(Thanks to all of you who are still reading after 100 chapters and 275k+ words! I'm glad I'm not the only one getting invested in this story. :)

Her Eternal Grimoire: I'm not entirely sure, actually. In the first draft, they did actually address it during the wine cellar scene in Redcliffe, but I had to trim that part of the conversation out because it disrupted the flow too much. At this point, it may just be too long ago. I'll keep it in mind for eventual potential fence-mending, but I can't say anything for certain at this time)

100. Small Victories

They had faced Flemeth, and no one had died. They had gotten the grimoire, and Felicity had raided Flemeth's herb stash, and Garott had scavenged up a sack full of useless useful things… and no one had died.

For Percival, that counted as a victory.

He looked at the form beside him in the bedroll, daring to reach over and smooth her wild, feathery hair. Had she been awake to feel it, she would no doubt have cursed him—both verbally and magically—but now she only hummed in her sleep.

She had looked so… surprised when they had come limping back up the trail from the Wilds. Surprised that they had succeeded. Surprised that they had come back for her. It was subtle, but he had been learning to read her over the last weeks, once he'd realized that her true feelings were rarely on the surface. Each of her masks hid a different pain, and each discovery of the truth of her both elated him and made his heart ache.

He was, in many ways, a broken man. Howe's betrayal of his family had broken him, and he'd healed back up crooked and scarred. And it was that which allowed him to recognize the same in Morrigan. Scars made one hard… but that didn't mean there wasn't softer tissue to be found underneath.

Though he suspected if he ever said that out loud, she would hex him back to the Exalted Age and feel no remorse.

He reached for his clothing and slipped it on, careful not to disturb the sleeping witch. Then, he slipped out of the tent. Hugo was guarding the entrance, as always, and the mabari's head shot up to greet him. Percy leaned down to scratch the fellow behind his ears.

Morrigan's tent was always a bit removed from the rest of the camp. While it was true that there was no such thing as a secret in a group like theirs, Percival nonetheless did not feel the need for the others to know the intimate details of his love life. It made Morrigan's tent much more conducive to their meetings than the one that he shared with Oghren.

Ugh. How had he ended up with Oghren anyway? Ah, right. No one would share a tent with Kazar.

He rubbed his forehead as he wound his way back toward the campfire light that denoted the main camp. Ever since defeating Flemeth a couple days ago, the elf had been utterly insufferable. It wasn't that he rubbed his achievement in everyone's faces… it was more that he didn't need to. He just had this smug look all the time, and didn't listen to a word anyone said. Simple things like directing camp set-up and deciding which path to take back to Redcliffe became arduous tasks when the mage questioned his every word.

That morning, Sten had suggested putting him on a leash until he settled down, and Percival was honestly considering it, gross violation of personal rights notwithstanding.

As of that morning, they were no longer in the swamp; the land had shifted to woody hillsides, though the Taint blackened the land in monstrous streaks everywhere they went. The land itself was scarred, and Percival was uncertain whether it could ever heal.

Tonight, Garott was on watch at the main camp, though it took Percival a moment to spot him in the dim light. As Percy sat down beside him in front of the campfire, the dwarf nodded a greeting, then turned his attention back to the shiny metal in his lap. It was familiar metal, now that Percival had a closer look: limned with gold.

"So help me, Garott, you had better not be altering Cailan's armor."

"Nope. Cleaning it." The rogue held up a cloth and plate of… some sort of grease. "I figure we'll get a better reward for it in Denerim if it's not covered in darkspawn crap."

"We're not sure there will be a reward at all, Garott. We're bringing it back as a matter of honor, not profit."

Garott's smile flashed in the darkness. "Don't mean a man can't hope. Gratitude is bankable, you know."

Percival sighed, but let it go. He wasn't about to complain if Garott wanted to clean the set of armor they'd found at the ruins.

Morrigan had been the one to find the king's body, strung up like a feast decoration. Somehow, the darkspawn had known that Cailan was important, and had displayed him for all to see as a trophy. It was all Percival had been able to do to refrain from punching anybody while he took the man down and buried him, despite protests from several of his companions.

Perhaps it said something about his leadership that they helped him bury the king despite their protests. He wasn't sure what that statement might be, though.

"Hey, captain?"

"Yes?"

"You know what you're doing with her?" Percival glanced up in confusion, and Garott nodded his head back toward Morrigan's tent, barely visible through the trees.

"Going to dispense relationship advice, are you?"

"I just don't wanna see you exploded into a hundred prettyboy pieces."

Percival chuckled, reaching over to snag Garott's waterskin. A sip proved, as he'd suspected, that its contents were very much not water. "Someone's been stealing from Oghren's stash again," he said with a smile, and took a larger pull while Garott chuckled. He handed the skin back. "Rest assured, at this point, I'm far more worried about Kazar blasting me apart than Morrigan."

"Nah, the elf's a kitty cat." Garott took a pull from the skin himself. "He'll hiss and spit, but just keep 'im fed and rub his belly and he won't bite too hard."

"I'd rather he didn't bite at all."

"Shoulda thought of that before you let 'im take down a dragon on his own." Garott smirked and turned his attention back to his armor.

Percival leaned forward, rubbing his eyes to quell the headache that seemed to always be looming these days. "I'm not even sure how that happened. We were losing… and then suddenly she was gone, and Kazar was running off after her.

Garott shrugged. "Well, the kid did do the blood magic thing. I should know; I watched him stab his own hand with my dagger. Kinda creepy, actually."

"The worst part being that this entirely justifies his use of blood magic. We wouldn't have survived without it." Percival buried his face in his hands. "Maker, my father must be rolling around in his grave right now, knowing I'm condoning blood magic."

"But you have to admit, it came in handy."

"It did." Percival sighed. "A Grey Warden does what must be done to stop the darkspawn, no matter the cost. I can only assume that goes doubly during a Blight."

"Kinda gives me hope, to be honest."

"Hope?" Percival glanced at the other man, watching the firelight flicker across his dusky skin.

"Yeah. Knowing the kid can throw a dragon around like that? Imagine what he can do to the archdemon, if we can just get 'im to the big bad lizard with his skin intact."

Percival smiled, despite himself. "There is that. Marnan did put a lot of stock in Kazar's ability to turn the tide. Perhaps she knew more than the rest of us."

"Nah." Garott's smirk flashed in the darkness. "But the old girl had her bursts of insight, every once in a while."

Percy reached over and snagged up Garott's waterskin again, then raised it in toast. "To Marnan, somehow still being right even beyond the grave."

After he'd had a pull, Garott snagged the skin and raised it himself. "To Marnan."