam-era lab or storage bunker for weapons or WMDs? Who knew? John had hedged their bets and brought insurance; that insurance was on John's back.

John could not suppress a snicker when thinking about his original mission. It seemed like another life and was a world away.

It weighed about fifty pounds on Earth, but now on Thedas, it was a good forty pounds. Forty pounds is still a hefty weight to be hauling around two hundred feet in the air, in freezing conditions, under a bridge. Nevertheless, he did manage it, but only just; he nearly fell twice because his fingers were numb.

'Great, hypothermia now.' His body had stopped shivering; that was bad. He knew he had very little time to get out of the cold. The venturi effect of the ravine's stone walls and the bridge above caused the wind speed to double. Even with his Inquisition cold weather armor, the wind was pulling heat out of his body faster than he could generate it.

He shoved the satchel under the bridge in a craggy hole where a piece had fallen free. It was a snug fit, but he made it work. He was fortunate; there was enough extra rope to tie off the package.

He attached the end of his climbing rope to the manual detonator. He did not trust the electronic timer. There had been rough travels, and not all the electronics had come through the portal in working order.

Tying off the package as best he could, he swung back and began the climb. Things got dicey when the detonator rope got caught on his boot. Finally, he scrambled back onto the bridge deck, where he saw the outer gate guards fighting for their lives, close to being overwhelmed.

"Fall back!" He shouted; two red templar scouts topped the gatehouse battlements, and he dropped them with a quick burst. "Outer gate, pull back! Damn you! Fall! Back!"

This time, the surviving guards took notice, gathering their injured comrades, and started down the bridge to the inner gate; arrows started from the inner bastion, keeping the templars pinned down while John crouched behind a crate to help cover the retreat.

'Only five standing and six wounded; there had been twenty on that side.' He watched them pass; some were severely wounded.

Occasionally a helm would pop up to see if he could fire arrows or their crystals at the retreating Inquisition guards. Still, either Inquisition arrows or John's marksmanship taught them a painful lesson.

The outer guards passed him and kept moving without a backward glance.

The templars had their objective and seemed content to wait for their army; a stream of torches could be seen snaking up the road toward the templars' position.

Glancing over his shoulder, John could see the door open and close; a rag waved over the gatehouse. The templars must have taken that as a signal since the outer gatehouse doors flew open, and a rush of Red Templars poured through.

John took that as his queue, pulled the lanyard hard, and prayed it would not blow immediately. Hearing a pop and the familiar hiss of the manual detonator, he turned toward Haven and ran.

It is funny how the same distance can seem short or long. The distance from the door to the alter seems miles when you are the bride, inches when you are the bride's father; the last five yards can be miles if you are on the offensive line and paper-thin if you are on defense.

For John, the thirty yards from his position to the inner guard house felt like light-years. The detonator's hiss was sizzling in his ears, the pounding feet of the swarm of templars rushing after him; the gate opened so slowly, taking months to open just far enough for him to pass, then slam shut with the heavy timbers locking it in place.

"Get back to the Chantry!" He shouted at the guards, "I will hold as long as possible, now move!" They hesitated but rushed by; even with the wounded, they quickly covered ground a good twenty yards down the path when things got interesting.

First, John heard arrows and crystals thunk into the gate behind him; they were wary, slow learners but not stupid; John had taught them caution.

Second, John heard the clunk-ca-thunk of a nearby trebuchet bouncing into life. His eyes followed the arch of the human-sized boulder hurling through the air toward the mountain pass overhead.

It was the very trebuchet whose crew was lying dead and dying earlier.

"I wonder what idiot fought their way to that thing just to throw one rock in the wrong direction." John pondered that irony only a moment.

"God, I hope they got the wounded out." John had his back to the heavy wooden gate, near exhaustion. He could not feel his feet or fingers, and the cold was moving up his legs.

Third, a sharp crack shattered his thoughts as a shock wave swept over him and the inner gatehouse.

The gate his back was pressed against suddenly shuddered, then ripped loose from the hinges. Then, John realized that keeping the gate closed might look dramatic in Hollywood but was stupid in practice.

The large expanse of flat wood acted like a sail, sweeping him up and sending him flying down the path. He was surprised that his luck held, clearing the debris of the wrecked gatehouse. He flew over the rubble but was less lucky when he landed face down on the rock-hard frozen road; the landing knocked the breath out of him.

His ears heard nothing but muffled silence, not a constant tone as he had expected. He could feel in the ground the deep rolling roar from the bag of Semtex that sent a column of fire and debris high into the sky over Haven.

Lying dazed and gasping for air, he glanced back toward the village. The explosion had knocked the retreating guards off their feet, but they got up quickly and carried on toward the relative safety of the inner enclosure. Then, turning back to where he had been, along the path to the bridge and the tumbled remains of the inner gate, he watched the shock wave race up the mountain in a ripple of snow and debris.

Deep in his chest, he could feel more than hear the menacing rumble; it came from the mountain pass and grew more robust when the trebuchet-launched boulder smashed into the mountainside. A colossal avalanche was rushing down through the trees, and soldiers, burying both alike.

Dust and snow made it hard to see, but he was confident the ancient Penitents Crossing bridge was now rubble at the bottom of the gorge; no Templar army would cross it. The avalanche would ensure that reinforcements would not be trying to bridge the ravine any time soon; however, that would not stop those already trying to destroy Haven.

Strangely he was saddened; he was not much on architecture, but to destroy something that had stood in that spot for centuries? It seemed like it deserved more respect.

His ears rang as he rolled over and raised to his hands and knees; then he got up, slowly, it is true, but he got up.

He limped past the remains of the trebuchet, now nothing more than kindling for some giant's cook fire; there were bodies, many fewer Inquisition casualties than had been there the first time through, but a lot more templar dead.

"Serrada certainly has been busy." She was very capable of adding to the roster of dead enemies of the Inquisition. He then felt the grin on his face and realized he was very proud of her. "But what happened to the treb? Did it get caught in the explosion?" He glanced back toward the ravine, but the trees between the broken bridge and the trebuchet stood firm, mostly covered in snow, unharmed, "So the explosion was not what destroyed the treb."

"Well, at least they got the wounded out." He shrugged; whatever destroyed the trebuchet, he had his problems to worry about.

His right leg was injured but not broken, but it was bleeding. He could feel liquid dripping down the left side of his head. He touched it, and of course, it was blood; whether it was his was the question.

Near the burning stables, he found a stash of lost bottles. He recognized Adan's labels on the elf root potions and took the last three unbroken vials. John could not remember willingly taking one, but he had heard that they had been used in his recovery.

"What choice do I have?" Finally, shrugging, "Salute!" He opened and drank one. Nothing happened. He shrugged again and pocketed the vials; it was habit more than anything, leave no trace if you can.

He staggered on. A few steps later, he noticed his headache was less, but the noise was awful, some strange roaring, flapping, and animal screaming; he had his hearing injured by combat before, and it took days to clear after the explosion of the jet at the base of the mound, and of course, firing his weapon inside of confined spaces when he had no time to put on hearing protection but this was the strangest phantom noise he had ever heard.

'I must be going into shock,' he thought as his injured right leg stopped throbbing; it had stopped spurting blood a few steps back, although it was still covered in blood.

He touched the bleeding head wound that had obscured his vision. It was no longer dripping fresh blood; in fact, it did not even hurt.

"What the …." John was so surprised that he stopped and looked more carefully at his wounds; they were not healed but were not as severe. "Fuck, that stuff works!"

He had little time to think about the implications of that discovery when he heard the beast's scream again and saw it attack some retreating inquisition soldiers. The beast above seemed to come into focus magically.

"Fuck! I must have hit my head; that looks like a dragon." John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"No fucking way, you have got to be kidding me." As he said this, the beast turned and wheeled toward a group of Inquisition soldiers. But they were not soldiers but workers. One was taller than the rest.

"Oh, fucking no!" The beast let go a burst of something, and some of those standing in defense of the retreating Inquisition soldiers were consumed.

"Come down here, you filthy bag of shit!" Okanog shook his fist at the beast, flying high overhead. It tried to land, but the defenders launched projectiles, shovels, hammers, and the occasional spear.

"Okanog! Get out of there!" Waving, John shouted at the top of his lungs, but with the wind in his face and the screaming of the beast, there was no way the big Qunari would hear him.

John ran forward a dozen paces closer just as the monster confronted Okanog and the others. He moved down to a kneeling position and fired again, this time trying to hit the head of the beast. He had switched from full auto to semi, picking his shots.

Okanog charged in with several of his followers, none with armor and all waving tools as simple as a wooden club.

John continued firing, and Okanog slung his massive hammer.

It rang against the beast's front leg; the sound could be heard rolling across the snow. John's rifle burst forth with flame and lead, round after round; the monster shook its head, and something resembling blood came out of several wounds, but it was not enough.

While Okanog swung his hammer at the front leg, he got and held the beast's attention. The crunching, and resulting beastly scream, said he must have connected with some force.

A small group of workers attempted to capture the opposite rear leg by wrapping it in a chain, frantically trying to drive anchor spikes to hold the leg fast.

John was not sure exactly what they hoped to achieve; indeed, even the eight of them must be nothing compared to the creature's weight, and the ground was still frozen, making driving spikes nearly impossible.

John despaired they would not have enough time, and he was right.

The beast hopped away from Okanog using its tail to balance its leap and swept away the would-be captors. John watched it bring its tree trunk-sized tail around, knocking them to the ground and crushing them with its rear foot, probably without even knowing they were there except for the warm sticky goo between its claws.

More workers poured out of their hiding places; John guessed it was most, if not all, men and women alike. Dozens were flailing at the dragon with whatever they had, some with nothing more than wooden clubs, but the beast killed as fast as John fired. It was a slaughter.

Finally, Okanog and a handful of others remained, all the fittest and largest, possibly the most skilled fighters. The Qunari had experience; John could see that he barked orders, and the group followed them. John was down to one mag and his sidearm; he took a moment in a lull and ran forward.

At forty meters, he shouted.

"Hey, you big ugly son of a bitch, look at me!" John shouted as he ran; both the Qunari and the dragon did as he said. "Okanog, get the fuck out of there!"

But Okanog made a faithful mistake and exposed himself by attacking rather than escaping. He struck deep into the beast's underbelly; the animal screamed, lashed out with its right foot, then leaped into the air taking wing, but as a parting shot, its massive head turned back and spat fire. John could only watch as the remaining workers, and his friend were bathed in flame.

Like a massive drum, the creature's wings beat the air as it flew out over the frozen lake and disappeared.

John could see the carnage meters away; the snow was gone, and the grasses and plants were now scorched and smoking. All those who followed Okanog were dead; John could not help but notice they were as diverse as the Inquisition. Around their leader lay elves, dwarves, and humans, male and female alike — they lived as one and died that way, too.

John was about to turn and leave. There was nothing he could do, but Okanog groaned.

The Qunari was severely burned and bleeding from a dozen wounds but still alive.

"Hey, John, you get me a drink?" Okanog tried to laugh but just coughed foaming blood.

"Lay still, you idiot," John was on automatic, checking for wounds and pulse in all the locations that showed different blood pressures, at least on a human. Okanog's pressure was low, and his pulse was fast. So it was likely his friend was bleeding to death.

"Hold still, you fucking moron," John's voice carried none of the heat of his words, "I have some potions…."

"Save them; you need them; this fight ain't over," Okanog reached up to John's hand, which held one of the precious potions.

"Thanks, though; we sure gave it a good shot." Okanog slowly looked around through his damaged eye. "I guess a dragon was not the place to start."

John didn't trust his voice and just nodded. "Y'all did good."

"No, we didn't, but we sure tried," the Qunari gasped, "that's all we can do."

"You take care of yourself and her" Okanog looked square at John, "now go, you stupid son of a bitch, before the dragon comes back."

He pushed John away, then his pale and burned face seemed to brighten, muttered in Qunari something, then smiled and slipped away; he looked content.

John tried the gate, but it was barred. Worse as he feared, the buildings they had worked so hard to build were engulfed in flame.

He turned back to the smithy, hoping to scale the wall. But, going past Okanog and his people, it was difficult to leave him.

Moving past the stables, working back almost to where he started, he found a group of reds coming out of some hole in the cliffside, right beside the outer stockade.

"Fucking rat bastards," his M4 barked, and he ended them; a couple of concussion grenades closed that rat's hole. The fight was short but costly; his M4 was dry; he strapped the rifle to his back and drew his Walther.

Clambering up a rat line the templars had thrown over the stockade, he dropped inside, turned, and ran up the stairs to the Chantry. It was eerily quiet given the party that had been there less than an hour before, but it was easy to see why; bodies were everywhere.

The Inquisition soldiers had fought well. John did not see one with back wounds, and there were always two or three more dead templars or others he did not recognize, but always the enemy seemed to have advanced.

Segrit's wagon was overturned, his stock scattered across the ground; John climbed the short stair to the first level and saw how bad it was.

Buildings were burning on all three tiers of the village, not just the unprotected ones outside the enclosure like the smith or the barracks. Serrada's cabin was smoking, and so was Charter's, Segrit's was engulfed in flame. The Maiden collapsed with a roar and cloud of sparks; just as he got to the top of the first stairs, flames were lighting the night sky everywhere.

Racing up the second stair, the scene was the same save for a pair of Inquisition soldiers trying to get to the temple. One was lying limp, and John knew he was dead; the other was an injured soldier, trying to drag the other along.

"Help me, please, if we can get him to the Chantry" The voice showed her as a woman; she wore the scout's livery, "He saved me out in the field, took a bolt for me, please, he is my brother."

John knelt beside the boy, maybe eighteen, and the girl looked younger. There was fletching from a crossbow bolt buried deep in the boy's back. John checked his pulse, but the clouded eyes showed him all he needed.

"We were on the ridge when," she gulped for air, "When they came, he told me to run to Haven, but I was not fast enough….he came back for me" Her words melted into gut-wrenching sobs. "They shot him, just shot him."

"I am sorry," John stood and took her hand to pull her away. "He is dead."

"No! The Herald can heal him!" She threw John's hand down in a rage. "I will take him myself!"

When she tried, John saw blood spurt from her side wound.

"I will take him; you go ahead." John hoisted the corpse onto his shoulder.

'Never leave a man behind,' that thought ran through John's mind as he tried to get all three of them to the Chantry.

"Move; they are right behind me." The girl started toward the Chantry but was injured too and finally collapsed.

Then John dropped the corpse and heaved her onto his less injured shoulder. It was only 60 yards to the Chantry, a leisurely stroll if you were not wounded and burdened with an unconscious soldier in armor.

The door was ajar, and black hands with white sleeves reached through.

"Give her to me, Commander; you get inside," Mother Giselle's was like a warm blanket, even from the shadows.

"I made a promise." John left the girl and turned back to find the girl's brother.

Then he lifted the dead boy to his back and carried him, trying not to think of all the others he had brought home.

The Chantry door swung open, and Serrada led Sera, Vivienne, Cassandra, and a half dozen Inquisition soldiers, out of the Chantry.

She stopped in front of him.

"John, I …." She had a look that he recognized, one that he had seen before and had prayed to God he would never see again.

"Serrada, please, let me come with you," John started; he did not even feel the healers take the boy's body off his shoulders. "Just give me a minute to get some ammo."

"John, please take care of my people; get them out of Haven." Her eyes showed her pain and sadness. "Do this for me?"

His world stopped. He begged her to stop, to let him do what was needed. Telling her that this struggle and death were for nothing if she died now. That all the sacrifices, like that boy and his sister's, all of this, were for nothing if she died. He wanted to say all those things and more — but he didn't.

"If that is what you want," His voice was barely a whisper; it sounded like the rustling of dried leaves.

She just smiled; it was not a smile of joy or happiness; it was the smile one gives when the alternative is sobbing. Then she nodded and turned to go. The others followed silently, but Sera had tears streaming.

Serrada took two steps and turned abruptly, rushing back, taking John's face in her hands and kissing him. Her embrace was ardent, filled with passion, and gentle love poured into one kiss. Then she was gone.

John watched them go, then turned to do as she asked; he found Rachelle watching, too.

"Come on, Rachelle, we need to go." The door closed behind them.

The scene in the chantry was chaos, Cullen was trying to organize the soldiers, Cole was helping Roderick hobble to the back of the Chantry, Giselle was organizing the healers, and Minaeve was doing the same with the tranquil.

"John, thank God you are okay," Sam ran up to him, throwing herself around him. "I thought you were dead."

John was more than a little surprised at her reception. Of course, Sam was not his enemy, but they were not close either, but then again, they were a part of a handful of people to share the same history and memories, and that fact had drawn the small band of Earthborn together more tightly than many would have guessed.

"Alright, we are moving out; when the Herald does her thing, Haven will be destroyed, so let's get the …." She went on as if she was describing a child's birthday party plans.

"Wait, what did you say?" John grabbed her by the arm, pulling the scientist to a halt and swinging her around to face him. His voice must have been a little raised since all activity had shuddered to a standstill in the sanctuary. Her look of shock showed both her surprise and discomfort. John felt sheepish with all the eyes on him, and he released her.

"I am sorry, Sam," He tried to breathe, calming his pounding heart. "What did you say?"

"She will try to buy us some time, Lieutenant Commander. I should think you would understand that." Leliana's voice was firm but not harsh. "To escape this trap, we must ask for you and your people's help. We have a path out, but we need time to get the wounded and the women and children away."

John took in the room; Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, and his companions watched him. Regardless of his feelings, he was obliged to them; besides, what else could he do?

"John, we can escape, but we can't protect everyone; please help us." The Nightingale's voice was artful and carried carefully crafted words to secure his help, but the truth was he knew his duty, and besides, this is what Serrada had asked him to do.

"Alright," He looked past the spymaster, "Eric, LJ, report!"

John turned to the scientists before his men could respond.

"Sam, what is the situation with your people?" John stepped past the tall redhead, approached an open crate, and dropped his dry mags. Reloaded with a fresh set and turned to Dr. Turbits.

"We are packed thanks to your warning, but most of our gear is too heavy to move easily," she looked at the wounded. "We have other priorities…."

"Alright, move what we can, ammo and combat equipment, throw the others stuff in a hole. Maybe we can get it later but keep the medical supplies close." John turned to Eric and Little John; Sam took that as a dismissal.

"Wait just a minute, Gray!" She was not a woman to be dismissed, "That equipment is priceless, centuries ahead of the technology here; I will not have it destroyed, do you hear me?"

"Who do we leave behind to save your equipment, professor?" John's voice was quiet, but it was like he used a megaphone. He looked into her eyes as he locked in a fresh magazine.

"I didn't mean to leave anyone behind," Sam spluttered her response, "I just thought, I mean, we don't just throw it in a hole!"

"I know what you meant, doctor, but we have no time for anything else. Everything we take means someone is left behind." John finished checking his M4, "Look, decide what you must have. Then, get with the Quartet and see what can be taken, but move the rest deep in the cells, and we will hope for the best."

"Lieutenant Commander," Josephine's expression communicated more than her words, "We do not know who is attacking or their abilities. We will find room for Dr. Turpids things; we mustn't abandon a single item to the enemy. Please go do your duty and leave me to mine."

John knew better than to argue with the Antivan woman.

"We will do our job." John looked at his lieutenants; Eric and LJ just nodded in unspoken agreement.

Turning to Cullen, "What do you need?" John asked; the Inquisition commander had just deployed the surviving troops; it always seemed too few.

Cullen furtively checked for interested ears, then whispered, "We need a rear guard; we don't have enough soldiers on their feet to guard and move the wounded and civilians."

The Inquisition Commander pulled Lieutenant Commander Gray a few steps further away from the civilians, "The mountain ridge is completely exposed; if they come up that side, they will cut us off before we can reach the pass."

"The Herald," Cullen whispered, pausing for a moment, "Lady Trevelyan … is delaying the enemy and giving us time to evacuate Haven. We need your help and weapons."

John nodded; he knew what Cullen said, 'She would want you to help us, so suck it up.' He had said as much himself.

"Eric, get the guys together; mission brief in 2 minutes." John turned to watch the retreating group of Inquisition members. He had to hand it to Josephine; the evacuation was remarkably organized; most of the Inquisition's remaining forces had already escaped into a shaft of stone behind one of the chantry walls. All the artifacts and materials were gone; not even one of Turbits's crates was left behind, not even the heavy ones, all removed through a door and passage he had never seen.

"That woman is fucking amazing," John muttered, shaking his head.

"Yes, she is, Lieutenant Commander, but please watch your language" Giselle stepped from the shadows, her hands holding small vials. "Take these; I fear you will need them."

Before John could protest, she was gone.

"Assembled as ordered, sir." Eric was being formal; that was worse than when he was nervous; it meant he was terrified.

"Alright, we are covering the retreat. The withdrawal route is up a mountain trail over the southern pass. The Herald …" His voice caught on the title. "She is buying time. Let's make it worth it."

"The Inquisition has suffered heavy losses, don't add yourselves to the pile of bodies; use your weapons when you need to, and only then." Then, John looked directly at Eric. "Eric, take the left flank along the mountain wall, take a reinforced group with you, including Patty, and keep the left side free of assholes. If we lose it, we are fucked. You choose your team; the rest of you are with me. Load up heavy on ammo. We hold the line behind the retreating Inquisition; if the enemy attacks, we hold, you run dry, grab a sword and shield, and hold, you understand? No matter what, we hold."

"Yes, Sir!" He looked at each of them. They were his team before the portal; they had been his family since coming to Haven. "Let's move out."

They hurried back through the hidden door; some of the Inquisition guards held the door in case others came, but not for long; it was clear all Hell was coming after them, and no one wanted to see it up close.

The tunnel was short but ended in a shallow ravine. It should have been filled with snow, but strangely it wasn't. Yet another weird Thedas thing John had no time to consider. He knew they were screened by a line of trees on either side. As they climbed higher, the left wall fell away, so they could exit the path and double back to cover the retreat.

Eric nodded to John and climbed out; his team wore their makeshift bedsheet camo, and given the poor visibility, even John could not see them in moments.

John looked up at the roiling deck of gray-black-edged white clouds.

"Looks like a blizzard; if we get them all out, it will at least cover our tracks." Complaining about the weather is useless.

LJ stood by John, both looking up toward the pass a good four clicks up the mountain. Fortunately, only six hundred meters up was a finger of rock from the peak that would block them from the valley below. Past that finger of rock, they should be safe. Serrada was buying time for the refugees to get to that safety; he could do no less.

"We smoke any enemy ass humpers that get this far." John took a minute to look into the eyes of each of his team. Eric had taken all the senior operatives; those left to him were capable; otherwise, they would not be here, but they were young. Just him, Little John, Nathan, Travis, and Mamiko. All were good at their jobs, but he did not know them like Eric, LJ, or Patty, and only five.

It was painfully evident at that moment, just how few of them there were.

"Alright, guys," John checked his mags for the thousandth time. "We advance down the slope, keeping cover, and kill what we can. Don't engage unless we must. Then, we fall back up the slope behind the refugees and try to stay together; we cover each other. Understood?" John asked, and they all nodded. Their faces were grave; they all knew this could be suicide — five against an army.

"I never understood the poem till now." Travis looked down the valley toward the Chantry.

"Which? I understood none of it, hated poetry." Nathan grinned, goading his closest friend.

Travis Martin was Kansas, born and raised; he dreamed of seeing the world; the irony was not seeing one world but two. On the other hand, Nathan was a big city kid and just wanted a steady paycheck. They met at boot camp and have been friends ever since.

Nathan teased Travis but still waited patiently for his friend to quote the poem everyone knew was coming.

"Then spake brave Horatius, the captain of the gate. To every man upon this Earth, death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, than for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods." Travis quoted the poem not perfectly, but well enough.

"But these are not our temples or fathers, and certainly not my God," Nathan responded. "I mean, I like people here, hate a couple, but is this our fight?"

"They took us in, healed our hurts, and fed us when they had no reason to," Travis charged his M4, "As far as I am concerned, yeah, it is."

John took a step down the hill, the others fanning out.

Serrada and her companions were fighting for their lives and losing.

Around the trebuchet, the fight was fierce; wave after wave of fighters, templars, and even mages came up from almost every direction. Why not along the bridge? She did not know but was thrilled they didn't.

Every time she made a little headway to move the damn thing, another wave of bastards would arrive uninvited.

She was making progress on aiming the thing, if only just.

"Vivienne, are you alright?" Serrada shouted toward the mage. Viv looked exhausted, but of all of them, she could make being shattered look elegant.

"I am fine, my dear, but please do hurry; I would like some tea and some cookies." The last barb was aimed at Sera, who reacted with a sneer through her sweat-soaked hair dangling in her eyes.

'What does Sera have against cookies?' Serrada wondered as she cranked the aiming wheel again. 'I suppose I will find out someday…' she could see more Templars coming up the slope. 'If someday comes.'

She was tired herself; she nocked another arrow.

The sound of battle rolled up the valley along the mountainside, and John's team was still on rear guard.

From the flashes of fire and lightning, combined with shouts and the clang of metal, he guessed the fight was centered on the second-tier stockade. He had not spent much time in that area, save during an occasional run. Waiting was driving him nuts.

It was quiet on the trail to the pass; at this point, most of the refugees had moved past the stone outcropping. Most had passed into safety, but not all.

The Newcomer line was spread thin. There were twenty feet between them, covering as much ground as possible. John's shoulders were itching again, driving him crazy; if the sounds of battle continued, he knew Serrada might still be alive; that was the thread he clutched.

Two templar scouts materialized from nowhere, about fifty meters down the slope. John's M4 roared, and one went down, giving the other one a chance to take cover; the others didn't have a shot.

"Well, people, companies coming," Of course, LJ remarked, it wasn't necessary, but they all laughed anyway.

Then they heard the explosions to their right and the sound of rifles. All instinctively looked to see the fires of different colors streaking up into the sky, and weapons fire responded—the sound of metal on metal, more explosions, and shouts. The battle was coming closer and closer. Then, finally, the white dots crested the ridge.

They were no longer white but splashed with red; John knew the red wasn't paint; he just hoped it was templar blood, not his people's. But he knew better; some of it was because he could see his people were helping each other retreat.

The dragon screamed overhead; it was terrifying to see the creature wheeling and turning. He watched the beast when it turned and strafed the ground, and the sounds of combat stopped. The dragon shrieked as it circled and turned lower and lower, a rumble as it landed, then silence.

John wanted to move forward, to help Serrada, but Eric was fighting for his life. The left flank was collapsing, and they were falling back, close to being a rout. But then, Templars topped the ridge, soldiers and a smattering of mages and others flowed down behind the retreating Newcomers.

John turned to look up the valley to the column of Inquisition refugees. There was still a line trying to pass the finger of rock that would screen them. He hoped the line of trees prevented enemy troops from seeing the Inquisition column. He sure prayed that was the case.

"Move right one hundred meters!" John shouted, hoping the din of combat would cover his orders.

More than a dozen templars and armored soldiers, with two mages, now burst out of the trees between Haven and their position. They weren't many but just enough to pin his people down, or at least they must have thought it would.

"I will hold here," John used a mag on the two mages; it turns out that armor-piercing bullets traveling at three thousand feet per second penetrate magical barrier's just fine. Both mages went down, leaving only the templars and the other fighters. "LJ, you take the rest and go reinforce Eric!"

John looked toward Haven and Serrada's fight and back to the ridge, then Haven again, and with every glance, the line was failing.

John knew if Eric's line collapsed, the red templars would attack the fleeing Inquisition and destroy it, and that might happen if he stayed, but it was inevitable if he went to Serrada's side.

He had no choice.

He picked his shots and put rounds into the hearts of his enemies. Several fighters went down, but there always seemed to be soldiers to take their place.

He covered the redeployment of his people as they moved in the deep snow.

It seemed to take forever, but only moments before the last red templar forced fell to John's carefully placed shots. That bought some more time, but he was down to two magazines; four were empty in his pouch. One more attack like the last one and his position would be overrun. But he bought time.

John glanced up to the left side where LJ had gone; he was fully engaged, covering Eric's withdrawal.

The additional rifles caused the Red Templars to stop their advance, if only until the rifles went dry. The Newcomer's line moved back, an organized retreat, but still a retreat with the Red Templar lines nipping at their heels.

Unexpectedly, from behind him, he heard familiar vices; Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne were arguing about what to do and when to do it.

They had come up through the same tunnel the rest of the Inquisition had used.

"Lieutenant Commander!" Cassandra shouted, limping toward John. Vivienne was helping the Seeker, and Sera had a bandage on her head torn from her skirt, but her eyes were clear, and she was watching the tunnel, arrow nocked.

None of this caught John's attention as he watched. Instead, he searched for her in the faces of the handful of wounded Inquisition soldiers who followed the Herald's companions out of the tunnel.

Now, there were no more faces to search.

"She is not with us; she ordered us away." Vivienne's voice was uncharacteristically compassionate. "She stayed behind to allow us to escape."

John moved toward the tunnel; he did not decide to, but his body did.

"You cannot help her now; you must stay and help her people." Vivienne was shouting, which caused John to stop. Madam Defer Vivienne shouting was itself a shock as anything.

"She would want you to, yeah? You know that, right?" Sera's eyes and voice were filled with grief; her gaze never left the mountain pass. Tears threatened to escape her eyes, even as her signature grin lifted her lips.

"They both would." John, for his part, was looking toward Haven, returning her slight smile. "Let's go do our jobs."

"Maker's balls," Serrada could barely move. Then, realizing what she had said, she looked around to see who might have heard. 'Well, at least no one heard me.'

She rolled slowly to one side; her groan was swallowed up by the noise of burning buildings and the dragon's roar.

'What would people think of the Herald cursing' she chuckled. 'Especially in her last moments.'

She took a deep breath and regretted it, from the pain in her ribs to the stench of the dragon.

She rolled over to the other side and slowly rose to her feet. Out of the smoke and wreckage came a nightmare.

The battle was not going well, and Eric was out of options. He huddled behind a portion of rock sticking out from the snow-covered ground. Around him, the team was behind anything they could find.

"Mag count!" He shouted as arrows, and red crystals flew past his head, only to end hissing in the snow and producing puddles of filthy water.

"3! 1! 2! 1! 2! Dry! 2!" Each of his companions shouted their mag count, each low on ammo. Eric checked his own, and he had one full mag left, with a part in the well.

M4s fired around him, each a single, carefully aimed shots, but it was not enough. The nice thing about an M4 was it was light, and so was the ammo; the problem was the 5.56x45 full metal jacket bullets were designed to wound and take human soldiers out of a fight, not kill. They did not hit hard enough to single-shot the red templars and almost nothing to the templar abominations and giants.

"Fall back!" Eric shouted, moving up to cover the retreat. But unfortunately, there were just too fucking many of them.

Everyone was injured; he had taken an arrow through the thigh and broken the shaft; the arrowhead would have to wait. He wrapped it with a bandage, but the thigh was numb, which was never good; he would have preferred pain.

No one was moving when he looked around.

"Fall back! God damn it!" He shouted, but at that moment, a wave of soldiers, whose uniforms were new to him, came rushing forward screaming. There must have been fifty in total; he knew he was dead.

Then they just stopped, frozen in place, and the distinct sound of M4s on auto and the statues that were once living men and women with chunks blown out. Then, a heartbeat later, the spell ended, and they died.

Eric heard a familiar voice.

"Need some help?" John fell beside him on his right.

"Have you been lounging all evening, Eric?" Cassandra fell beside him on the left. He was never so glad to see John, but wanted Cassandra as far away from here as he could get her.

He did not have time to think when she grabbed the back of his neck and drove her lips to his, his eyes showed his surprise, but his lips knew their business in a kiss.

"Well, if the Herald can, so can I!" In response to the shocked look on Eric's face.

John said nothing but patted his friend on the back.

The moment was over, and they all turned to look at the horde bearing down on them. The piles of dead bodies taught them caution.

Over the ridge lumbered a group of nightmares; they were huge, taller than a house. A dozen at least, and hundreds of soldiers around them.

They left John no choice at all.

"Everyone, get the fuck back!" John shouted and waved; unlike Eric's order, the team heard John and started moving as fast as possible. They withdrew down the draw and backed up the far side to climb to the pass.

"LJ, lay down some cover fire burst only, don't waste ammo. Eric, Cass, Viv, Sera, move back down; my people are low on ammo; when they are out, it will be hand to hand." John changed his empty mag and charged his rifle. The barrel was smoking.

Little John's full squad machine gun was eating a belt; he would be out of ammo sooner than the rest. But it slowed the wave of the enemy. John tapped LJ's shoulder, who turned to pull back. John was the last to leave.

The Newcomers moved as fast as they could while harrying the wave of enemy soldiers, but the wave of monsters, twisted and shining red from the tainted lyrium, moved faster. As big as they were, they were not bulletproof, but they soaked up a lot of ammo; the giants outpaced their snow-bound human soldiers taking the lead in the charge up the hill as the Newcomers retreated.

"Tevinter bastards!" Cassandra seemed to despise them more than the corrupted templars, "I should have known that they would be mixed up in this after Red Cliff."

'Well, I have a name for the new party guests.' John aimed and canceled the invitation for one of them.

"Take cover!" John shouted as he dropped his last mag before strapping the rifle onto his back and drawing his pistol.

As John shouted, one of the templar archers loosed his arrow, catching Nathan in the back. Nathan went down hard, and Travis broke cover to drag his friend behind a fallen tree near them both. Travis was injured, too; John could see a crystal embedded deep in the boy's upper thigh; it pulsed red light and blood as Travis worked Nathan behind cover. Nathan was not moving. Travis was holding Nathan like a baby—protecting him with his own body.

Before John could fire, Patty's rifle sang, and the archer's head exploded in a shower of brains and red crystals.

Eric was holding his sword, his rifle strapped to his back. LJ had his rifle as a club, and John was sure LJ wished he had brought a sword. John sure wished he had as well.

John glanced around his dozen-odd, exhausted companions, those he had led to death in the snow of another world. Most were wounded, all were exhausted, and some looked bad. The most common injuries were marked by protruding fletching and some with red crystal shards buried deep.

All their M4 ammo was spent, Patty was holding back some of his 7.62 ammo to help them escape, but three enormous abominations were still moving toward them.

"Patty, take the one on the right." John shouted, and Patty fired while John fired his last rounds of 45 ACP into the left-most creature; it had taken some damage previously and looked hurt; John aimed for what looked like a head. Then, on the ninth round, it roared, went down, and did not get up.

There was no more time. Only a little ammo left and no more options. Worse, John had lost visual of the third giant red templar mess that once was a human being; he was frantically searching for it.

Things seemed to slow when, as if out of the ground itself, the giant creature appeared close enough to kiss. For the first time, John could see what might have once been a human face.

"Monstrous," Cassandra whispered, "That was once a man sworn to the Maker?"

The rest of the enemy would be on them in minutes; John needed to buy more time.

"Move the injured back as fast as you can, Eric; I will try to delay it." John sounded every bit as exhausted as he felt. "Just get them out and get them home."

He did not wait for an objection; he took out his combat knife and headed toward the horror. The protests came fast and furious after that.

"Shite, what do you think you're doin'?" Sera was running after him, "what do you know about knife fightin'?"

Her questions were answered as he rolled through the creature's legs, missing a kick and slicing at what he thought was its Achilles tendon. The cut was deep, and the beast screamed, swinging his club-like arm down to where he had been. It was not much more than a mosquito bite, a gigantic mosquito, but still not much.

"Okay then!" Sera leapt high, kicking the creature as it tried to swing at her, but she managed to slice it across the face, just missing its thick neck.

"Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" She limped on landing, proving that the kick was not one of her better ideas. "I think I broke my bloody foot!"

She deftly avoided a blow from the less deformed arm of the templar giant, but only just. She slipped and would have been crushed if Cassandra had not struck the blow away with her shield, but the impact still knocked the Seeker to the ground.

"What are you doing here!" John shouted, slashing at the exposed back of the behemoth, then he fired one of the precious rounds into the back of the monster's head. But, unfortunately, it seemed to have no effect.

"Saving our Heralds beloved consort, no doubt," Vivienne responded, as her staff threw a blast of magic that froze the large claw hand of the monster before it could crush Cassandra.

"I am not her consort! I am not even her boyfriend!" The words sounded so juvenile. He might have laughed at some other time or place, but he was too occupied at that moment. The creature had a last nasty card to play.

Whether the creature was playing them, or perhaps it was just circumstance and desperation, somehow, a wall of red crystal appeared behind John, blocking his movements.

"Fuck, I hate magic, and I hate this thing!" John could only watch as the behemoth turned. It swung at Cassandra; its blow clipped Vivienne, who had moved to aid the Seeker; but worse, poor Sera was standing near where the creature stepped, and she was knocked to the ground. It could not have gone better for the monstrosity if it had been choreographed.

John watched helplessly, Vivienne lying dazed, Cassandra was crumpled against the inexplicably appearing red lyrium crystal wall, but worse of all, the creature was about to crush a stunned Sera with its deformed foot.

Sometimes one sees things that one can not describe, and John had experienced several of them recently, but what he saw now was beyond all of them.

Behind the living mound of decaying body and corrupted lyrium stood a slip of a girl all alone; she seemed tiny compared to the bulk of twisted flesh and red lyrium.

Her hair was blowing all about her head, dark as midnight and brighter than the sun, shifting and moved by a breeze that only she felt.

Her slender legs and tiny feet were planted wide apart. Her right leg wreathed in fire. The flames started red and turned brilliant white as they climbed, twisting and turning around her body. Then, upward, ever upward from the ground until white as the sun, the ribbon of flame seemed to come from her right hand. Her left hand was raised to the heavens, itself wrapped in lighting and thunder, reaching up to a cloudless sky.

Her eyes seemed to be gone, replaced by pits of flame and spark; her mouth opened, and a shout and death came from it.

"Leave her alone!" Rachelle screamed, and when she brought her hands together, the fire and lightning danced and fused, leaping from her petite body in a beam only a hands width, and it burst through the monster and erased it from existence.

That feat alone would have gained her great acclaim among mages and would have been a miracle enough; however, that was just the beginning.

A molten mass of fire and lightning broke apart, then reformed as it leapt, from enemy to enemy, up and down the valley and over the ridge. The battle had been so intense that none of the Inquisition fighters saw the enemy had almost overtaken them. But now, things were different. John looked for the oncoming wave of warriors, Tevinter and templar alike, but there were none. All up through to the ridge was silent; only wisps of ash and soot drifting across the would-be killing field, to be caught in the icy wind blowing amongst rank upon rank of scorched patches. The enemy army was gone; only the Inquisition remained.

Rachelle crumpled to the ground, just a few feet from her lover. Sera, her head was bleeding again, her arm had a compound fracture, bone sticking through her armor, and was bleeding badly, but she crawled to her lover, calling Rachelle's name.

John had no time to think; he glanced around. Cassandra was knocked out. Vivienne had a broken leg and looked terrible too, but she was awake. She just stared at Rachelle with a look he could not read but sure appeared to be shocked, with a touch of horror. Then the pain overtook her, and she slumped into the Fade.

John was dazed, his ears rang, and his leg throbbed; he knew he had injured something inside his chest, probably broken ribs. He could not process what had happened, but he did not have to, not yet anyway.

Just then, LJ scooped up Sera and Rachelle and ran. Eric did the same with Cassandra; Bull picked up Vivienne, easily cradling the woman in one arm, while the Chargers assisted the wounded and protected their withdrawal up the mountain trail.

"We got most of the Inquisition out, but I thought we should come to see if you needed some help," Bull looked around, shocked. "Damn, I guess not. That girl is powerful. Viv will not rest till she has her claws in her. Of course, I am not reporting what I saw to anyone; Sera would skin me alive, stitch me back up, and do it repeatedly."

The Qunari helped John to his feet.

"Take these, and get them to safety, you understand?" John shoved all but three of the potions into Bull's tunic.

Bull nodded, "Go take care of her." Then turned and blocked the view of the others as John slipped away.

"Fuck!" Serrada did not know what the word meant precisely, but she meant it, whatever it was.

She checked herself; her leg hurt severely, but at least it was not bleeding, and her shoulder hurt but not as bad as her leg. She had landed on it when she jumped.

Looking up into the gloom, the hole she had tumbled into was gone, filled with debris. She crawled along the cave floor; it was pure survival instinct; she was sure she was buried alive. She struggled a few yards down the tunnel and then rested to check her pouches. The vials were broken, and jagged glass cut into her fingers, but she took the goo and rubbed it on the sore shoulder. It was better almost instantly.

"Well, one good thing about being dead, I don't have to thank Adan for the potions." She could not help laughing. It was an odd sound that echoed back to her; the laugh sounded almost insane, maniacal, but a voice that was not hers. "Oh shit, don't tell me there are demons down here, too? Fuck!"

"Well, if you can't walk, you crawl." Digging for the last of the potion, she picked out the glass shards and rubbed the soaking pouch on her leg, slowly rose to her feet, unsheathed her daggers, and walked, albeit slowly, into the unknown darkness.

John found the ravine again and walked down the tunnel toward the hidden chantry door. He was perhaps halfway down the passage when there was a roar, and it became pitch black. The cave filled like a balloon; his ears popped from the air compressed by the collapse of the ravine. He did not know what Serrada had done, but given the mound of debris, it must have been spectacular.

"No getting out that way," John coughed from the dust of the collapse. He moved back down the tunnel and found the chantry door blocked as well; he was trapped.

The space was cold and dark. He searched what little gear he had and found something long forgotten—his flashlight. Every one of his team members had one, a small penlight, kept just in case. He had not thought of it before because he had not needed it; there always seemed to be torches or daylight. Besides, most batteries were dead on all the other equipment.

"I am going to have to do inventory." He thought, then laughed, "If I get out of this tomb."

Its brightness made him wince; the tight beam of white let him work down the tunnel. The stark contrast between lit and unlit areas revealed a line along the way. His fingers followed the edge and found it was a crack; following the crack; he found it outlined a door. He pushed, and the door moved; whatever caused the collapse must have dislodged the door. He pushed hard; his body was not happy about the exertion.

The door opened with some complaints, but it opened. But, unfortunately, the light showed nothing but another tunnel.

"Well, better than dying here." He stepped into the gloom.

Serrada was down again. She had not seen the drop-off edge in the darkness and fell half her height only to land flat on her face. She was winded by the fall and nearly landed on her daggers; of course, none of this did anything for her sore leg.

Taking a moment to breathe, she was shivering; that was good; she knew that not shivering was worse; you died when you stopped shivering.

She clawed herself up to standing and started again. Her daggers sheathed this time; she used a long splinter of wood from one of the support beams to probe the darkness in front of her.

"Strange that it glows down here." The walls had a soft glow, not enough to light the tunnel ultimately, but at least it was not complete darkness.

John walked along what looked like a hallway for some long-forgotten building.

"This place is a rabbit warren, tunnels on tunnels. What was this place?" He had heard that the Temple of Sacred Ashes was just the latest in a series of temples dating back millennia. "They had not found all the hidden passages."

"It looks like the archeologists will have to start over." John's snickers echoed from the stone around him.

The hallway bent down gently but evenly and then met another hall; the right passage was collapsed, making it easy to choose. It seemed one turn after another, left, then right. Then, the route abruptly turned rough, not even as well-built as the mines he had seen.

"Probably scavengers or tomb raiders," John muttered, but still only one choice.

Finally, a collapsed wall opened to a shaft whose markings showed new work, perhaps from the archeological excavations. The one thing that was undoubtedly better; was the fresh and cold air.

Serrada was not cold anymore, which scared her; she had stopped shivering, and now her fingers and toes felt hot. She would have taken off her boots and gloves if she had not been taught to ignore the false feeling of warmth.

"I don't have much time; I need to find help." She almost laughed, "What help? They are all far away now, at least I hope so."

She moved forward, she felt the icy wind on her face, and after a short walk, she turned a corner and could see light, natural light through a gallery to the outside. It was ice cold outside, but it was at least fresh air.

She stumbled toward the opening, focused on getting out of the tunnel to air, to help.

Then the first blow, and she was on the ground again.

John felt the bite of fresh air; he had not realized how warm it was back in the tunnel until he felt the icy breath of fresh frosty air. It was sweet, but it froze him to the bone.

What made the chill worse was he had been sweating.

During the fight, he had gotten hot, and that caused him to sweat.

Sweat wicks away heat while the evaporation cools the body, a combination that worked well for early humans on the savannas of Africa. However, sweat was a killer in the frigid conditions of the Frost Back Mountains; it chills as it conducts precious body heat away.

"I need to build a fire," He was talking to himself, which is not a good sign. "Well, not bad unless you answer yourself."

He tried to remember if he had packed his magnesium starter kit, but he couldn't recall, which was also a bad sign.

Echoes of combat grew louder with every step.

"Sounds like someone is taking a beating," John moved a little quicker since, if he guessed correctly, there was only one human in this fight, and to his knowledge, there was only one other living human in Haven. So he moved faster and faster, even though every stride was a shock of pain; sweat covered him as he ran.

She was exhausted, her back and legs were cramping, and now she could scarcely move her arms. Her fingers were nearly numb; Serrada could not hold her daggers anymore. Nevertheless, the demons kept coming, and she was on her knees.

"After all this, to die here." She snickered, watching the demons move in for the kill.

The anchor was triggered when she instinctively threw up her hands in self-defense.

The demons began screaming as they were eviscerated. Serrada could feel the Fades pull on her soul; it was like being near the Breach again. She watched as the creatures disappeared piece by piece, one after another, all but one.

A Despair Demon had survived, and its wail broke her heart. She wanted to cry but only slipped into unconsciousness and waited for her end; before the darkness claimed her, she heard a tremendous bang.

John negotiated a drop to the floor of the large gallery; his injuries reminded him of their presence. The bone-chilling breeze woke him up, and the light from the opening ahead caused him to turn off his flashlight. The distinct sounds of a woman fighting for her life greeted him as he drew near the end of the tunnel, and by her agonized noises, she was not winning. Her pained moans were not the only sound in the tunnels; there were also mind-numbing shrieks. A mind-numbing cry from a creature he was sure he did not want to meet. Yet he was moving as fast as he could to do just that.

The tunnel opened onto an immense cavity with other branching tunnels and one colossal opening to the outside, through which the wind howled. He saw a living horror looming over a human body.

Long years of practice found his Walther in his hand and firing. The demon shuddered and screamed; it flew up across the cavern and prepared some sort of attack on its original target. John fired again, and the demon's head exploded, the rest dissolving into nothing.

Taking no notice of the phantom's dissolution, he ran to the body. Dropping to his knees beside her, he began to examine her gently.

"Serrada?" His voice was a whisper; he checked for a pulse, his head dropped, and he took a deep breath, not realizing he had been holding it. Her pulse was slow but strong, although her fingers were ice cold.

"Thank God she is still alive." It took all his will not to gather her up in his arms.

He checked her body as gently as a mother with her newborn. It was clear she was seriously injured, with a broken leg, probably a broken arm, a good chance of internal injuries, bleeding but not spurting blood from an artery.

He tipped her head back, giving her the two remaining elf root potions. Her color improved, as did her breathing, but she was still too cold.

"First thing, the hypothermia. Need to warm her up." He took off his coat and wrapped it around her, then searched the cavern. Debris was scattered in piles everywhere; wood was plentiful, bits of sticks brought in for who knows what reason, even a bit of rope, not too rotten. The most significant find was a pile of tarps, all stank of mildew, dry rot, and urine but would serve.

He stripped off his armor and padding, pulling off his t-shirt and ripping it to strips; he did not even feel the chill. Next, covering her head wound in the improvised bandage, her bleeding arm, and finally her leg. Next, he put on his armor padding; then, he wrapped her up in the tarp; she would conserve her body heat until he could start a fire.

He pilled some of the frayed rope and the driest wood. He needed an ignition source; he didn't have his magnesium fire starter kit. First, he tried to strike a light with his knife on some stone, but it would not spark; then, he remembered a crazy method he had seen somewhere. He had only three rounds left in his 45; he pulled one, used the tip of this knife to dig into the slug, and pried it out of the casing. Finally, he poured the powder onto the would-be fire, took some dry, frayed rope, stuffed the shell case full, chambered the case, and hoped for the best.

He hoped to use the primer to ignite the rope fibers, it was a real long shot, but sometimes a Hail Mary is the only play you have.

The first one didn't catch, but to his surprise, it almost worked; luckily, the second one did. He had one round left, but he had a fire started, pilling bits of dry wood, letting it grow.

He had to warm her up, somehow. The best way would be a warmed blood transfusion, but that was a world away; the next would be a warm fluid enema; again, not possible. Warm water was at least a start, but he didn't have a canteen.

But she did! He took it and placed the canteen near the fire, near enough to warm. That would take time, the time he needed to warm her.

Then he did the only thing he could think to do.

He undid the tarp, drawing it over them both; he opened the coat he had put around her. Her armor was accessible from the side, and he undid it, finally getting to the padded armor under it and opening that. He cut open her inner clothing with his knife, exposing her belly and breasts. Then he pushed the cloth aside and pulled her close, pressing his naked chest to hers. Her skin was cold. She was unconscious, but he was trying to wake her. He knew she would be furious when he woke her. She could have him executed if she wanted to, but at least she would be alive when she did it.

"I can live with that," he chuckled, trying desperately to stay awake.

The tarp was trapping their body heat as he started to shiver, generating more heat. He kept as much contact as possible while keeping them both covered. She was so cold, but she was breathing. Long slow breaths, and John prayed.

"Back here again?" Serrada stood in front of the little white cottage.

Some time ago she had realized this must be Earth; there were too many things that were not of Thedas. The strange metal contraptions and the wagon with glass windows. That was different. It looked like a carriage; it had seats and doors but was much closer to the ground and had no means of attaching harnessed horses. It was sparkling white, an impractical color, and looked new, with only a little mud and dirt along the side.

She was looking around the cottage and its walkway. The flowers were also different than before, not as orderly but somehow more natural. There was a lantern burning inside, although it was late at night.

The moon was not one of Theda's moons. It was between them in size, and the markings were very different. No, this was Earth.

She climbed the stairs, it was hot out under the stars, yet she felt so cold, so cold she should be able to see her breath.

The door was not locked, which was strange; even a freeholder in the safest parts of Thedas would lock his doors. She walked in. She remembered this home from her last visit, but now there were different furnishings. Well, at least in different places. Paintings lined the walls, and some were very good; others were so realistic they were impossible to imagine. The one that stopped her in her tracks was a highly detailed painting of a young John Gray and a beautiful woman dressed in white, and John was in uniform; they both looked so happy. The picture was in the pride of place, over the fireplace mantle, where everyone could see it.

She heard a sound and saw a startled older version of the woman in the painting. The woman looked terrified. She glanced around in a way that showed fear of other unseen intruders; her eyes showed she was wondering how this intruder had gotten into her home.

Serrada acted on impulse. She pointed to the painting and the man.

"John, John Gray?" she asked. Then pointed at the woman, trying to remember what John had called her. "Mariah?"

The woman's face showed surprise, sadness, and loss. Serrada could see her face wore fading bruises, her neck as well. Mariah must have noticed Serrada's glances and pulled her collar up before answering.

"Mariah," Nodded yes, putting her hand to her chest, then spoke a string of words that Serrada could not understand.

Serrada put her hands up in surrender to slow her companion.

"Mariah, wait, I don't understand; please listen to me." Serrada tried to communicate. "Where are we? Is this Earth?"

Mariah tilted her head, looked confused, and started with gibberish again.

Serrada had heard the Newcomers complain about a language change, but she had been busy with her problem.

Putting her hand on her heart, she spoke simply, "Serrada."

Mariah nodded, with tears streaming. Serrada moved to embrace the weeping Mariah. They held each other until the sobbing turned to sniffles, the puffy eyes seemed to brighten, and a genuine smile appeared.

Serrada followed Mariah throughout the house. Mariah prattled on, Serrada understood nothing of it, but it soon became apparent that Mariah was describing the work she and John had put into the house. Why both women were so calm was a mystery to both. Then, finally, Serrada found a painting that must have been done years before; it was of a young John, Mariah, and a little girl. Serrada knew immediately who the child was.

"Sarah," Pointing to the child, Mariah's face showed surprise but nodded, bringing her hand to her quivering lips and more tears. A sparkle from jeweled rings on the third finger of her left hand drew Serrada's attention; the rings matched the ones on John's left hand.

Serrada turned back to what she now understood was a wedding portrait; she saw both wore the same rings. Only a moment passed before Mariah took Serrada's hand, drawing her up a set of stairs and along a hall past bedrooms. Serrada glanced into the room and was astonished to see a sleeping Mariah on the far side of the bed. The sleeping woman seemed to clutch something to her breast, another framed portrait that likely occupied the bare space on the nightstand. What broke Serrada's heart was the sleeping woman's arm extended to the empty side of the bed.

The answer to all that was around her was apparent.

"I am in the Fade. Of course, how stupid of me." She relaxed a little, familiar as all children of Thedas are, with the Fade, and it was harmless unless you were a mage or had somehow attracted the attention of a powerful demon. Of course, this 'Mariah' could be a demon, but it was more likely that she was dreaming of her home, and somehow Serrada had been drawn here as well.

"Sarah," Mariah whispered as she motioned toward another door and the sleeping young woman inside. The girl was much older than the portrait on the wall below. But what caught Serrada's eye was not only the face of the beautiful sleeping girl but the unfaded picture in its silver frame on the nightstand. She had seen its faded twin many times before, a child in a paper crown with a proud papa.

They withdrew back to the kitchen, and shortly Serrada found herself drinking scalding tea, which produced an unusual heat in her chest, particularly her breasts, which embarrassed her no end.

The tea was hot but tasteless, which did not matter since the two women held each other's gaze.

It was uncomfortable; she watched Mariah mulling over something. Finally, Mariah got up, walked around the table, and crouched beside Serrada. She kissed Serrada on the cheek. Then returned to her chair and continued to drink her tea. The sparkle was gone from her finger.

Serrada realized Mariah's rings were missing. She opened her hand and found the rings. Mariah smiled with tear-stained cheeks. Then, on impulse, Serrada hurried around the table and pulled the weeping woman into her arms.

"Thank you," Serrada whispered, clutching the woman and the rings. She held Mariah, and Serrada's breasts felt hotter; Mariah felt like a hot coal.

John got most of the warmed water into Serrada; not unconscious, she was murmuring in her sleep. He gave her the last of the water. He could melt snow, but he had nothing to melt it in, let alone boil it to make it drinkable. Besides, he had burned most of the wood, and the cavern was too large to heat.

"We need help, or we are both dead. But I can't leave you here," John covered her up as best he could; he surveyed what there was and knew they had to move.

He had placed some smooth rocks near the fire to warm, then gathered some of the remaining materials. First, he had bandaged them both as best he could; the splint on Serrada's leg would hold for a while; at least the bleeding had stopped. Unfortunately, he had no needle or thread to close either of their wounds, so he could only bind them and hope for the best. Next, he used canvas and rope to wrap his ribs, almost making him scream.

He wished he had a bucket or something to gather the fire into, but he didn't. Besides, smoke would attract attention, and how would he carry it and Serrada?

It only made their situation worse that the mountains decided it was time to have a cleaning. A blizzard was howling just outside of what shelter they had. So, John wrapped his M4 in a scrap of canvas, tied it off tight, and gave it to Mariah as a cane. He wrapped her in his coat, then cut the canvas into makeshift ponchos, two for her, one for him.

They must look comical, her head wrapped in his undershirt, then layers of canvas wrappings leaving only her eyes open to the outside, and filthy canvas around them both. True vagabonds. Finally, he wrapped the heated rocks in the scraps of tarp and stuffed them inside her ponchos and under the coat he gave her. He kept only one stone for himself.

John slung her arm over his shoulder, lifting her to her feet, bound by a length of rope; she stubbled where he led, her eyes closed but still moving. Then, together, they set off into the maelstrom.

The storm was terrific, the worst John had ever seen on Thedas, and only once on a vacation ski trip to Utah had he seen the like on Earth.

They trudged. For trudging it was, fighting to make one more step, then the next step. And certainly not to sit or worse, to lie down. That would be death for both.

He did not clearly understand where they were or where they were going. He had never got up this way from Haven; it was always down to the valley and then to the crossroads. But here? It was a brutal trek over a mountain pass still awaiting spring where a blinding blizzard could appear instantly.

For a few moments, the snow and driving wind let up, but only just, and John could see the peaks surrounding the pass high above them. The stars were lighting the way.

If John had been warm and well-fed, it would have been beautiful, but as it was. He was bone tired, his whole body ached, and he was sure his wounds were bleeding; the starlight gave just enough illumination to see dark patches in the snow behind them, leading away toward the ruins of what had been Haven, now buried under rubble and snow.

From time to time, they found evidence of the hasty withdrawal. Even a cooking pot or two, as if the fates were mocking him when he wanted just such a cooking pot hours before. But the fire was far behind and likely long dead, and he did not think he could get another started as all the elements were wet or consumed.

Serrada still held a conversation with someone, thinking he heard familiar names, but it could not be.

"Just keep walking. Ten more feet, just ten more feet." And on they went.

An abandoned cart with the embers of a cooling fire. 'So, someone has been here recently.' John thought as he put Serrada down to rest a moment and moved the cooling stones to the inside of her uniform. He worked as quickly as his numb fingers allowed so he did not let too much of the precious heat out of her coverings.

"Just a few more meters, Serrada, just a little further." He moved much slower and carefully carried her over his other shoulder. His ribs were so sore he could barely move, and her constant pressure on them had become unbearable, but now she was on his weaker side, and he had to strain to keep her upright.

Still, he kept on, slowly, ever so slowly, up the hill.

Finally, there was a boulder. He tried to move around it, but he must have stepped wrong. He heard the crack, then a snap before he felt it. He knew instantly that his injured leg had broken completely. A quick feel of the area and the jagged bone was all the confirmation he needed, that and the blood.

He was done.

With his remaining strength, he cut the ropes that bound them. Then, slapping her face, he shouted to get her to wake up.

"Serrada! Serrada! You must wake up!" He slapped again and again till she finally shook and screamed at him.

"Stop hitting me, you son of an Antivan whore!" She shook free and looked at him, then looked around in shock. "Where are we? What happened?"

John could not answer but only, "Over the hill, go, be safe, go now!" Then the darkness took him.

'Singing? Who is singing?' John's head was screaming; his ribs hurt, his leg hurt, and the list of what did not hurt was much sorter. So, he just lay there and listened; it was easier than moving.

"Listen to them," Eric whispered. "They all know this song, humans, dwarves, elves even, all singing like the MTC."

"MTC?" José's voice was a whisper, too.

"Mormon Tabernacle Choir," John answered the question, his voice slightly louder than a whisper.

"Fuck!" both men exclaimed, but still in whispers. His voice had startled both men.

John listened to the singing. He tried to turn his head to see, but his neck was not cooperating. Then, finally, Eric came near, allowing John a narrow view; Serrada was standing near a tent, and Mother Giselle was beside her.

The singing was for Serrada. That did not surprise him; what did was how close his tent was to hers.

"She did good, saving your ass. What the fuck were you thinking?" Eric's voice contained more heat than John could remember. "Going off alone to be the fucking hero? Good thing she found you, or you would be dead."

"I hope you got something useful done with all that running around" Sam poked her head into the tent; there was concern on her face but also a bit of disdain. "Where were you? Poor Serrada having to fight all those monsters, all alone, and where were you? So, then she drags you back here all by herself?"

John just smiled. "Yeah, you're right. She did good." Laying back, watching the pageant, he folded his hands over his stomach and drifted to sleep listening to the last refrains of the hymn.

Eric watched him sleep; he did not have the heart to tell the old man how torn up they were or how much the shit show at Haven had cost them. There would be enough time for that tomorrow.