Ah, to be free again.

She soared through thick boughs of pine, the scent fresh and sharp. Her black wings beat, twisting with her tail to curve her trajectory in an acrobatic dance. Alighting on a high branch, she took a moment to smell the air. Her beak kept her from smiling, but the smile existed nonetheless.

Lothering stretched her tolerance for humans to the breaking point. How she wanted to snap at them, scare them with a bit of spell work until they ran. Their useless lives filled with petty fights and squabbles over a pig or who curried whose favor. These possessive, small-minded peasants could not see how trivial their lives were, no better than ants scurrying over a destroyed hill.

The Chasind knew how to live with the wilds. These northerners though, with their farms and domesticated beasts, spread like a toxin, chewing up old forests and fields, changing the course of rivers or breaking the mountains to build stone houses. Though not as poisonous as the darkspawn, they carried their own form of destruction.

Relief to be in the wilds again scoured her soul clean. She would need to build up her tolerance to humans, but for now, the wilds reminded her of the few times she had been happy.

A memory came unbidden, the moment when she realized she would never have the freedom of simple pleasures again. She had been flying then, too.

Years ago she flew, an escape from her mother, the bitter, dried up tyrant. Flemeth's last words still stung, following through the miles as Morrigan sought escape. 'Twas a simple mistake. Morrigan's control over the Chasind boy was nearly perfect. The boy's attention drifted, his head dropping before popping back up, only to slide down again as the sleep spell took hold, stealing away his energy. What caused the boy to wake and scream, alerting the rest of the camp, Morrigan could not say.

Now wary of the witches in their presence, Morrigan and Flemeth had little choice but to take to the air. No need to create enmity and force the Chasind into a hopeless battle because the savages felt they were in danger. A missing warrior here, a bit of mischief there, the Chasind could tolerate, but there had been too much of that of late. Best let emotions settle before practicing magic again.

Once the two landed back at the hut, Flemeth's hand struck out of nowhere. Morrigan staggered back from the force, half from shock as from the blow.

"But Mother…"

"Quiet, Girl! You should have had him by now. How can you still be so clumsy?"

The words continued, each as stinging as the slap. One after another rained down, making Morrigan feel small and incompetent, red with humiliation and frustrated rage. She kept her head down knowing a defiant eye would make the punishment worse. The dirty boy had pimples, a weak chin, and nose that belonged on a buzzard. Of all the people her mother could have chosen to take for practice, why that one? Morrigan crossed her arms, grateful her mother's chosen target had failed. Just the idea of having to charm the boy's body into readiness, of having to take that one inside her, filled her with disgust.

Another slap. The biting sting turned into a red ache. Startled, Morrigan met her mother's eyes.

"Idiot child. Can you not even pay attention? Is all your focus gone? At this rate we'll have to go back to the rudimentary exercises."

All the carefully built confidence Morrigan had shredded under Flemeth. She could never be herself, free. Always, her mother stole away the years until Morrigan felt like a girl still ignorant of magic's touch. "It was just a mistake, Mother."

A derisive snort met the comment. "Mistakes will kill you, child." The tirade may be over, but not her mother's anger. It simmered in her contempt, turned cold and calculating. Two fingers grasped Morrigan's chin, as bony and strong as a vulture's claw. "You didn't like the boy. Is that it?"

Shame flooded Morrigan's insides with a queer heat. She didn't want to talk of such intimacies with her mother.

"Don't bother lying. I already know the answer." Flemeth released her with a roughness that left an ache in Morrigan's jaw. "Morrigan. The day will come when all choices come down to a single moment, and if you cannot act, so much will be lost. In those singular moments, you will hold the fate of gods, the fate of history. In a pinprick of time, all our futures, all our fates, come together and that choice will ripple through the ages that have yet to come. Child, weakness will destroy far more than you."

Lips pursed, Flemeth stared at her.

Why did her mother always talk in riddles so? Morrigan kept back the tears that stung her eyes. What was she supposed to say to that proclamation?

"Go, child. Go to your foolish games and fantasies. With the time we've lost, what's a few more days?" With that, Flemeth turned her back and disappeared into her hut.

Morrigan turned into a raven, flew hard and fast as if space could silence her mother's words. When Morrigan wanted to play in the trees, a game of speed and agility, a race to escape imaginary templars or darkspawn, Flemeth's words haunted her. Foolish games. Her mother stole the joy from her games as effectively as shattering a mirror.

Of all the things the old witch could have said, mocking her treasured moments of freedom sliced her at the core. The words invaded her refuge, stole the lightness from her heart, and in its place weighed her down with a mountain of responsibility. Flemeth didn't need to clip her wings. The crone's methods chained her daughter more effectively than any cage.

Still, Morrigan beat her wings. A mile, then a second, she flew into the growing dusk. At first she hunted the insects that came out in the gloom, twisting to catch one after another. Necessity forced her into the acrobatic tumbles. Then an extra flap turned her flight into a roll. A small, secret smile opened her heart. She challenged herself, flapping hard to fly over a thick bough without losing speed. A dive, and she snapped a fluttering moth out of air as the wind sluiced by.

Not the same, but she could feel the memory of what was lost, could almost believe in her own child's magic again, a magic of innocence.

Now, hundreds of miles north of the swamp, Morrigan flew through unfamiliar trees. New scents erased old memories. Fresh breezes of pine, musky redwoods, pollen-heavy oaks, so strange and new, they cleared away the heavy odor of bog that clung to her clothes and skin. Away from the witch. The weight inside her felt distant in these moments. The heavy stone always pulling her down lay far away, almost gone from consciousness.

A cold draft from the south ruffled her feathers, pushing her towards a thicket. She spun in the air, delight breathing new life after the years of study and recriminations. With a few beats of her wings, she turned with the wind, diving to use a cold draft's momentum and take her deeper into the forest.

Flemeth would not be happy to hear how Morrigan kept picking at the templar. With only two Wardens left, the smart course of action would to befriend both. What if the elf should fall, her mother would warn. Oh how delighted the crone would be to hear how her daughter gleefully burnt her bridges.

Well then. The elf will have to live.

Of all the people she had to deal with, the elf was the least taxing. Still, his inability to learn a form and constant questions made his presence more a pest than peace. At least he knew when to be silent. That red-headed human never knew when to shut her mouth. Foolish girl. She and the templar made good company together, their noise and mindless faith blinded them to so much more.

Morrigan let out a squawk of panic. Her wings beat wildly as she slammed into the ancient wall. Claws scrambled for purchase on climbing vines, the same vines that hampered her wings. She dropped, tail over head, as she tried to right herself. Her chest ached from the blow. A fall at this height would shatter her fragile bones.

One wing didn't feel right, but it was enough as she leveled. A rough croak erupted from her throat when another wall loomed up in her vision. An arch overhead forced her lower. Arches like giant fingers kept her from open sky. Damnation!

Chest tight and wing sore, Morrigan landed on the stone floor. No creeping vines covered these human-cut stones. Morrigan opened her beak as she sucked in air. Each deep breath caused a sharp pain in her chest. Where did this place come from? The air didn't smell of forest anymore. Humans, dogs, manure, metal, hay, and a myriad of other scents assaulted her.

Footsteps. The clink of armor. Metal striking stone.

What is this place?

A dog's snarl caught her attention. The sound echoed off stone, made the threat sound like it came from many directions. The odd shape of walls and echos also distorted distance. Never before had Morrigan been in a place like this. What few buildings remained in the swamps had long ago lost their battle with the elements. Only the ancient fortress at Ostagar stood against the endless barrage of wind and snow, and that relic looked nothing like this.

The scrape of claws on stone joined the growl. From which direction, Morrigan could not guess, but the sounds grew louder.

Morrigan lowered, ready to leap into the air. She braced against the pain she knew would stab in her chest.

Pain flared in her back. Needles, thin and long as swords, drove into her. Morrigan screamed and flailed as more of the needle sharp pins closed around her throat with a crushing pain. Panic overwhelmed pain, making her struggle even as her thrashing caused the needles to rip further into her flesh. Morrigan screamed and twisted, saw the bright yellow-green eye of a grey cat.

The smell of blood. Her blood.

Morrigan screamed, flailed, tried to peck at the cat, felt movement under one claw and tried to scratch at it. The cat's grip loosened enough that Morrigan shifted, got a wing in between her body and the cat. The needle sharp claws scraped down Morrigan's skin, leaving deep gouges. Her powerful wing beat against the cat. Each movement caused the needles to rip her more.

Morrigan jumped, screamed when the needles clamped in deeper. She jumped again, beat her wings, screeched when the cat latched onto her tail feathers. Pain shot through her body. The cat had her tail feathers clasped too firmly to shake. Pain screamed through her body like she was pulling out her own fingernails to escape.

Blood splattered the stone as Morrigan rose. The cat yowled in frustration, an ugly sound that twisted Morrigan's stomach. The yellow-green eyes watched, angry, then the cat leaped up to grab her. So fast! Panic blinded her for a second, her wings beating frantically, legs pulled tight. Morrigan felt the passage of air from the cat's outstretched paw.

"She almost got him!" A child's laugh filled the hall.

Morrigan flew to the roof, circled, unsure of where to go. Window, need a window. Where were the vines that lead back out? Where was her forest?

A stone struck her side, a rib cracking from the blow. Morrigan spied the sling in the child's hand. The boy fished out another stone from his pocket as she watched.

Have to get out! There must be some way out. Morrigan flew down the corridor, down another hall. Closed doors, more closed doors, no windows. She couldn't keep flying. Every breath, every flap of wings brought new agony. There! A chandelier. Something to land on far away from the cat.

Guards came to stand below her. They laughed, joked, praised the boy for his shot. One took out a sword, started poking up at her. Morrigan squawked, tried to move away from the knight's prodding sword. No, not guards! Templars!

No windows. No open doors. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Transform, and they would know her as a witch instead of some confused bird. Risk another flight?

The sword came up again, slicing deep into her leg.

Where to go? Trapped.

Trapped, trapped, trapped!

Morrigan's eyes opened with a start. She sat up in bed, sweating, breathing as if she would never be able to get enough air.

Disoriented, she looked about. Forest. Tents. The campfire down to embers.

Trembling, she drew her knees up, rested her head on her hands. She wanted to be angry at the world, at the strange places she had been forced out to. Hadn't she told Flemeth she wasn't ready?

A few deep breaths calmed her. Think, Morrigan. Dreams are symbols, some inspired by demons if the person was weak. Morrigan's jaw clenched. She was not weak. In this forest the Veil thinned and fluctuated, unbalanced by centuries of conflict. Blood soaked into the earth, drunk up by the trees.

Though the effects of the dream clung to her, the trembling of her fingers had stopped. She stood, half annoyed to be disturbed by Fade shadows, half fearing their meaning.

The darkness of the sky marked the nearing dawn. Deciding to fight the dream's hold, Morrigan took to her raven form. Flight at this time had its difficulties. Her raven's eyes saw well enough, better than her vision in her true form, but ravens did not fly at night as a rule.

Memories of the cat's needle-like claws haunted her. She could feel them still, the shadow of pain, the sound of her slender bones breaking.

Cursed dreams will not steal this freedom from me!

She flew, beat her wings in defiance, in defiance of the Fade, in old childhood memories, in a mother who was anything but motherly.

She circled over the clearing. The Chantry apologists slept in their tents, her avian vision picking out the heat of their bodies. Sten lay in his bedroll, curled up by the fire, the dog soaking up heat on the other side. The elf must be on duty then, his tent remaining cold. She let the small heat of the fire carry her up. Rising higher, she beat her wings, circling around the camp.

Only the last few stars remained when she spied him. Curious, she alighted on a branch to watch. The elf crouched near a tree, hidden by ferns, his body folded over so she could see little.

She had seen this scene a few times with the Chasind boys who were just beginning their maturity, too young to win a woman's favor or too young to have the strength to claim one. Some boys hid the act as if it were a shameful thing. Others would stroke their release together, laughing afterwards. Men could be such odd creatures, either overly proud of their little protrusions or shamed by their natural instincts.

His breath hitched, the sigh of a word she could not understand the meaning of, something like a hiss. He stayed hunched over for a few moments as his body shook. After a time, he stood, adjusted his clothing with one hand, and headed to the stream to clean up.

Taking care to be silent, Morrigan landed on a rock not far behind the elf and transformed. "Neglecting your duties?"

Startled, the elf twisted back to see her. His eyes flashed blue-green in the low light. "Were… were you watching me?"

She had to keep from laughing at his outrage. "And what if we were attacked?"

He shook the water from his hands, his scowl deepening. "If darkspawn were near, I would have sensed them. Venger alerts us to the werewolves."

"The mutt sleeps."

"You don't know dogs, do you?"

"Why should I? Untamed animals of the wild are to my liking. Still, most neglectful of you."

"Morrigan, do not watch me. That's incredibly invasive." Shoulders hunched, he turned back to head to the camp. She didn't need the telltale heat sense of raven eyes to know his cheeks burned.

The laughter bubbled up despite her efforts. "Oh come now. We are not children or some blushing neophyte. Urges of the body are natural."

Eyes flashed at her, incredulous. "Natural does not mean open for display."

"You wish to find an animal form. You will learn they have no need for modesty."

"Would you strip down and rut in the middle of camp?"

"If it suited me."

He scoffed.

"Think I wouldn't?" Of course she wouldn't, but he proved far too much fun to poke at to let the topic go.

"You don't even liked to be touched. Despite your display," he motioned at her clothing, "you're not inviting. I can't imagine you enjoying anything that would make you sweat. Other than to shock."

"You believe me to be some blushing virgin?"

"Hardly." He glanced at her sideways, the flash of his eyes making them unreadable. "But you aren't as experienced as you would make yourself out to be."

"What does that mean?" She felt a scowl form despite wanting to remain cool on the topic. "What I have done would shock you, elf."

"No doubt."

He was just trying to get to her. "Shall I regale you with stories of what happened to lost Chasind men?"

The corner of his eyebrow raised at her as if she were a demanding child. "Morrigan."

The tone of patient condescension made her bridle. Two could play this superiority game. "And what do you know of sex?"

He sighed. "More than I care to."

That made her frown deepen and took all the defensiveness that had been building up. Though she knew little of such things, from what she gathered from the townsfolk at Lothering, most humans viewed elves as untrustworthy but pretty things, and odd combination of hostility, disregard, and lust. Elves were less than humans, to be used as a focus for their anger or wants by turns. Memories of Morrigan's dream flew back to her, the way her mother wanted her to be able to use men, and in doing so, was using her daughter.

Perhaps she wasn't alone in such feelings. "Has it been hard for you among humans?"

"I don't know an elf who hasn't suffered because of humans. Not a single one."

"What of the Dalish? Some of them have never even seen a human before we came."

Muscles in his jaw twitched, and she wondered at his temper. Of course she knew the Dalish suffered, that much was obvious, but she wanted to see his reasoning.

Eyes flashing now with anger, he glared, mouth open, ready to verbally flay her. My, my, but he could be a prickly one. In the end, he merely turned back towards the camp, quick footed and shoulders hunched. Morrigan wondered if she should apologize. Not that she felt regret, but why let bad blood linger between her and the only other person out here whose company she could tolerate?

"You aren't so ignorant." He had stopped, head bowed.

"No."

Rubbing his forehead, he let out a sigh.

In the growing grey light of dawn, she sat on a boulder to study him. If only she understood people more. Blast Mother. Did the old witch believe that teaching her daughter on a few bewitched Chasind boys would prepare her for all the complexities of these people? Nothing these people did made sense. Motivations hid behind layers of words, but none used the verbal traps or emotional stings her mother utilized. These people confounded her like puzzles she couldn't guess the shape of. "Am I so unappealing to you?"

Surprised, he turned towards her. "You're not unappealing."

"We could enjoy each other's company. I have no illusions, no need for attachments. This would be pleasure shared between us. Nothing more."

"It's never that easy, Morrigan."

"You have never indulged only for a night?"

"I have." He watched her, steady. "Is that all you've done though?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said lost Chasind men. How long did you stay with them?"

She frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Knowing a person's body then never seeing them again is far different than having to live with that person. It's easy to say 'no attachments' when you've never had to live in close proximity for an extended length of time. Unless you plan to leave us, I don't think you're prepared for the complexity such a relationship will inevitably entail."

"Why inevitably?"

He opened his mouth to reply when a series of harsh barks sounded from the camp. The two raced through the thick underbrush when Raviathan flew back. "What in the Maker's name?"

Ten paces away, the elf struggled out of the brush, scrambling to get his knife and dagger out. A thick mass of green flew towards Morrigan. She dived for the ground, feeling harsh scrapes tearing the skin off her back. Memories of cat claws shredding her came slamming back, too much like her dream.

"The trees," she cried. Her mother had been able to command the trees around their hut, but she never had learned the trick of it. Damnation! Her mother guarded her secrets too carefully.

A groan, deep and echoing, the pop and snap of wood, the sharp smell of cedar, and the tree cracked its way out of the ground. Naked, gnarled roots grasped at top soil, and the great tree swayed high above.

A freezing spell left Morrigan's lips out of instinct born of panic. She tried to twist away, move out of the tree's range, but the fresh wounds in her back made her cry out in pain.

The ice spell slowed the tree down but did little damage. This thing had been bred to survive Ferelden's winters. The tree twisted around, heavy branches swishing through the air.

A hand on her arm pulled her along stony earth, a flare of gravel sharp pain in her back, vibrations in the ground as the tree stomped where she had been only a second ago.

"Morrigan!" Her name helped pull her back from panic. Heat slid across her back, over her open wounds, soft as fire under her skin. Sharp pain turned to a low throb that was lost in the panic of attack—new skin covering her wounds. The elf hauled her to her feet, and they both raced to the camp.

Chaos reigned. Trees swayed in vertigo-inducing movements. Morrigan couldn't tell how many were possessed in the confusion of green upon green.

One tent lay half-crushed, its poles sticking out like broken bones. Unable to coordinate a defense, desperation marked their attacks. None had time to don armor, only to grasp weapons. Sten's sword did little more than nick the tree's dense bark. Leliana's arrows twanged into trees with no apparent damage. Venger and Alistair harassed one tree, but nothing slowed it down.

"Fire," Raviathan whispered. He turned to Morrigan, his eyes wide in fright. "We have to set them on fire."

Their course set, the two dashed to the dull remains of the campfire. Setting the last of the gathered firewood alight, Raviathan set off towards the tree attacking Alistair and Venger, while Morrigan went for Sten's tree. The tree's groans made Morrigan's skin shiver. Never before had she heard such a sound of torment and rage. The sound reverberated in her bones, spiked her fear so her hands shook and mind collapsed.

Fire.

She dashed forward, shaking, the burning log held before her like a talisman. Roots crawled up around her ankles, catching, tearing through the leather of her boots. Trapped! She thrust the burning log at the base of the tree. Her own screams sounded like they came from another person. She stared at the fire. Please! Catch, burn! The limbs swung through the air above her, hammers ready to pummel her.

Catch! Burn, damn you!

Behind her, Sten's sword kept the worst attacks at bay. He grunted with the effort, muscles straining against the tree's unnatural power.

Burn!

Finally, finally, the first flames flickered up the trunk. Roots twisted around her ankles, and she fell into the strange knot of them, but she held the log in place. Burn, you blasted thing!

Flames licked up the loose bark. More fire slipped beneath the base of the tree, the flames dancing through the gaps of the roots.

A howl tore from the tree, a sound that echoed through Morrigan as if she were made of crystal. The roots skittered about like the legs of a dying spider. The tree spun, knocking both Morrigan and Sten away. Only by luck did she escape without broken bones. The fire guttered, died to tiny licks of flame, and Morrigan felt her heart squeeze with the fear the fire would die.

Another twist of thick branches, and the howl intensified as fire raced up its trunk. The howl became a chorus as other trees burned brighter than the dawn. She heard pops, strange sizzles that ended in explosions. As she watched, the trunk grew a dark red. The fire had penetrated to the core, burning deep inside the tree.

"Come on!" Raviathan pulled at her arm. The others were dashing out of the camp clearing. Two other trees had that same dark glow. "The sap is going to make them explode!"

The party headed pell-mell into the forest with the moans of burning spirits at their backs. A resounding crack split the air, scattering birds and forest animals alike. Morrigan had never heard a sound like that before, as if the very air shattered into splinters. A rush of heat flowed around Morrigan as if she stepped into a bonfire. The scent of burning cedar thickened the air. Two more cracks sounded in quick succession as a red glow threw their shadows before them.

Would the forest begin to burn? One mortal peril following another?

The companions gathered around now that the immediate danger was gone. Morrigan's concern for the forest left as the red glow of fire dissipated into the cool grays of dawn. Only the fragrance of burning cedar and a faint haze marred the morning light. She cast Raviathan a suspicious look, which he returned with a knowing one.

If that was all his doing… but no. The range was too far by trice over, but it had to be him. And was he the reason the fires spread so quickly into the trees? Green wood never took fire like that, even the sap-filled cedars. How quickly the fire rooted inside the wood. Impressive did not begin to describe that kind of power.

But perhaps fire spells were easier to manipulate than ice. And it had been wood, after all. Or the elf had a few other tricks to make his power appear to be more than he had, like mother always did.

"Maker's breath," Alistair panted, bent with his hands braced on his thighs.

Leliana gazed back in the camp's direction. "We'll have to see what equipment can be salvaged."

Sten glared at the elf. "Where were you? Why did you not raise the alarm?"

Raviathan glared back, but he was too shaken to put any force into it. "Morrigan and I were patrolling. We were attacked just before Venger started barking."

"Hang on though." Alistair straightened up. "We were just attacked… by trees? How is that even possible?"

"I have seen trees of the like before," Morrigan said.

Raviathan opened his mouth to ask more when a crash of rotten wood and metal grabbed everyone's attention. Alistair lay sprawled over the remains of a hollowed log.

Could that templar do nothing right? "Now if only you could…"

Alistair spasmed with a yelp. His hips jerked up high, his body twisting violently.

"Alis…" Leliana began when her words were lost. Haunches lowered, Venger squealed in pain.

"Wasps!" Alistair gained his feet, three red welts spotting his face.

An angry swarm of yellow and black shot from the hollowed interior of the log.

"Run," Raviathan cried. "A river is east! Head for the river!"

With renewed panic, the party launched through the undergrowth. Blast that templar! Being chosen for the Wardens must have been a lie. Surely the templars kicked the fool out. Could nothing go right today?

Ahead, Leliana fell with a scream. The elf halted long enough to help her up before the two continued to run, the girl with a heavy limp.

Stingers pierced Morrigan's back and shoulders. More wasps attacked the others. Arms flailing uselessly at the pests, the rest continued to stumble over rocks and roots. Enough of this.

More sharp stings, like tiny burning daggers, embedded in her arms. She lost her concentration once, but pain and anger pushed through the second time. Black wings spread, and she was free.

~o~O~o~

A grunt of pain, and Sten jumped into the narrow river they had been racing for. Raviathan watched as Alistair and Venger leapt next. Leliana jumped with him, her hand on his shoulder to help her run on a sprained ankle. They were already in the air when they heard the shout of warning.

Too late.

Raviathan had a shocked second as he dropped into the quiet water below. Sten had a hand on a rocky outcropping, his body twisting wildly, before being pulled down as if by an invisible hand.

Dear Maker! Did some monster hide under the river's surface? Ice cold water enveloped him, and Raviathan understood in a terrifying moment of clarity. The placid water covered traitorous currents. A gulp of air, and Raviathan looked up to see rippling dawn sunlight penetrating through four feet of murky water. His body spun, up and down becoming the same in the confusion, as the river sucked him deeper.

Limbs struck him as Leliana flailed next to him. They would all drown in minutes. Cold numbed his hands, light and dark spinning in all directions.

A spell? He knew nothing that would help him. A barrier, but that would trap water in with him.

Rock! Raviathan had a second of warning. He curled up, arms over his face as a shield, when the current drove him into a rocky outcrop. The sharp edges raked down, blunted by his armor but painful nonetheless. The current took a sudden downward pull. A cave, large and ominous as a gaping dragon's mouth, loomed below.

Gripping the rock outcropping, Raviathan struggled to get purchase. Water pounded with incredible force, shoving him against the rock one second, pulling him down the next. The water felt like a living thing trying to rip him away from the only secure hold he had.

His lungs wouldn't last much longer. Trying to climb up the rock felt like crawling with a boulder chained to his legs, making his body feel ten times heavier. His muscles strained for each tiny inch. He was desperate for just a little relief, a few seconds rest to ease the burning of his limbs. Even as he would give anything for the tiniest rest, he knew that path led to his death.

I don't want to die!

Not for the first time, his brain screamed at him. Can't give up. You will die! Can't give up!

Three more feet of water above him? Sun wavered through the water, pale gold and muddy. Come on, come on, you can do it. Water pounded with the force of hammers, but soft as death. Lungs started to burn. Raviathan tried to stay close to the rock to minimize the force of chaotic currents pushing and pulling him.

Light touched his hand. Two more feet? Might as well be a hundred. A wall that he couldn't break. Don't want to die. More light. The pull less. Too far to the surface. Air. Need air.

His hand burned. The surface. So close. He wanted to gasp for air, he was so close.

I don't want to die!

Raviathan inhaled water and air, suffocating. He clung to the rock, choking in harsh, wracking spasms, but there was air. His face burned now free of the ice water. Bit by bit, he pulled himself up the rock. Once his torso made it over the ledge, he rolled to bring his legs out of the water.

As his coughs subsided enough for him to think, he submerged his hands back in the river. The force, just a few inches in, amazed him. Yet the surface mirrored the sky above, as placid as a stale lake. He coughed out more water, his throat scraped raw.

Once bits of dirt were swept away, Raviathan concentrated on healing the myriad of cuts his palms had sustained from the rock. His hands shook from shock and cold, a bone visible in the cut on his forefinger. Only the numbing ice cold water kept him from feeling the pain as more than a dull, distant ache. Capillaries and nerves knit, new tissue growing at the pace of his magical ability.

The river was nothing from a casual view. Barely six feet across, it appeared a gentle stream.

Lungs still struggling to clear the water he had inhaled, Raviathan stood on shaky legs. Had any of the others escaped this death trap?

The rocks surrounding the river led to an upward incline of bank covered by grey-green ground cover. "Venger?"

Raviathan's heart dropped at the thought of the dog's death. His chest clenched in relief when he heard a bark from further down. Venger didn't sound panicked or in pain. Feet and hands burning from the chill and shaking all over from cold, Raviathan carefully picked his way along the rough rocks.

At least the wasps had not lingered.

Experimentally, Raviathan knelt by the brook's edge and lowered his hand in. The suction was not his imagination. Just his hand, and Raviathan felt the pull of the river to drag him downward into its hidden depths. The surface remained a mirror dark, only a few ripples around his hand.

Past a rise, Raviathan spied the rest. Sten sat on a rock with his forearms on his thighs, head cradled in his hands. Gasping deep breaths, Alistair lay spread eagle on a flat section of rock. Leliana sat on one hip, her legs curled up to her side. Only Morrigan remained dry. The long tree branch she had used to help the others out lay next to her. Venger trotted up to Raviathan, his pug tail wagging so hard his whole body shook, and smelling like the wettest of dogs. Raviathan clutched the shaking beast to his chest.

Alistair gave a few aching coughs. "Well, we may have almost drowned, but at least there won't be any more wasps."

A disgusted sneer twisted Morrigan's face, but at a look from Raviathan, she kept her comment to herself.

"Jump into the river." Sten's glare was in full force. "We could have outrun the wasps. Instead, we nearly drowned."

"Right. Because I should know of every river in Ferelden and that the placid brooks are really the most dangerous." Raviathan wished his voice didn't sound so scratched. His words ended in more a gasp, triggering another coughing fit.

The giant glared at him with burning lavender eyes, which Raviathan ignored.

"Where's the map?" Alistair asked.

"Why?" Leliana held out the case.

"All nice and well there are Elvish names, but we don't know what they mean, so we should have names in the King's Tongue. We passed the 'Tiny Gully of Certain Death' and this will be 'The Pleasant Brook of Doom'. Probably means the same thing but with less apostrophes."

Raviathan frowned, though he couldn't disagree.

"There should be a bridge linking the trail north of here," Leliana said. "We can go back and get our equipment."

"Let's go." Raviathan turned without a backwards glance. Sten was turning into a problem, even worse than the templar. Alistair was at least harmless. Sten looked like he was ready for another murderous rampage. Why had Leliana wanted to free him so badly?

Ahead, blackberry bushes flanked the river. No berries this time of year, only thorns. Raviathan pondered jumping across the river, the space only about four feet, but that seemed like tempting fate.

"This way is probably best." Leliana tried to sound positive, her way of defusing the tensions in the party, but she sounded falsely cheery to Raviathan's ears. Maker, at least she was trying.

The party picked its way along the rise covered with more of those grey-green vines. They had to grasp at the vines, crawling on all fours to get over some of the trickier areas. Raviathan nibbled his lip. Should he try to take charge again? Right now, he was fine with Leliana taking over. Anything to get that qunari off his back. Just the relief of giving up control and Sten's constant glares took a too-heavy weight off his back. But part of him knew the qunari would respect him even less for being weak.

A faint prickling started to bother Raviathan's arm. He thought nothing of it at first, probably the effects from the icy water tickling his warming skin. Almost unconsciously, a faint tendril of magic extended to his arm, the same magic that regulated his adrenal feedback, and detected the oil that coated his skin.

"Shit!"

The others stopped to look at him.

Arms stretched out for balance, Raviathan stood straight, disgust mingled with a trace of horror. The others were staring at him. "The vines. They're poisonous."

Alistair let out a meep of panic, the rest doing what they could to minimize contact. "Deadly?" Leliana asked.

"I don't think so. More an irritant."

Grumbling under his breath, Sten marched up the rest of the way in quick strides. Morrigan took to wing as the rest were left to pick their way up with due haste. Raviathan was beginning to envy the witch's ability to the point of resentment.

"Vashedan." Sten's shoulders fell.

What now? Raviathan heard a low, growling sort of mewl as he breached the rise.

Ahead two bear cubs played.

Oh no.

The mother bear stared murder at them.