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.

11. Serpents Enter the Garden

Warning, this story deals with complex issues. Although not written to be for "mature" audiences, it does deal with some topics which might be considered in that category; however, the descriptions and actions are not more mature than DAI displays during gameplay. Nothing underage happens, but it might cause some discomfort. Please be aware. Some content is based on historical norms of conduct (Marriage at what is now considered the onset of puberty as an example was the norm until only very recently is an example). These uncomfortable facts are included to make the story more authentic.

The language, particularly those epithets you may find offensive, is there for a reason; they are true to life and used every day. The question you should ask is, why? The answer is not as simple as you might believe.

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Serpents Enter the Garden

Serrada Relaxes

It is impossible to relate the joy of rest long desired in the relief of overburdened muscles after long labors, especially if those labors extend over days without respite. It begins to grind more than the body, but the very soul. Such a release awaited Serrada in the small comfort of the little nook of her once spartan cabin by laying in water hot enough to turn her skin as red as her hair – it did not make it completely painless, however.

"This is going to hurt." Her face twisted into a grimace, her nose crinkled, and her lips tightened as she gradually sank into the steaming hot bath, allowing the water to move higher. She could not see but felt the pattern of blisters which began at the small of her back and spread up toward her shoulders; her back bore the brunt of the demon's wrath.

With the help of small dabs of Adan's creations, Serrada was able to satisfy her desire to wash the soil away and fulfill the yearning to ease her pained body. The closely balanced conflict between her muscle's needs and her burn's insistent demands was a close thing, but her muscles won out.

Each perfectly round burn corresponded to a rivet on her now scorched and rent armor. Across Haven, even as Serrada overcame her need to weep with each painful immersion, Harritt openly wept over her heavily damaged armor. All knew he would repair and improve it, for as he cried, he noted each real and imagined imperfection, his assistant taking careful tear-stained notes.

'I have to find a gift for Gliril! Charter too.' An exhausted Herald slowly and ever so gently completed her descent into the bath. Almost instantly, she could feel her tormented muscles begin to relax. Her deep satisfied sigh carried words as well as feelings, "Fuck the breach! I am never going to leave this tub."

Serrada always loved hot baths. She could remember her mother chastising Anna for letting her take them, "It is not natural to bathe that way; she will turn as red as her hair!" Serrada could hear her mother's exasperated words as she slapped and played in the stew pot, Anna's name for her little copper tub.

"I am sorry, my lady, but she will have nothing else!" Serrada could remember more than one bout of naked baby chase; Serrada smiled at the memory of Anna's lament, all while filling her wash flannel with the heavenly elixir of scented water. The pursuits had started when she could barely walk and continued for years until it had become part of her bath ritual. Anna had been polite but honest, "I can do little else unless you would like to assist me? Or perhaps think of another option, and I am not as young as I once was; it was a challenge to capture the little fox even with the assistance of her sister."

Serrada's laughed so loud Charter heard it through the small window above the bath. Serrada longed for a simpler time and thought back her last naked baby chase, although she was no longer a baby at the time.

She had been deeply hurt; she was not allowed to attend the party her mother was hosting. It was to be a grand thing by all the preparations, and she was sure she was old enough to be present. When she was told that she could not attend, she could not be seen; she was to be hidden; she was deeply hurt and very angry. It was not a planned act but one of impulse. She decided that one last run would show her displeasure; at almost ten winters, she knew she was too old for this sort of outburst and would pay dearly for it, but she did it anyway.

While Anna was distracted with preparing her night clothing, a naked Serrada grabbed a towel and made a break for the soiree. Anna was well behind her as she used the towel to slide down the banister toward the main floor; the air was cold, but she did not care. At the last moment, she leapt free, just missing the large carved newel to hit the floor running. She broke through the line of footman and kitchen staff to find the small serving door unlocked, her bare feet grasping the smooth flagstone and tile floors of the main hall far better than any shoes. The headlong leap through the small door was a challenge, for she knew not what lay beyond, but she was more daring than wise even then.

She tumbled into the main hall's antechamber, the very hall in which her mother's party was held. The enticing sounds of music, laughter, and conversation flowed from the soiree through an open door into this side hall. The antechamber had been set with tables filled with refreshments for the soiree. Serrada still remembered the feel of the wool carpet on her back and bottom as she rolled to her feet at a dead run, racing around the corner of the arched door into the hall proper.

The older Serrada laughed out loud in her tub, recalling the guest's expressions and her mother's shock. The guests' conversations stopped, some in mid-bite or mid-sip, her run through and past the guests of honor, as she passed them on the way out of the room to return to her awaiting bath.

Her joyful smiled dimmed to one mixed with sorrow as she recalled the punishment, if punishment it was, the half-hearted swats her father had given her even as he tried to suppress his laughter.

'Maker, how I could use his counsel now.' Serrada mused, 'Or to just to hear his voice.'

"Why did I recall that after all this time? It has been years?" Now in her cabin in Haven, she lay back in the bath, finally beginning to relax genuinely. Only in the quiet of this moment did she have time to notice that something in that old memory gnawed at her; she reran the entire event in her mind's eye, slowly moving through the faces as she ran. The thing she had focused on, the guests of honor started to clap, both women smiled, and laughed, they were both so beautiful, there was something about the taller one that struck Serrada, stuck deep in her memory, what was it … "Andraste's dimples! Her hair!"

Serrada bolted upright in the tub; a wave of steaming water rolled over the bottom end only to swamp the floor. To her absolute horror, only now did she realize that the soiree had been in honor of the Lady Ellana Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, and her new bride Leliana! Such details did not bother a younger Serrada; all that Serrada could think of was that she was not invited.

"Oh, dear Maker!" She grabbed what was intended to be her drying towel and pulled it into the tub, clutching it up to her throat to cover herself, as if that would somehow hide the shame of her youthful nudity at a party long past. "Why didn't Mother tell me before I left," then Serrada considered, "Why should she? I embarrassed her at an important party." She felt a pang of regret for her actions, even for her mother's embarrassment and hurt feelings.

'I embarrassed Mother.' Serrada realized that she had grown up some. 'All I did was prove that Mother was right to exclude me.' As much as it hurt, she knew her mother had been right. She just wished that it had been her mother who told her, rather than leaving that, like all her other parental duties, to Anna.

"Maybe Leliana does not remember?" Even as the words left her mouth and bounced off the wooden walls to return to her ears, she knew it was a vain hope. "Oh, dear Andraste, that is why she commented on my short hair!"

She ran her hand over the back of her head, 'Well, the hair I have left.' She could feel patches of bare skin, no scars or severe burns, but that did not mean it would grow back any time soon. "What am I going to do now? How will I ever face her again?"

She slowly sank back in the water, all the while running her fingers through what was left of the erstwhile forest of long, wildly curling hair. Its insistence on reflecting its owner's obstinate independence had long ago forced her to cut it short, oh how she had cried. In Ostwick, Anna still possessed a bundle of that hair as thick as her wrist and an arms-length long; they both had wept bitterly at the cutting.

"I am glad my mother can't see me." Serrada could almost hear the bark peeling rant, "It would take the entire Inquisition to rescue me from my locked, barred, and bricked-up bedroom." She could not help but chuckle at the thought. 'I wonder what she would say. News must have reached home by now.' She was surprised that she cared how her mother might react but was more concerned about her father's opinion.

"What must he think of me?" She felt humiliated and wondered why she felt so. "I didn't do anything wrong," the plaintive whine sounded much more like her younger self than the adult woman she struggled to be. Still, she knew if she looked in a mirror, she would see a deep blush from her breasts to her now shorter hairline, probably as deep a scarlet as her hair; for the second time in as many minutes, her thoughts had come full circle with her hand running through 'What hair I have left.'

Trying to be philosophical, she shrugged half-heartedly, "Oh well, can't be helped, no use crying over scorched hair." She slid down into her little pool of relaxation filled with hot water. She sank enough to allow the water to flow over her head; it was still unsettling to feel the water in some spots on her scalp and not in others.

When her face broke the surface, she again filled her lungs with the extraordinary aroma of flowers, a fragrance that filled her cabin. It was an instant reminder of her return earlier that day. She was staggering from exhaustion and near collapse when she finally grasped the latch of her cabin door.

The open arms of Andraste could not have been more welcome to the dead than the billowing steam and profoundly rejuvenating perfume of Crystal Grace that poured out to meet Serrada; it restored her enough to enter the cabin. That was the first of her discoveries. It started with handmade curtains, giving her privacy from overly curious eyes that might try to peak through glazed windows.

Serrada was amazed at the realization that she had glazed windows! Possibly the only ones in all of Haven save the ones in the Chantry itself. She could not help wondering what Gliril had to do to get the glass, let alone have them so carefully installed. A tiny bathing nook was created by heavy woolen blankets draped over lines tied between beams. The surprises went beyond the aroma of Crystal Grace scented candles, which continued happily burning throughout her cabin and the little bathing chamber. The heavenly-scented candles offered the perfume which humbled the awful stench of dirt, horse sweat, and her horrid odor. Gliril had helped her strip off her gear outside the blanket screen, finally removing her small clothes only after entering the steaming atmosphere of her bath. Gliril had rushed off with her damaged armor, with promises to return quickly with food and to wash her mistresses back. A back in need of a poultice for the angry-looking burns, equally enraged cuts, slashes, and bruises that adorned the Heralds abused body.

That is how Serrada found herself slowly drowning the dirt and pains of the 'mad-dash return' as Cassandra had dubbed it. On the long walk back to the Chantry from the bridge gate, Serrada had endured many sidelong looks. Cassandra regaled the Inquisition leaders with her opinion of their doings in the Hinterlands and their return.

Leliana must have noticed Serrada's rising anger at being not so gently teased by the Seeker. Serrada had made it clear that she would not be subject to the Seekers ministrations because regardless of how it might appear, she had indeed been correct that there was a reason for the forced march return. It had just turned out better than she might have dared hope.

Her determination to rush back to Haven may have been for naught in the Right Hands eyes, but Serrada was happy that it was. In fact, it had not been useless at all but had indeed helped the Left Hand identify a cell she had long suspected but could not pinpoint; the Nightingale had so much information to share that the walk back seemed long.

'I have no idea why I was so anxious about a man I do not even know.' Recalling the almost desperate Need, she felt to rush back to save John Gray. She lifted a cloth soaked in sweet-smelling water to wash her head and what was left of her hair. 'I must be going mad. Cassandra was right; we nearly road ourselves to death to get here, and for what? To see some Qunari and the Newcomers leader chasing down another laborer?'

She knew now full well that Demre was a Ben-Hassrath assassin bent on killing her, but that did not change the fact that she was sure she looked foolish. Once the story got out that she had begged, cajoled, and finally threatened her companions into riding through the night, nearly killing their mounts to get back in time for a duel that was over before she left her saddle! She would be lucky if they did not demote her to Inquisition jester.

Little did she know how that story would be heard by those who called her Herald, especially by those who truly meant it. It was said she had knowledge of things in Haven that lay forty leagues away from Horse Master Dennet's hold, the knowledge that was given to her by Andraste or perhaps the Maker himself. She led her companions to cover that ground in a single ride, and through mountain trails known to no man but her, and to arrive just in time to single-handedly save the lives of dozens of Inquisitions soldiers who were hard put to it. While not precisely correct, those who knew the land knew it was only twenty leagues from Dennet's front door to Haven's gate. The story was repeated much the same way around fires far and wide, the numbers and danger growing with each league the campfire was away from the actual events. Her immortal reputation was far more formidable and impregnable than the soft well-formed, very mortal woman lying in a bath in Haven.

Helping A New Friend

John had seen Okanog to the infirmary; he and Little John had to carry the big Qunari the last several yards.

"Looks like whatever potion he took has worn off." John had wondered if he had indeed taken something; Gliril had said that Demre had given him some potion. "Do you think they poisoned him?"

"Who knows, I don't get that sort of shit," LJ grunted under Okanog's weight. All the while trying to dodge the horns on the lolling head of his burden, "Assholes like that fuckup everything they touch. All with stupid over-complicated plans that never fucking work."

"Ok, on three. 1 … 2 … 3 groofff." John pushed as hard as he could, but he was sure LJ did most of the work. "Fuck, that guy is heavy!"

"Yeah, can you imagine the women?" Little John's voice hinted at admiration, or perhaps it was anticipation? John tried not to.

Together they had dumped Okanog on what passed for an operating table; it would be at home in Missouri spending its life covered in a starched white tablecloth under an antique picnic basket.

From across the room, John heard José's authoritative voice; he was in full ER doctor mode now.

"Well, don't just stand there, get him naked and washed; he is filthy, I can smell him from here. I want to examine him first." One of José's helpers handed John a knife, and he looked back and forth between the single-edged blade and the large Qunari. He was trying to figure out some way of getting out of this duty; after all, a man can only be asked to do so much. Luckily, several others came in, led by Adan and a couple of his helpers, joined by Mother Giselle and some of her healers.

Mother Giselle, seeing his distress, took the knife from John, "You have done enough to and for this man today, Commander. Only so much should be asked of anyone." Her smile said she understood his limitations.

José had no such compulsion, "LJ start a fire, it is way too dark in here, get the lamps burning. Who is going to help me wash him?"

"John, get your ass over to the Chantry and get my equipment; I need some real lights and my surgery kit," José seeing he had not moved yet, "Now John!" José snarled without even looking at his OIC; this was José's domain, and John acknowledged it. "Can someone please get me some soap and water; a bucket of strong alcohol would be great too." Adan's and Giselle's helpers were rushing to meet the demands; two had already left, probably on their way to Flissa's tavern with buckets.

"Well, young man, perhaps you should 'get your ass' to the Chantry and get your healer the tools he requires." The look on Giselle's face said she was enjoying his discomfort. "I believe Sister Leliana, and Seeker Cassandra, and some others are awaiting you."

"Yay, me!" John did not sound at all excited at the prospect.

"You could stay and help scrub the filthy naked Qunari." Adan sounded as if he would prefer to trade jobs.

"No, no, no. We all have our own travails, my dear Master Adan." John was heading for the door as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, and with a wave and a smile, added, "I am a generous enough person to let you have all the fun." John had passed through the door and did not hear Adan's acidic reply as it closed behind him.

The early afternoon sun was bright as he walked quickly toward Haven's gate. Cullen had the soldiers reordering the camp; now that it was cleared, it gave an excellent opportunity to improve its layout. Somehow the camp had moved closer to the new buildings, with the latrines further down the hill but still far enough away from the lake to not contaminate the village's drinking water come spring. The pits were far deeper now and lined with bricks from the improved kiln that Sam had helped design. Better bricks and less wood used, yet another improvement the Newcomers had brought.

"It is hard to believe that we have only been here a few weeks." He walked toward the stables and saw the line of recruits turning in old iron armor for the new steel made on the drop hammer press; Harritt was doing a profitable business. 'The changes we have made already, I wonder what this will all mean in the end.'

He passed by Seggrit's shop; John never much liked the man. Seggrit reminded him of the guy who sold him his first car. John had loved that Jeep, a CJ-7, 'It is a project, son, but you will be proud to drive it.' John had been, but project was an understatement. Building a fourth-grade science fair volcano was a project; keeping that Jeep running was a campaign, fraught with the same level of setbacks and heartbreaks and occasional little victories that made the effort hard to abandon. John had lost twelve pounds of fat and gained eight in muscle from the bicycle he rode just to get Jeep parts. No, John did not trust Seggrit even as much as the used car dealer.

He thought about walking toward the Maiden; he could hear laughter, some he recognized coming from the tavern, it should be closed now, but Flissa had decided to forgo her standard afternoon closing since the duel had disrupted lunch. John was sure he could hear the voices of several of his men, some laughing, others correcting details of the Battle of Haven as the events were now being called.

"She is over there, commander." Varric's voice derailed his thoughts.

"What?" John realized he was now facing away from the Maiden and had started toward the Herald's cabin; in fact, he was several feet in that direction.

"The Herald? You know, about so tall," Varric hopped into the air with his hand above his head, "looks like this," waving his hands from top to bottom outlining the curves of a well-shaped woman, "with flaming red hair! Believe me; I have seen it ablaze – it looks better than it smells." Varric's face was covered with a friendly smile; John was not sure it was meant to be sardonic or playful.

"I am sorry .. Varric, wasn't it? I am sorry, I was going to the Chantry." John was sure that was his name, some important Dwarf, a poet or something, but a dead shot with his crossbow. It was still difficult for John and the other Companions, the name they had taken for themselves, Eric and a few others had taken to the menagerie of people like only Eric could. Still, it had been harder for others like John. It was still shocking to see the different humanoid races in the flesh; he sometimes wondered if he would wake in a hospital after a long coma and find that someone had left on a TV tuned to the SciFi channel.

"Sure, sure, Urut, listen, she is easy to talk to." Varric stepped forward, in a conspiratorial manner, "I think she likes you; just talk to her."

Varric grunted a laugh at John's confusion, but John continued anyway, "First, my name is John Gray; I don't know who Urut is. Second, I have spoken only a couple of words to Lady Trevelyan, and I would not presume…"

"All right, all right, just trying to help." Varric moved back to his fire with his palms up in surrender. Smiling back at John, "I know your name Commander Gray, everyone does; your personality is URUT, not your name."

Not wanting to cause an argument, John moved on by heading toward Charters cabin and the Heralds, just the same.

John had moved past Varric and turned toward the Chantry; he had hesitated a moment longer than he thought he had, finding himself staring at the Heralds cabin when Charter appeared beside and slightly behind him.

"She is indisposed if you wish to speak with Lady Trevelyan," The elf woman's smile was broad, and her eyes were sparkling. "I believe she is bathing; I could see if she could…" her head tilted to the right, and her smile broadened, "see you regardless if you wish."

John could feel the heat rush to the top of his head and the hair on his temples prickled.

'Jesus, what is going on here? Why does everyone …' He shook himself slightly, "That will not be necessary. I was headed to the Chantry; I need to collect some of our things."

The smile, if anything, got sharper, as did the mischievous glint in her eye. Charter leaned a little closer, "I promise to relay your … greetings to my Lady Trevelyan."

"You don't have to do that," John almost choked on his words; for some reason, his throat was tight and dry at the same time. "I was on my way to the Chantry; I need to get some things." He was gesticulating to the Chantry as if Charter needed directions to the largest building in Haven only a few dozen steps away.

"Yes, you said that, commander. Perhaps you should be on your way; it is not going to come to you." Charter moved toward her cabin.

As if her leaving broke the spell, John found he was back on the path toward the Chantry, Charter's quiet but clear laughter following behind him.

"What is wrong with these people?" John was walking swiftly and looking back toward the source of the fading laughter when he felt the bump.

"Hey, please watch where you are going!" A voice in front of him chastised him for his clumsiness.

"I am sorry." John turned to the voice, finding Gliril, carrying a large tray loaded with steaming beef, bread, cheese, and other things like stoppered vials filled with unknown liquids and a clay pot of some fragrant concoction. All balanced carefully by the small elf girl.

"Oh, I am sorry, sir, I did not recognize you." Gliril's face blushed; she had been so focused on not dropping her tray, she had not even noticed the human who had walk directly into her path.

"Not your fault Gliril. I was the one not paying attention." John took the tray from her in a moment and began walking toward the Herald's cabin. "Tell me something, why is everyone acting so strangely? People act like something is going on between Lady Trevelyan and me."

Gliril looked uncomfortable; she must have heard rumors, sometimes very vulgar ones. "I have no idea, sir. I know the Herald was concerned about the duel; how she knew about it, I don't know, but she did, and she was." He could see her embarrassment was growing, and she would not meet his eyes. He suspected she knew something but did not know anything for sure, but she certainly was not comfortable with the entire discussion.

"I am sorry, Gliril." John was so focused on understanding what was being said that he had not thought about his question. "I should not have asked you. I will have to ask Lady Trevelyan herself." He realized that he was now standing just outside the very woman's door, and just as surprised about how uncomfortable it made him, he quickly handed the tray back to Gliril.

"I will let you go; tell her that I thank her for her concern." He was blushing himself. 'I am too old for this shit; what is wrong with me?'

Gliril found herself curtsying, mostly out of nervousness. She then tapped lightly on the door and entered; then, John found himself staring at the wood's grain in the secured entry.

"Damn, what is wrong with me? I shouldn't have taken the tray; how does that look?" John watched the young girl go in, then turned back and walked to the Chantry for a second time.

"A very circuitous route to the Chantry, Commander?" Charter was standing outside her cabin still, surrounded by hooded scouts. "You should hurry along, or poor Okanog will be eating soup for the rest of his life. Besides, Gliril will help the Herald bathe; you can come back and assist her…later."

John ignored the comments and walked past, the group's clear laughter following him. He was old enough to know that nothing he could say would make the situation better. Besides, he had been delayed by only a few minutes; although it seemed longer, after all, Haven was not that big a place, it could not be more than a hundred yards from the Chantry to the table Okanog was lying on, however many miles it seemed to be.

When he reached the enormous double doors, he stood with his hand on the ancient deep brown oil rubbed bronze handle, wondering why it felt so strange to enter. He could not help but wonder what his seminary teacher, Sister Mary, would have thought; he was confident what Mother Superior would have said? Mother Superior would say that he was compromising his dedication to Christ by even entering the Chantry; she was not a big believer in live and let live. He thought Sister Mary would have reminded him of Saint Paul's teachings of meeting people where they were and that these places have no impact on your salvation, that his faith was all that mattered.

A faith that he had all but forgotten with all he had seen, the lives he had taken, decisions he had made, and things lost. Still, he always hesitated before entering the building that everyone considered holy. The embers of his faith demanded respect for the beliefs of others.

The door on the left side opened, and a chantry sister came out. She looked surprised to see someone, noticing his hand on the other door's handle.

"This must be difficult for you." The sister addressed him.

The sudden opening of the door and the sister's appearance had startled him; he now realized he was in a fighting stance. It was embarrassing, and quickly stood, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

"I am sorry, sister," he felt foolish now; she stood before him with her hands clasped in front of her body, no better example of a pacifist holy woman had he ever seen, regardless of the faith. "Sister Amalia, isn't it? I was just thinking about - things."

"It must be difficult for you." Sister Amalia's voice was soft and soothing, "I have spoken with several of your people; it is difficult for them also. Some are having crises of faith." She took a step forward, placing her hand on John's shoulder. "I am willing to speak with you at any time. You need not give up your faith, perhaps only adjust it." She turned toward the Maiden, then stopped. "They are waiting for you." She turned away and continued her walk to her own rendezvous.

John watched her walk toward the noisy tavern. "I swear these people can see right through you." Just like Sister Mary, she always seemed to know what troubled a much younger John Gray. He pulled the door open and stepped into the gloom.

Back in Hot Water

Serrada opened her eyes; she should be surprised to see her surroundings, but it seemed right somehow. She was seated in the same high-backed wooden chair from her study in Ostwick; the chair was placed on the dais at the head of the great hall of her hold. It was as uncomfortable as ever, familiar, and somehow reassuring. Her father had insisted it not be padded so that she would have to get up and get some exercise, at least occasionally.

'Your bottom will become as flat as that chair if you don't get out and do something besides study!' His voice was full of mirthful concern and fatherly pride at the efforts of his studious daughter—the only one of his children who were as interested in books and history as he was. The memory brought a smile and a deep sense of wistfulness for his counsel but mostly his voice. She continued to survey the room; it was familiar but also strangely foreign.

'Looks like the ceiling still needs work.' The lovely view of the thin clouds sailing the deep blue sky visible through the gaping hole at the far end of the hall.

'At least the doors are on, and they cleared the rubble.' The floor was clean now, not just clear of debris; she sat on the dais above the floor of the hall, her chair was bracketed by two large iron braziers both piled high with happily burning logs.

She looked out upon her grand hall, from the bottom of the dais to the large doors, wound a long line of people, all who awaited her guidance and judgment. 'Andraste, what did I do to deserve this? I can't do this, please, Maker, don't make me do this!'

Josephine's disembodied voice rolled through the hall from behind her chair, Serrada tried to turn to find the source, but she could not move, trapped by forces she could not see or resist. "Stand forward, give your name, state your case, and await judgment. May the Herald of Andraste have mercy on your souls." The voice was strong and clear but carried none of the warmth of the woman Serrada knew, no this voice was cold and held an edge that implied there would be no mercy.

'Maker, why am I doing this? I don't want to do this. Please don't make me do this!' She wanted to scream those words and run from the hall, but she could do neither.

A vaguely familiar figure stepped forward, 'I … I … am, no, I was Eldredda.' The uncomfortable girl stood before Serrada. 'She looks fine, though pale. Why is she here?' Serrada knew she had seen her before but could not recall where; the girl looked pensive as if she was trying to remember something. 'I don't remember my family name, your grace. I brought the picnic, but Ritts was late, then suddenly those men…' A look of terror and pain flashed across the girl's face, then a deep gash and gushing blood marred her lovely throat; strangely, she acted as if nothing had happened. 'They hurt me. They killed me. I was an apprentice at the Circle of Jainen, we were visiting Ferelden when the circles dissolved, and we could not get home. I had nowhere to go, so I followed my mentor; we went from place to place, but no one would take us in; we were trying to find somewhere safe, that is all. I did not want to hurt anyone, just find someplace safe…. Templars killed my mentor, and I was lost, then Ritts found me, she didn't attack. Ritts was so nice, she was going to get me into the Inquisition - she said I would be safe…' Tears rolled down her cheeks only to be swallowed up by the flood of blood flowing down across the bosom of her dress.

"The Herald of Andraste finds no fault in this supplicant; she is forgiven in the name of Andraste and the Maker, find peace and depart to your reward with the Maker." Serrada heard her own voice roll through the hall, precise and robust and as alien to her ears as if it were from a stone statue.

Eldredda wore a beautiful smile, and she looked as whole and healthy as she was in life. When she began to speak, she seemed to fade with each word, "Please give my love to Ritts; I will wait for her. Tell her that I pray she finds joy and someone to love." With her final words, she was gone.

Next came the sisters Tarra and Kara; the pain of their appearance drove a dagger of regret into Serrada's heart. They looked as young and vibrant as they had in life, but Serrada now knew what would unfold as they told their story. Before that could occur, Serrada found herself running to Kara and begged her forgiveness, and she did the same for Tarra, who she could not save. Both were stunned that she would ask their forgiveness.

'Of course, my Lady, we are unworthy of your asking…' they began their story, and Serrada watched the burns appear, and Tarra's breath turned to smoke and the reek of burning wood, scorched hair, and charred human flesh. To witness the young woman damaged and destroyed before her eyes tore at Serrada's heart yet again, however, worse would follow.

Serrada dreaded what she knew would come; as Kara took up her story, Serrada knew the ending all too well.

"I tried to raise a barrier, but I could not…" Kara explained her final actions; Serrada helplessly watched each of the arrow wounds appear. When the final arrow wound appeared, the one which ended the girl's life, it was all Serrada could do to keep standing.

"All you were doing was trying to raise a barrier?" Serrada's voice broke; she was trying not to lose control again, 'Maker, will I never stop crying?' "I am so sorry; I did not know, I …"

"Do not blame yourself, Lady Herald. It could have been a fireball; would you have known the difference? I could have thrown myself to the ground, I saw others fall on their faces, but I just acted. It was my mistake, not yours."

"Thank you," Serrada whispered, her eyes swimming with tears. She hugged them both and then gave the same blessing; the sisters held hands, neither spoke a word as they faded.

Serrada stood for a moment where the sisters had been, then turned back to her seat. It was no longer the familiar chair she had known; it was now a padded throne of judgment, the Inquisition emblem emblazoned upon it. The same symbols of Andraste and the Inquisition echoed uncounted times above her head in the massive expanse of stained-glass windows towering up to the now entirely complete ceiling far, far, above.

'Is this my future? My doom, dealing death and judgment?' Serrada felt the acidic bite of soul-rending despair. 'Is this some sort of punishment?'

The tally rolled on, name after name, face after face. Usually, those she had killed and those who died because of her orders but often those who she did not know, the line now extended across the long hall out the door and down a set of stairs. 'Is this my punishment? Forever giving a blessing, I don't even believe in?'

Gliril burst into the cabin. Serrada awoke and jumped at the sound, sending yet another wave of water over the end of the tub.

"Wait, where am I? Where are the people? Where is the hall?" Serrada looked around frantically trying to understand where she was; it had been so real.

"Thank you for your help Commander," Gliril called after someone; she had been speaking with a man by the low mumbling sounds working their way through the nearby window, but Serrada was too warm and sleepy to look outside.

'Probably Cullen.' She thought.

Gliril busied herself outside of the curtain of her mistress's bath; Serrada thought she could sense the aroma of food seeping into her little sanctuary, this was confirmed when Gliril entered through a hidden gap in the curtains, and a wave of roasted beef, hearty cheese, and fresh bread followed her with equal if not quite as physical a presence as Gliril.

"Hello mistress, how is your bath?" Without waiting for the reply, Gliril stuck her finger in the water and then removed it quickly. "Oh! It is cooling quickly." She wiped her hand off, then swiftly knelt and began fussing with something under the bathing tub.

Gliril busied herself somewhere below the tub; what she was doing, Serrada could not tell. As Gliril worked, Serrada could feel the water in her bath suddenly start to feel warmer, she had not noticed the cooling much, but the sudden revival of the water's heat was welcome.

'She takes such good care of me. When did she stop being a servant? Did I ever see her as just that?' Serrada looked at Gliril with an expression of genuine fondness, a fondness clearly returned by the elf girl.

"Gliril, I can't have you as my servant…." She was starting to work through what she wanted to say, but Gliril's head snapped up, her eyes fixing on Serrada's with an unmistakable expression of pain.

"Why?" Gliril's voice broke. "Have I displeased you?"

"No, no, no!" Serrada reached out to the girl, heedless of the water that followed the arms. "Please, I did not say that correctly; I meant only you are far too dear to me to call you my servant. You serve me, and you have no idea how much that means to me, but you are far more, a friend, or like a little sister, than my servant."

Gliril's eyes brimmed, but her voice was steady again. "I serve you because I love you, mistress. No one had ever tried to help me; even when my parents died, the shem would not even help me with their bodies; they just drug them away and dumped them in the fire with the animals the dark spawn killed, not with the humans. They did not offer any prayers for them…" Gliril's tears were flowing freely now. "You were different, I did nothing for you but wake you and drop the medicine on the floor, and you still saved me…" She was unable to speak now.

Serrada forgetting her nudity, pulled the girl to her, "We will have a service for them. I will speak with Mother Giselle, and we will offer prayers to the Maker for them…or if you wish, perhaps Solas or Minaeve will know what to do for the Creators…" Serrada's tears were welling up as well. 'Oh, Maker! Gliril, if you keep crying, I am going to, and I do enough of that as it is.'

"I don't even know their names; they were just my mama and papa." Gliril's tears were still streaming, but she continued her work; Serrada wondered how she could work and weep simultaneously.

"The Maker or Creators will know who they are. If they do not, they are not very good a being Gods." Serrada smiled through her tears, which she could no longer restrain.

"Why did you help me, mistress?" Gliril rubbed her face on her sleeve and fixed Serrada with her eyes.

Serrada froze at that moment. There it was. The question that she had been avoiding in conscious thought but pondered in her dreams. The ugly truth was she did not know; it probably had to do with her failure to save Lian, but that was not all of it; perhaps it was all the death, the savagery of it all. She could not help everyone, but maybe just one?

"Because you deserved it, Gliril. I was certain when I knew what they called you, I have never regretted helping you, and I doubt I ever will." She cleared her throat and blew her nose into the sopping towel before casting it aside; she had had enough of tears, "Now, when was the last time you had a bath yourself? I would ask you to join me, but there is only a little more room, and I seriously doubt …."

"I would have no problem, mistress." In moments Gliril had stripped off her clothes and was as naked as her mistress.

Serrada was utterly taken aback; clearly, Gliril was comfortable with herself far more than Serrada was, the youthful confidence she had had in running naked before Maker and all had disappeared once she hit puberty. She glanced at the young elf girl and looked away; it was too embarrassing. She did find herself scooting forward; there was more than enough room really, given the tub was long enough for even a Qunari to bathe, 'I have mopped myself into a corner here; if I refuse, she will feel rejected. I can do this; we are both women, I can do this…'

"It would be easier to wash your back anyway; I would like to see those burns closer. They look painful, and I want to ensure they are not infected." The girl had been arranging her tools to make her tasks easier, moving soap, salves, and lotions closer to the steaming water-filled tub.

"I have some new soap and flannels; I see you used the towel; luckily, I have another. We will have to share, I am afraid, but it will be dry enough for me. I will then tend your burns and sore muscles." She deftly stepped into the piping hot water.

'Oh, Maker, I can't do this!' Serrada had begun to panic when she first felt Gliril touch her shoulders to steady herself as she entered the tub. Now feeling Gliril sitting so close, the skin of her legs gently touching Serrada's lower back was making it hard to breathe.

'Maker, why am I so upset over this? Why am I behaving like a child?' Serrada could hear Gliril working on her task, soaking the flannel and working it to a froth. Though she was intrigued, she could not bring herself to look for fear of seeing something she had tried so hard not to. She knew she was struggling with something but could not understand what she was finding difficult to deal with.

Serrada prepared herself for when Gliril would begin to wash her back; she trusted the girl to be gentle and careful, she knew her muscles need of a massage, and the soap smelled wonderful – wait!

'Where did she find soap?' Serrada realized that in her time in Haven before this very day, she could not recall a single cake of soap other than that used to scrub dishes and clothing, and that was rare.

"Gliril, what did you have to do to get the soap?" Serrada asked to avoid the tension her body was feeling from the young woman's touch. It was in no way uncomfortable, the exact opposite, which made her even tenser. 'I did not leave her coin to buy anything! I shudder to think what she had to do.'

"Oh, the soap? I made it, along with the candles; it was effortless. I wanted to make things nicer for you." Gliril replied with a voice as airy and comfortable as if she had said she walked across the room.

Serrada had suspected that Gliril had lived a hard life, even by Theda's standards. She somehow suspected her understanding of a 'hard life' as at best only a glance at the reality.

"I made a few trades for things I don't need anymore, and Lady Montilyet gave me the Crystal Grace to use in the candles and soap, I was able to trade a few hours cleaning the stables for some goat milk to make the soap, and the candle wax was easy, I found a huge beehive, the honey I portioned out for your table, and traded some for fabric for your bed and windows," Gliril explained with a great deal of pride very evident in her matter of fact explanation of her efforts on Serrada's behalf.

'Effortless? That is what she called effortless? I was feeling sorry for myself, and she is doing all this for me?' Serrada tried to think of what to say. She was simply at a loss, she had known that working hard was part of growing up a commoner, but Serrada thought her efforts were work as well; now, she began to understand that she had no idea what work was. 'Effortless? Effortless?'

"Gliril, thank you, you have made it a home for me, a place to look forward to returning. I must pay you for what you spent." Serrada did not want this impoverished girl to spend her coin. It was a moment or two before she realized that Gliril had stopped washing her back.

"You just do not understand." Gliril's voice was whisper-quiet, soft, and full of emotion. "I can do nothing else. I am not a warrior; I am no mage, nor healer, I can't work metal or make potions; all I have is my hands and my…."

"Oh, Gliril. I am sorry." Serrada's heart broke at the girl's sorrow ladened voice.

Serrada was trying not to start crying again, "I don't know what you have had to do, but you will never have to offer…" her voice caught in her throat, 'Maker, will I never stop weeping?'

Horrible visions of Gliril passed through Serrada's mind, each image more terrible and degrading than the last. Serrada knew she should not pry but could not help herself; it was like asking where something hurt in order to bandage it.

'I know I should not ask; I did not want to shame her,' Serrada could not shake the same question, a question that would have humiliated Serrada if asked of her. 'then why do I want to know?'

The answer to that was simple; she had never imagined herself in such a situation. She was ashamed to admit that to her, it was all purely theoretical. A contemptible position that occurred only in bad novels you read under the covers with a candle, not something with which decent people, as her mother would have called them, should ever be concerned. Yet here she was sitting in a bathtub with a decent person who was cast into a horrible situation through no fault of her own.

"Gliril, have you had to …" Although she had been sheltered and her father was generous with the servants, his justice was swift and brutal to those who harmed others; he was, but one man and Thedas was a world with seemingly no end of cruel people.

Serrada had learned those lessons in bloody and painful ways since waking in the Chantry cells. She now wished to change things if she could, a vain hope she knew, many had tried before, not the least of which was Andraste herself, but Serrada felt that nothing would change if people did not try.

"I offer my body freely to you; it would not shame me, but…" Gliril voice trailed off, but she began to wash her mistresses back again. Serrada could not bring herself to respond to the offer until she was sure she would not open a wound further. It was Gliril who broke the silence.

"No, my lady, I am not pure," Gliril stated, then carried on washing Serrada's back.

There it was, Serrada knew now. Yet again, she was awash in emotion, a desire to embrace the girl to make it all go away. It was foolish, she knew; in some ways, Gliril was far more mature than she, even though the girl was years young, such an action would look foolish and worse might be received as patronizing. A p ampered, spoiled, privileged child of a minor noble judging the actions of a victim of Thedas. Moreover, Gliril voice was strong and steady, not that of a victim, but of a young woman who had known pain but had not allowed that pain to break or define her – something to be admired.

Serrada was saved from her frozen state as Gliril continued her story.

"Commander Gray refused me. I was hurt at first, to be rejected, I thought he must have found me ugly, but…" Gliril made the statement as if she were reporting that it was raining. She would have continued, but Serrada never let her finish the thought.

"He what? How? Where? When? Why?" Questions poured out in quick succession, Serrada's voice was sharp, and she twisted around to look directly into the eyes of the elf girl behind her, now heedless of their shared nudity.

'If he so much as touched her, I will cut his beating heart out … after … after I cut things off!' Serrada was bursting if a desire to protect the young woman, but protect her from what? The rejection? Could she be more foolish?

Gliril smiled and gently turned Serrada around, then resumed tenderly washing the pattern of burns.

"Perhaps no one told you how the duel began." For the next several minutes, Gliril recounted the events which led to the duel, first of John and Eric cutting planks, the description of which brought both to tears of laughter. Then John's call for assistance, Demre's response, Gliril's comment, then Demre's attempt on her life, John's intervention then Okanog's appearance and threats at the party, the involvement of Chancellor Roderick, as Gliril became so caught up in her retelling, she became a little more energetic in her scrubbing.

'Shite, please be careful!' Serrada tried hard not to flinch as Gliril was scrubbing now, not just washing. Serrada attempted to ride the pain. 'The poultice must be wearing off. Maker, please, Gliril, be careful. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but…' Serrada could not suppress a whimper escaping from her lips,

"Oh Maker, I am sorry, mistress! I will be more careful." Gliril's voice was one of honest regret, then suddenly Serrada felt lips on the back of her neck, high up her neck between her shoulder blades.

'She was just kissing the pain away because she hurt me, to make the pain go away the way Anna used to … that is all it was.' Serrada could feel a shiver run down her back. 'Maker, please don't let her want more. This is awkward enough without that; please, Andraste, let this be platonic.'

Serrada tried to focus on what Gliril was telling her; she learned that Demre, the Ben-Hassrath spy was the genuine villain; Roderick was the useful fool. All of which Leliana had informed her already, but Gliril's perspective was useful.

'It just does not make any sense! The Breach is just as great a threat to the Qunari as anyone else in Thedas. Why would the Ben-Hassrath want me dead?'

She had been trying to understand that since the attack, it just did not make any sense. 'Say what you will about the Qunari; they act logically and thoughtfully whether you agree with them or not. This attack was neither.' She would have to think about that during the journey to Val Reaux.

Glirils's description of offering herself to John for comfort brought her back to the present. Serrada was relieved at his gentle refusal and supportive words, loving guidance, and instructions to seek the Herald for advice and succor.

Serrada was humbled and shamed by John's praise, 'Why would you have thought so much of me? I have not spoken two words to him since they arrived.' She was mortified that her assumptions about him were far less noble than his of her, that she simply had assumed that he, like most men in Serrada's experience, would have taken advantage of Gliril. Her cheeks blushed yet again, this time from shame.

In Gliril's voice, Serrada could hear what she could only interpret as deep affection, not romantic love, but one of admiration and devotion of an orphan child who found a protected refuge unlooked for.

'I can hear my father saying those same things to her.' She thought about her father but could not help but wonder. 'Would he have said that to an elf girl?' She thought of her father as a good man, who treated people equally and fairly, but was that true?

'I don't remember the last time father dealt with elves in general, let alone as individuals.' She rummaged through her memory, trying to recall when he had. Except for the servants, of course, but Mother handled that. 'I certainly can not imagine Mother being so kind. Kindness was not her strength.'

A cloud passed over Serrada's face and mood; she knew in her heart of hearts how her mother would have treated Gliril. 'It would not have been out of kindness, certainly.'

Although she was grateful for Gray's treatment of Gliril, she was not entirely sure how she felt about it yet. She saw herself as Gliril's older sister, but perhaps the girl needed a mother more than a sister, a match to John Grays seeming fatherly position. Something in her gut balked at him taking that roll, but why?

'I am jealous of the man!' Serrada realized with a plop of her hand on the water's surface. 'I can not believe I am jealous of him for being kind to Gliril.'

Her sudden realization and its implications made her doubt. 'How can I pretend to be Gliril's mother when I act like a jealous sister!' She was angry with herself, as usual. 'Make what is wrong with me?'

Serrada glanced over her shoulder at Gliril as the girl carried on in with her vivid description of some action or another of the Newcomers and how John Gray had done this or that. Gliril's admiration for all they did, but certainly all he did.

'She needs both of us.' Serrada knew, without a doubt. 'Time to grow up, Serrada, really grow up.'

If that was the future of their relationship, sitting naked in the tub together was certainly not an auspicious start. Serrada realized that she could not recall seeing her mother even in her dressing gown, let alone nude. Still, she also knew in her heart that she would never have that sort of distance between herself and Gliril and would not allow it for children she might have in the future. It was at this moment that she realized what Gliril had missed, and she had never known - a mother's gentle touch, a comforting embrace, the bonding that it must bring.

At the thought of the future and children, she could not help but look at the mark, which sputtered from a moment like a cat acknowledging its owner. "Assuming I have a future."

Gliril's banter suddenly stopped, and for the first time in many minutes, the cabin was profoundly silent.

"Of course, you do, mistress." Gliril bent slightly and kissed the right shoulder of the woman she held. "I do not know what Andraste or the Maker plans for you, but I do not believe it is an early death."

Lady Serrada Trevelyan began to relax into the arms of her servant, that is until she felt the warmth of the naked bosom in her back. She would have bolted forward if not for the arms which she now found were wrapped around her. There was nothing passionate about the contact, but purely comforting, the embrace of someone who genuinely loved her, who expected nothing in return, but wished to simply provide a safe place for her to be just Serrada instead of The Herald of Andraste, who was mothering whom at that moment was clear. A place she had not realized until that very moment she desperately needed, and she sank back into that embrace.

Opening Packages

John stepped into the Chantry, the light of the late noon hour sun followed him in, at least until the ancient towering timber framed door slowly and silently closed behind him with a resounding clunk, the ever-narrowing beam of light ended at the very feet of one of the most formidable women he had ever known.

'Wow, how quickly we adapt. The light passing through the door was certainly light from a sun, but not our Sun.' He mused whether it was somehow prophetic and undoubtedly poetic that he walked along the slowly narrowing path of light, thinning as the door slowly closed behind him. 'Seems like something from a movie. I wonder who would play me?' He was only a few feet away from the tall redhead.

"Commander, it is so good of you to come to see us." Leliana held out her hand to the Commander; she had been told by Samantha the Earth way of greeting was called shaking hands. Leliana thought it strange, but she wanted to make John feel more comfortable. She held out her gloved right hand for him to shake, fingers together, palm flat, thumb straight up.

John saw the proffered hand. 'So, someone has been giving lessons, probably Sam; we are going to have to have a meeting.' John reached past her hand to grasp her wrist the way Cullen had shown him; Leliana adapted instantly by grasping his wrist; he could feel the hard and soft edges of the bracers as well as the ridges of the three daggers that lived under her gloves. He held her wrist as she held his, locking eyes. John caught a flash of uncertainty behind Leliana's mask. He released his grip.

"I was very impressed with your performance today." Leliana turned to her left and gestured with her outstretched arm which way they should go. "It certainly proved that you are a formidable soldier. I believe that is true of all those you lead, but what of the scholars?"

"Thank you, I did not intend it to be such a public demonstration," John looked at the door she was indicating and walked toward it, keeping her a foot or so in front and to his left. "but I felt the challenge needed to be answered."

Reaching the door, Leliana turned, "Oh, I think you wanted it to be public…"

"I did not…" John started to protest.

"No, you wanted it to be public. You made your opinion clear. You said you have been – diminished by our treatment of you and your group, no?" She knew full well that a man's ego could sometimes get in the way of his clear thinking, but it was probably not in this case. Thedas could be a cruel place, and those that are perceived as weak are its first victims.

"No, you did rightly. More importantly, you showed mercy, it could have gone very badly, but you managed to turn a tight place into a clear victory for the Inquisition, solving several problems at once." She turned the handle and forced open the door. "Our friend, the good Chancellor Roderick, for instance, now back in Val Royeaux, is mustering what little strength he has and is licking his wounds." She had a smirk on her face that communicated much of her pleasure at his pain. "Wounds inflicted by you, I might add." She turned the handle and opened the door.

That thought gave John pause, "Great; now I have made an enemy here, my charming personality never fails."

Leliana chortled at that. "Don't worry, Commander. Chancellor Roderick has that effect on everyone. He is such a lovely soul."

John had never been given a 'tour' of the Chantry. In fact, he had tried to avoid it since his experiences there. The iconography reinforced how truly alien they were here, and being tortured never makes a good impression regardless.

He was surprised to find that this was, in fact, a bedroom; a relatively small room with minimal furniture, a small table and chairs, an armoire on the far wall, a chest of drawers, and three small single beds, each boasted one of the expeditions cargo carriers. Every bed was as unique as their nocturnal occupants.

He could quickly identify the one belonging to Lady Josephine; it was richly appointed with a comforter and matching bed skirt, elegant though they were showing their wear. At the foot of the bed, a gilded footlocker, which showed many miles of travel.

The second was less grand but richer in its way; a blanket, coverlet, and pillow cover had once been very carefully made and was more carefully cared for, the pillow cover bore a crest of some kind, a crest that sparked recognition. Yes, it was a griffin! How strange to see a familiar image, recognizable to most but different in some ways; he suspected it was Leliana's bed; he would have to make a point of asking about it later. The bedding's crest had its double on the stout lockbox at the foot of the bed.

The third, clearly the bed of a soldier, tightly tucked and made the same morning after morning, no refinement but a solid and well-worn heavy woolen blanket with a long memory of many marches. He had one that could be its twin. At the foot of the bed was a locker that would have been at home in any barracks in the US.

"How are we doing this." John knew the Quartet wanted into the crates more than they wanted to breathe. They already had his gear; he had been expecting to hear that someone had blown their hand off, or worse. That news never came; maybe they were smart enough not to play with things they did not understand.

"We were hopeful that you would enlighten us. They have markings of some sort…" Josephine had her signature clipboard, complete with candle, quill, and inkwell.

"Markings?" John moved toward the closest crate, the one on Cassandra's bed he guessed, "They have serial numbers and designations…" He walked to each; the paint should have been clear. "I don't understand, they don't look right…" He had looked around at the other crates, moving from one to the next. The markings were not damaged heavily, some damaged from being drug around but not to the point that they should be unreadable – but they were. "What the fuck?"

"What are you saying? Do you not recognize them?" Leliana had moved up beside John; she looked at the symbols; they were not of a kind she had ever seen before, not in any of her travels, Elven, Dwarven, Qunari, or any Human lands.

"I don't understand," he went back to the crate on Cassandra's bed; he scrutinized it, he recognized damage, it had a couple of drag marks and a discoloration, which he recognized from crate number three. He bent down to the code pad; he could not identify the keycode's numbers or characters. He remembered what the code was and entered it based on his memory of position. The tones were audible, which seemed to unnerve his companions.

"Is this some magic?" Cassandra had drawn her sword; even Cullen had his hand on his hilt. "You did not say you were a mage!" Cassandra took one step toward him.

John did not even lookup. "It is not magic; it is electronics." He paused for a moment, "I guess from your perspective, it would look the same."

He entered the last of the code, and the latches clicked, but he could not open the carrier. He pulled and pushed; then it occurred to him: air pressure. "I am an idiot; there must be a pressure difference between here and there." He found the pressure knob, turned it, air hissed into the crate and the lid popped open.

"Commander, please step away so that we can look." Leliana was examining her gloves again.

John was sure she was also keeping her hands near a dagger. "I am not comfortable with you having access to this carrier. You can look while I search for the surgery gear, but do not touch anything." He was very emphatic in his last words.

"You do not dictate what happens here, Commander…" Cassandra took another step toward him. She had spent little time with the Newcomers and had no experience with them, she considered them a danger, and their weapons were a danger in her mind. "You have no right to place restrictions…"

"I have every right!" He turned on her squarely. He took a deep breath, 'Fuck, this could go sideways.'

"Look, I realize you have no reason to trust me and every reason not to. But I am trying to protect you. Would you just start probing some long lost magical thing and hope for the best? I don't think you would. You would at least try to understand it first, right? If you want unfettered access, you will have to kill me, but I am the only one who knows all the codes. You have to understand, the weapons in these carriers take every bit as much training as you do with the sword. If you go messing with them, you could kill yourself but, more likely other people. Just let me do this my way, I am trying to keep – from destroying everything."

"My people have weapons that destroy whole cities in one blow…" He was trying to impress upon them the gravity of the situation, but instead, he only piqued the curiosity in Leliana and rage in Cassandra.

"Do you have such weapons?" Leliana's voice was even, almost a whisper, and extremely dangerous.

"My people do, many nations do back … there." John's voice was even. He almost said home, even though he did not say it aloud, they could all hear it. "We did not bring such weapons."

"How can you prove that? Perhaps you used one on the temple?" Cassandra's voice was sharp and louder than a whisper.

"I don't have time for this; I need that equipment." John was officially pissed mostly at himself for not thinking, but he was so tired. He understood their suspicions, they needed a bad guy, and he had stepped right in it.

"We have such weapons; they destroy everything for miles, sure the destruction up the valley could have been one of our weapons, but it wasn't. I don't know what caused it. But look, I will talk with my people; if you let me get the stuff I need, then I will show you some of our weapons and what they can do, then maybe you will cut me some slack. Right now, I need to get those tools to my medic to save that man's teeth and maybe his life." John realized he would have to show them something sometime.

"That is what we agreed to." Josephine piped up, "Remember, we agreed to this with the Herald; she feels these people are honorable, and they have done nothing to violate that trust." Being ever the diplomat.

"Do you agree to show us everything?" Cassandra had spoken before the rest could. "No more games!"

"Damn it; this is not a game! Fine, I will demonstrate some of our weapons, then you will understand." John had already decided to show them some of his gear but needed to make his point and get as much out of it as he could. "But I want more from you. I want my people to have the right to move around Haven; I want them to be able to train on their own, maybe with your weapons, to start to integrate if they wish, to be paid for their efforts. This is going to be our new home, whether we like it or not."

"Done." Cassandra had opened her mouth to refuse, but Leliana beat her to the punch. "With Cullen's cooperation, we will allow your people to begin to train, to work in Haven, and to use your skills as long as it is under the direction of the Inquisition. You are an unknown quantity; we do not know all we need to know to build trust. You have given us many things, so you have built much already, but with every step, it seems that there are still some great secrets. You must trust us enough to let us trust you."

"Fine, now let me get the equipment." John turned and reopened the carrier. He rooted through the equipment, sidearms, magazines, body armor, lights, portable gear, and all. Grabbing some lights out, he closed the carrier, locked it, and moved to the next one, always covering the touchpad. He went through the second crate and found the bag and box José wanted. He grabbed both, then locked the carrier.

"What is in the third?" Leliana asked as casually as she could.

It was then that John realized his mistake. "You are a musician, aren't you." John cursed the moron who thought tones were a good idea. He hated them, and if he had been thinking, he would have disabled them, but he was rushed.

"Why does that matter," Cullen asked; he was not a musician.

"Because she now knows the combinations because of the tones," John replied. The damage was done; he did not have time to reset the combinations and doubted they would let him anyway. "Leliana, please don't try to open these. I am asking you for your own good, and for all our sakes, please don't. I have given my word; I will stick by it."

"You have too much confidence in my abilities, Commander." Leliana tried to laugh off the comment.

"You have our word, Commander. We will not violate your privacy. You have my word." Josephine gave each of the others a stern look. "They have fulfilled every promise they have made, they have done all that we have asked, they have done more than we have asked and done so without expectation of compensation. Harritt is beyond satisfied; Threnn has related that we are selling their new iron stoves at a tidy profit, which has more than doubled our gold reserves. We owe them this."

"Fine, the Herald should be here regardless. I assume your demonstration will require some time to assemble," Leliana sounded tired. "Regardless, I need a bath; I promised myself that. I intend to keep at least that promise. Go Commander; we will reconvene as soon as possible to complete this. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Do you want to follow me?" John was already moving with his prizes toward the door.

"You are always watched, Commander Gray, more for your protection than ours; there are many powers in Thedas who would love to speak with anyone of you. I hope you understand that." Leliana replied; her tone was much warmer than it had been.

John was sure she was correct, all of which would only underline the long-delayed demonstration. He was at the door, watching the small group who held his future and those of his friends in their hands.

Cassandra's only response was an enormous yawn.

Leliana chuckled, "Come Cassandra, Josephine, I believe three baths are awaiting us." She turned to Cullen, "You are welcome to join us, Cullen. If you wish."

"No, no, I will … no." Cullen was red from ear to ear.

"I notice you did not invite me." John quipped, trying to be funny; he noticed the look of shock on Cassandra's face; she probably knew Cullen would decline; Josephine gave him an appraising look that made him feel naked already, Leliana tittered.

"You have other duties, Commander, see to them, then perhaps you can join us. It would be good to discuss other matters, perhaps something of music and art?" Leliana gave him an even more bold appraisal than Josephine had if that were possible.

"I … I …" John must have looked like a deer in the headlights. He had to learn to stop bluffing these people.

"See to your duties, then perhaps when you are finished…" Leliana smiled and waved with just her fingers tips.

Leliana, Josephine, and even Cassandra were smiling at him; he turned and headed out the door to the sound of laughter.

Show and Tell Serrada's Perspective

"Maker, could you all have been less polite to the man!" Serrada paced up and down the length of a space she had sworn she would never enter again, even on pain of death. She walked past the Quartet, Solas, and the guards.

"Herald, how would you have asked us to proceed?" Josephine was trying to assuage the rage that Serrada was freely showing to all of them. Not without good cause, and they all knew it, except Cassandra, who took this moment to remind everyone.

"He and his companions are not guests, Lady Trevelyan; they are prisoners," Cassandra used her fist on an adjacent table to emphasize the point, "regardless of how we might treat them."

Serrada knew Cassandra was unwilling to let go of the accusations regarding the Temple, for if she had not heard the Most Holy's voice with her own ears … 'I might be in chains still, if not rotting at the end of a rope in Val Royeaux! How can she be so stubborn!'

"No, they are not!" She was just as adamant as Cassandra and willing to prove she was far more obstinate. "You were wrong about me; you are wrong about them, Maker you were wrong about the whole fucking Conclave!" She spat that last out before she realized what she was saying. The look on Cassandra's face was as if she had been slapped with a steel gauntlet.

"I … I am sorry, that was just wrong of me." Serrada was ashamed of herself. "I didn't mean it, Cassandra please forgive me." Cassandra still looked stunned; Serrada glanced at the others, who were equally shocked at her outburst.

"I have no excuse. I just hate this place. I hate what happened here; I hate what was done to him here." Serrada could feel herself close to tears, but she mastered herself; she cried too often. "Please try and forgive me."

Serrada started again, trying to get those she respected and even come to care for, to understand what she saw.

"Please also think of what they are going through; imagine their heartbreak. Cassandra, your brother is dead, I know, but imagine if he were living somewhere, you thought him dead. You mourned him, but he was alive in some distant world trying to get back to you, fighting unknown dangers, a world he could not understand with people who thought him a criminal. His only hope was trying to get back to you." Serrada saw Cassandra's look change from anger to something else, perhaps mourning or regret?

"Leliana, what about your Warden? What if she were somehow lost, just disappeared without notice or trail, just gone? Trapped in some underground layer of creatures who looked and acted similarly but not the same, who would help on their terms but wanted all from her and with no hope of return. Her only thought was to return to you and would do anything to get back to you." Serrada could see Leliana's eyes brim, but she said nothing.

"We understand your point, my Lady, but you must see that we need some act of good faith on their part…" Josephine made her point, and Serrada understood it; she was trying to build a bridge.

"I know what you want; it is just that I am trying not to be Satan. You don't know who that is, but I am afraid I am going to play his part regardless of what I want." Commander John Gray had entered the basement cells of the Chantry of Haven. Behind him were several of his men and some Inquisition laborers.

"Just stack them up on the far end near the cells, as I told you. Then leave the Chantry." John motioned toward the far end near the back cells, where a wall of bars formed the most distant cells.

Serrada watched the men stack sandbags; they did not just dump them in a pile but had placed them in a very exact pattern. It reminded her of a bricklayer she had watched when she was younger, each layer first one way then another; he had told her it locked them all together, each supporting and holding the ones above and below it.

Her anxiety level grew, 'This is a great deal of work for a simple demonstration; what can their weapons do?' For the first time, she started to grasp the import of it; she glanced at Cassandra, who seemed to as well.

Serrada tried to put names to faces, John Gray she knew, the other was familiar, 'I think his name is Eric? I think he is John's second, and he is the one who is always trying to talk Flissa into a dance.' Serrada was aware of the relationship between Flissa and Amalia, so her small smile showed. 'Poor man has no idea.'

The laborers carried bag after bag of sand to the far end; John and Eric moved a table and materials away, creating a clear lane from one end of the cells to the other. They then moved the crate John had requested near the table then joined the audience near the doors. John watched with them as the workers finished their labors at the far end.

"Good work! Now, build the wall here, please." John drew an imaginary line with the heel of his boot near the cellar door. "Make it tall enough to take cover behind, at least up to here; he used his flat hand mid-chest. Once finished, he politely thanked them, shook their hands, gave them each a copper, and walked them to the door.

'I wonder where he got the coppers?' Serrada thought and looked at Josephine, who simply shrugged and made more notes. Leliana just stood and smiled; she seemed to be thinking of something or someone else.

"Please close this door but do not lock it; in a few minutes, my people will follow you then lock it, do the same to the outer door and lock it as well. Clear the rest of the building, leave no one but yourselves in the Chantry. Let no one in until we call for you. Is that clear?" John addressed the soldiers, who deferred to Cullen, who simply nodded.

Then turned to address the audience.

"As you might have guessed, I am creating a firing lane. This is a small space, so I can't show anything but a condition we call CQB – close-quarters combat. We do as little of that as we can, but we train for it constantly." John used hand gestures to coordinate with his people, no words were exchanged, and they did exactly what he told them—moving in near silence, as efficient as any royal dance troupe of Orlais.

Serrada watched in awe as they moved; John gestured to one holding a bundle who moved to the little hill of sandbags on the far wall, some twenty paces away. In the bundle was an Inquisition breastplate, one of the ones used by their front-line warriors. She found it was too heavy to move in for her combat style, but they were as good as a wall for those who used shield and sword. This was the new steel stronger and lighter than the old.

The little group did a few more things, moving this and that until John was satisfied, it was then tied in place, all in complete silence. Finally, he seemed to be satisfied, with a few more signals, and the troupe all went out the door, with the click of a latch followed by the outer door closing and locking, then not even footsteps marred the silence.

Before the Quartet and guests, there was a clear path from one end of the cells to the cellar door, with nothing between but a pile of sandbags propped against the cell bars on the far end, a wall of sandbags just past the cellar doors, and a table to once side between them, with one of Newcomers crates next to the table. It reminded Serrada of a relatively short archery range.

She watched John walk to the crate he had requested be placed there. The musical tones sounded, a strange song Serrada had never heard before, then there was a hiss of air, and the lid opened. Impulsively, all in attendance craned their necks to see.

She knew that these crates had been the bane of Leliana's and Charter's existence. Nothing they did, no picks or skill of art they had, would open the boxes. Even Solas was consulted, and he refused to even touch them, for fear of magic he did not understand, warned them not to touch them further if there was magic involved; it would not likely react well to probing.

Moving to take up a central spot before the group, John Gray began.

"I plan to provide you with a simple demonstration of what we call our primary weapons. These are true combat weapons, but my countries citizens downrated versions for hunting and self-defense, I have seen a similar thing here" John stated in a manner that implied he thought they should understand.

Serrada supposed he meant some thing like a sword, but those were expensive, so most people did not own them unless handed down as family heirlooms. More people carried a dagger because they were cheaper, more comfortable to conceal. However, most possessed a simple single-bladed knife, which had many uses. Generally, everyone owned a bow; bow staves could be made quickly without any materials other than wood, bone, and sinew. Just how good they were with the bow depending on talent and time to practice. 'Damn, that reminds me I need to get practice in.'

He was rummaging through the crate, evidently looking for something specific; from what she could see, things were not terribly orderly in the container, but it had been moved around a good deal and not always with great care. He placed several strange objects on the table, put some back put more on the table until he appeared to find what he wanted, a long item wrapped in various colors, browns, and tans with a little dark green, the object was about the length of a sword. He unwrapped it; it was similarly colorful as the casing it came from; the first thing that came to Serrada's mind was Bianca; although it was much thinner than Varric's crossbow had not bow arms, the resemblance was there.

"Infantry soldiers use these, we take and hold land, then let the pols decide what the hell to do with it, usually after a whole bunch of soldiers and civilians die for it." John seemed to pause a moment as if he were thinking of what to say, then put a belt of some kind down with an odd-looking tan object which only vaguely resembled a hammer?

The Quartet all looked at each other as Serrada tried to figure out what he was saying. Commander Gray did not explain any words like 'pols' and did not seem like he was planning to enlighten them.

Serrada looked at the odd collection of objects on the table. He shifted several items onto the table, like a belt of things that looked like gray-green balls; others were strangely curved objects of multiple hues in tans and browns and grays, some other items she recognized, knives, small axes and shovels, others she had no idea what they were, a strange metal rod with a glass eye on one end and polished silver behind it. Still, other devices and items that she had no idea what they were. It seemed to go on and on. Finally, he appeared satisfied because he turned to address them.

"This is an M4 rifle; it is a standard weapon. It is based on engineering, metallurgy, and chemistry. I guess you would call it alchemy." With this object, he seemed more whole somehow. Serrada realized it was like Cassandra or Cullen without their swords. It would be them, but not all of them, not the complete person.

He walked toward all of them, each in turn. "You will need these, put them in your ears, you will need them. This will get loud, and in this stone box, the sound will permanently damage your hearing." He went from person to person, dropping two small round balls of – wax.

"I do not understand? What is this for?" As usual, Cassandra balked at the suggestion of one of the Newcomers. John simply shrugged.

"I sure don't give a shit, lady; it is your hearing. If you want to be deaf as a board in a few minutes, that is your business." It was clear that John did not care whether Cassandra followed his instructions or not; he did, however, put his pair of wax balls in his ears, "Make sure it covers the whole area of your ear, like this." He showed each person how he had done it, and all followed his lead; Solas was conspicuous in it. It was clear that he was willing to follow John's instructions.

'I wonder what he did to get Solas to be so willing to cooperate. Is it something else?' Serrada thought Solas was so strange, challenging at times, accepting and cooperative at others with no explanation.

Serrada noticed that once Solas had complied so enthusiastically, she noticed Cassandra quickly followed the example. Serrada could not help a grin reaching her lips as she double-checked her ears; it certainly was a strange sensation, like having water in your ears.

"Good, let me check…" John went from person to person, checking each ear. "Good, I don't think my insurance would work here, so I want to be careful."

She carefully watched Commander Gray examine the strange-looking device; he seemed to check it carefully, looking through holes in the side, moving levers back and forth, then putting it up to his shoulder looking through some strange cylinder on the top? She had watched him pick up one of the long bent boxes from the table, shove it into the bottom, then pulls some lever.

John motioned for them to take cover, "Everyone, please get behind the barrier, this should be safe, but it is possible there might be fragments flying around, and I don't want anyone hurt."

"Cover your ears, this has an integrated suppressor, but it will still be loud in here," John then put the device up to his shoulder. It looked like any crossbow Serrada had ever seen.

Serrada did as he said, and she noticed they all did. Then she saw fire stream out the end of the device like a small dragon; even with her hands on her wax-filled ears, the noise was extraordinary. A constant stream of shiny copper tubes flew through the air away from John, bouncing off the walls.

She pulled her eyes from the device to the breastplate. For the first time, she grasped the import; the damage done was simply devastating. Hole after hole appeared in the entire plate, tearing it to shreds; the clang of a gong accompanied each hole.

Suddenly it was silent.

No one moved for several heartbeats. The silence was so profound after the tremendous roar of the machine. A thick dark fog of acrid smoke filled the cells, burned the nose, and tortured the lungs.

It was then that Serrada glanced at her comrades; Cullen's hand was on his sword hilt, Leliana had her coat open, and daggers were easy to see, but Cassandra's sword was free and in her hand.

Cassandra followed Commander Gray to the table with his equipment, "What was that!" He put down his – device. With his back to Cassandra, he placed his hands palms down onto the table; he suddenly turned on her, the blade close enough to his chest to cut his shirt.

"I tried to tell you, Seeker, these weapons are centuries ahead of any weapon you have seen." There was a haunted look in his eyes, a man who has seen too much. "I have seen these weapons kill - kill hundreds."

Serrada had heard enough. "Cassandra, you must stop, put away your sword. We need to leave here and get some air." She moved up behind Cassandra, whom she could see was shaking. Serrada gently put her hand on the woman's sword arm, pulling it back away from John.

Cassandra sheathed her sword and still turned toward the table. Her look was darker than before, her jaw set in determination.

"I agree; the air is too thick for breath and foul." Solas was also moving toward the table; however, his eyes did not stray to the devices; they were fixed on John Gray.

Serrada saw John's body tense; perhaps he felt that things had changed. Serrada thought that things were quickly getting away from both of them.

"Don't touch anything, please." John was trying to put things back into the crate as quickly as safely possible, removing parts from the device he had just demonstrated. However, he could not focus his attention everywhere at once, and he expected everyone to follow his instructions as she had promised.

"I will not leave, not until each of these devices is explained!" Cassandra snatched up the belt that lay on the table. "What are these!"

Serrada had had enough herself; she grasped the end of the belt, pulling it back down to the table.

At that moment, many things happened seemingly at once; first, one of the small balls remained in Cassandra's hand, there was an odd sound, and pieces of metal came flying off of it. Next, at the sound, Commander Gray snapped his head around with a look of shock; in the same movement, his body swung, his arm shoved Cassandra and herself away from him, he used his other hand to knock the ball from Cassandra's grasp. The ball bounced off the floor and rolled to the wall a few feet away.

"Grenade!" John shouted enough that all could hear it through the wax in their ears. His body following the ball as it rolled, finally coming to a stop on the floor near the cells.

Everything seemed to move slowly; Serrada watched in fascination as he threw himself on the ball, but not entirely on it; he seemed to be floating above it.

Then there was a blinding flash, yet another deafening sound, but this time lower and more profound, like a great drum had sounded. When her vision cleared, the room was filled with a new cloud of acrid smoke yet, Cullen had opened the doors, and the guard and Newcomers came pouring in.

Eric had run to John, "Jesus, Jesus, no, no!" Anguish filled the man's voice. He carefully rolled John onto his back, but his body and anguished voice said he expected to see nothing but death.

The guard checked each of the Inquisition members; Solas slumped on his staff but waved them off and stood motionless watching the man hovering over the injured John Gray.

"Get Mother Giselle and the healers and tell the Newcomers healer – Now!" Serrada was tired of them standing around stunned. "Cullen, get everyone out of here! Eric, we will take care of him as best we can, but please carefully put everything back in the chest. Leliana, do not let Cassandra touch anything."

Serrada wheeled on the Seeker, her both hands in fists, raising the right first finger extended, the rage evident in her eyes. "Do not touch anything!"

She turned back on the remainder of the Quartet, "Cullen, put a guard on these cells, do not let anyone in without permission, and I mean anyone!"

She pulled the Seeker near where John was now fighting to breathe. "I want to speak with you in my cabin. I will take this man to the healers; I will stay with him until …" she looked away from Cassandra to John, who was now coughing blood, "Until we know. Now go, think about this – this man may die because you could not be patient!"

For the second time in only a few days, a seriously injured John Gray was placed on a litter and carried to meet the healers. Serrada was close at hand, this time on her feet rather than on a litter. They moved him as carefully and gently as possible from the cells and out of the Chantry. Even in the waning light, it was clear that he was bleeding; multiple wounds covered his torso, some worse than others, but his shirt was shredded and rapidly changing color to a deep red. Serrada focused on John; she did not notice that Mother Giselle and Adan were rushing toward them with their respective healers in tow.

"What happened now?" Giselle and Adan asked almost at once; they seemed particularly loud now that all their ears were clear of wax.

"There was an accident, and a device … it does not matter, we just need to save him." Serrada was looking at Cassandra, who was walking toward the infirmary a few feet away. Cassandra met her gaze for only a moment, then looked away.

"We must have more information than that; surely you can tell us more." Mother Giselle's voice was soothing – usually, not at the moment.

"I honestly don't know, all I know is that we would all be dead except for him, and I will not lose him." Her voice was challenging, "Do not fail me in this."

She dropped back to speak with Solas, who was walking well behind the group. She noticed that Charter was following last, clutching a bundle of loosely wrapped items; through a small gap, she should see silver metal.

In front of them, far enough ahead that whispers could not be heard, Mother Giselle and Adan led the gaggle of healers, with Cassandra now walking by the litter; Serrada noticed that she furtively reached out to touch the man, more than once.

"What happened, Solas?" Her voice barely above a whisper, loud enough to be heard but only by elven ears and only those close by.

"I regret that I can not enlighten you, Herald. I was still in shock from his demonstration. I was distracted when Cassandra so unwisely touched the items on the table; when his response to the object was so violent, I simply reacted as well. I placed as strong a barrier as I could around it, hoping that it would contain … limit, perhaps suppress whatever it was." Solas looked thoughtfully and exhausted, "I was only somewhat successful. I am extremely fatigued; I have never felt such a force against my barrier before. I will see him to the infirmary then I will return to my cabin to rest. To think that such an object of alchemy could rival …" Solas shook his head and said no more for a time.

They walked in silence; it seemed that most of Haven wished to watch the procession pass by. Serrada assumed that many heard the explosion. Even Varric stood and watched it pass, saying nothing.

At the infirmary door, Solas stopped Serrada, "Without doubt, if he had not done what he did, even with my barrier, that device would have been the end of us all." He turned and began the long journey back to his bed.

Serrada waited, sat, and watched. Even Okanog sat with her. He had his teeth again; a combination of the Newcomer healer José, Adan's potions, and Giselle's healers had repaired all the damage of the duel as well as other minor incidents in the large Qunari's life.

"He bee ogrigt." Okanog spoke through a wired jaw. Serrada was not exactly sure what, but he seemed certain about it.

"I hope so." She was worried and had absolutely no idea why. 'What is wrong with me? I know this Qunari more than I do that man, yet I care more than I thought I could. I have not spoken more than a dozen words to him; why do I react this way?'

"He gouwd man." Okanog's face was full of compassion for her and the man on the table. The same table, he had spent hours on that same day. His cheeks were still filled with tightly rolled cotton bandages, but he felt better than he had in years. He had an abscess in one tooth; getting it knocked out had been a good thing, the abscess drained, and they cleaned and put the tooth back, then with a little magic and alchemy, wham bam, good as new. Magic was wonderful. He owed the guy on the table, and he hated being in debt.

"Tay fiss im uoop good. Yoow see." He crossed his meaty arms over his chest, sure of the truth of it. They better had; he needed to pay back his debt.

"Thank you; I appreciate your confidence." Her head was heavy; she set back just a moment to relax, then all was dark.

"You are here, good. I hoped you would be." Wisdom was sitting next to her.

The room was strangely hazy, and the big Qunari was sitting next to her, but not really. He was across the room talking to another Qunari, a woman, and a little girl who was trying to show him a toy of some kind, but he was focused on the female who was trying to speak with him as well.

John's body was still on the table, but he was not there either; somehow, even as his body lay on the table, the essence of John Gray was crouched across the room, clearly searching for something or someone. He was dressed very strangely with a pot on his head, with his device on his shoulder making that flame and roar, but she could hear nothing. He was kneeling by a dead man, whose stomach and chest were torn open and guts and blood were everywhere, then suddenly it was all gone, and he was back to looking and looking.

"I know it is hard for you, but you must focus, Herald." Wisdom reminded her.

"Why are you here? I thought they were safe here?" Serrada responded, looking around her.

"They are, in the other building, my kind can not enter, but this is a different building." Wisdom was trying to explain it slowly so a dimwitted mortal could understand, 'Why won't Solas let me explain?'

"You must do here what you did there; I have no time to explain. I am so weary, and I must go and rest…" Wisdom seemed thin if a spirit could be thin.

"Thank you Wisdom, I am sorry, I did not realize." Serrada berated herself for not thinking of the other building, but in truth, she had only arrived today and did not know of the building until she returned to Haven; well, she could see a misty form of it, but not clearly. Then so many things happened.

"I had to warn you, there are many here who would do harm, he is deeply asleep, and he is in danger. You have little time. You must know that one of their group has talent but does not know it yet, at least while she is awake. I have spoken with her several times, I have tried to help her, but it was difficult…" Wisdom seemed even thinner, exhausted. "I must go soon or be lost completely, promise me you will look after my friend; she is so afraid. She will become strong, powerful - if she has time. I will return if I can, but that may take a great deal of time – at least for mortals." Wisdom began to fade.

Serrada leapt forward to grasp Wisdoms arm, "Wait, who is it? Give me the name, then go rest with my thanks." Serrada felt energy leave her replaced by fatigue, and Wisdom seemed to regain strength rapidly.

"You must not touch us; it is too dangerous, but thank you, you strengthen me." Looking over her shoulder at the man fighting a battle only he can see, "He knows, he will survive and grow stronger; he knows her name. I must go now." And she was gone.

Serrada stood, walked to the fireplace as she had in the building before; she looked around her to ensure that she was alone; Okanog was seemingly back in his sleeping body, the female Qunari smiled at her, the young girl smiled and waved then disappeared. There was no one else, and she was sure of it.

Placing her left hand on the fireplace chimney and pouring her will into the mark. She focused on her resolve that this building be safe and secure, a refuge for those of the unchanging physical realm protected from spirits who dwelt in the fade. As before, a barrier seemed to start in her hand, travel up through the stone and out across the beams to the walls, windows, and doors. She could see that barrier expand, filling the entirety of the building's shell, and she knew that it would keep out all spirits who might do harm. She envisioned it in her mind, and she knew it was so, just as it had been in the other building, now this one was secure. She felt more drained than she could remember, fatigue that seemed to start at her very core.

"Mistress?" Gliril was gently shaking Serrada's shoulder, "It is ten bells, and you must go to bed. Mistress, they moved him to his room."

"Fine, we will go there. I will not leave him there alone. Regardless." Serrada tried to stand, then collapsed and was caught by Gliril. "You are going to bed – now! I will see to Commander Gray, he will not be alone, and neither will you."

Serrada found she had as much say in the matter as the unconscious John Gray.

John's Show and Tell

'Ok, I can do this. Why do I still feel so strange about going in here?' He took a deep breath and pulled the right door open as Eric pulled open the left. They both took a few steps into the darkness; the rest of the group held open doors, waiting their turn to enter.

"As much as I hate to say this, Eric. I am glad you are here." John was staring into the gloom.

"Hey boss, you are the one guy I would want to be mysteriously transported to a distant planet with." Eric smiled back at John with that same smart ass look that got them into bar fights for years. "I can sure as shit think of a dozen chicks I would prefer but hey…"

John chuckled, 'Just what I would expect, and the truth is I wish I could say the same, for all its shit, I am glad Mariah and Sarah are on Earth.' He glanced at Eric, "Let's do this." They toward the cells.

John and his group walked the centerline of the Chantry nave; even though he had been there just a few hours ago, he could not help but gawk at the iconography around him, 'I wonder if Eric has even been in here before?'.

The Chantry nave was quiet; he saw no one except some figures near the infamous cell's entrance, a place he had no desire to see again but was decided was the best location for the demonstration.

The small group was met at the entrance to the cellar and the cells. John had sent a message to the Inquisition leadership; he thought they would meet first before going downstairs. He had wanted to go back to that place as much as he would have liked to pull all of his teeth himself, with rusty pliers, but John knew it was the best place for the demonstration. The 'best place' did not mean he wanted to go back or that he would not delay that return for as long as possible.

He recognized Charter standing directly in front of the cellar entrance, along with a brace of Inquisition heavy infantry. Charter led them toward the door; John could hear raised voices through the inner door at the bottom of the stairs. John could not hear most of the conversation, but he could understand Lady Trevelyan arguing the Companions cause.

"We understand your point, my Lady, but you must see that we need some act of good faith on their part…" Josephine's voice came through the small window in the door.

'Damn, I wish I knew what they were talking about before we got here!' John watched Charter turn the handle; he wanted to make an entrance, which he did, stepping through the door.

"I know what you want; it is just that I am trying not to be Satan. You don't know who that is, but I am afraid I am going to play his part regardless of what I want." John entered the cells of the Chantry of Haven. The rest of his people and their helpers started to file in the cramped, dank cells. 'This is a fucking miserable place.' John could not help but observe the obvious.

John turned to the workers, "Just stack them up on the far end near the cells, as I told you. Then leave the Chantry." He had practiced with the Inquisition laborers who knew precisely where to put the backstop he needed to be built. The sandbag backstop would be a meter wide, and tall and half a meter thick, enough. This demonstration had to go perfectly, but most importantly, safely.

The laborers carried bag after bag of sand to the far end stacking the sandbags against the cell bars for support. It went remarkably quickly with four men moving sandbags. Once that was done, they had to move to the other end for more sandbag work to protect the observers of the demonstration, from what the laborers had no idea, but they got paid, so it was all good.

John and Eric moved a table over to put the equipment on, which would allow an open shooting lane from one end of the cells to the other. Then place carrier number two on the floor next to the table.

"Good work! Now, build the wall here, please." John drew an imaginary line with the heel of his boot near the door of the cellar. "Make it tall enough to take cover behind, at least up to here." John used his flat hand mid-chest. The laborers knew this as well, practicing already that afternoon. "Thank you for your help." John was used to tipping people for things like this from home; he had 'borrowed' some coppers from Sam; after all, she had won all the money from Eric, she could contribute. Not happily, of course, at least she made a great show of being unhappy – all with a smile.

John turned to Charter and the Inquisition soldiers now. For the final setup, he needed to keep the rumors down to a minimum. This demo needed to be done as quietly and possible with as little notice taken outside the Quartet as possible.

"Please close this door but do not lock it; in a few minutes, my people will follow you then lock it, do the same to the outer door and lock it as well. Clear the rest of the building, leave no one but yourselves in the Chantry. Let no one in until we call for you. Is that clear?" John addressed the soldiers, who looked to Cullen, who nodded.

Once they had gone, John turned to address Quartet and their guests.

"As you might have guessed, I am creating a firing lane. This is a small space, so I can't show anything but a condition we call CQB – close-quarters combat. We do as little of that as we can, but we train for it constantly." John used hand gestures to coordinate with his people, no words were exchanged, and they did what he told them—moving in near silence, this they did not have to practice; they had done this sort of thing before many times, unfortunately.

John signaled Hollywood to carry the shiny new breastplate the Cullen was so proud of to the sandbags. John had gone and asked Harritt for his latest and best. John signaled Hollywood to move it a little here and there until it was in the right spot, then signaled for him to lash it down.

Looking at the beautiful piece of quality hammer work, he thought of what it would look like soon. The conversation with Harritt had pained John. The breastplate was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, but it was a couple of millimeters thick at most, less than a quarter of the thickness of a steel target on his practice range back on the farm. There was no chance for this to stop even a regular pistol bullet let alone a rifle bullet.

John did another walk through to ensure that everything was ready.

There was a clear path from one end of the cells to the cellar door - check.

There was nothing between the sandbag backstop and target and the barrier near the doors - check.

The table was ready and clear, the carrier to its right against the wall - check.

'Alright,' John surveyed the room just once more, 'it is showtime!' He signaled the men to leave; Eric was the last out, stopping only long enough for a nervous smile and a thumbs up. Then he was gone, the door locked. John waited for the outer door locking sound before he approached the cargo carrier, entered the code, and opened it.

'Why does it feel weird to be doing this? It seems almost alien to me.' He could not put it into words; why should it feel so alien? It had been only a score of days since he had helped pack this very cargo carrier, now he felt like he expected an alien to jump out and start humping his face.

He opened the carrier lid, and for the first time, he smelled the familiar smell of gun oil and metal; it was probably there earlier in the day, but he had been too busy to recognize it. It was a strangely tangy smell; what else it was he could not remember right now. It was initially his carrier, but with the shit show of their departure, lots of loose stuff got dumped into it. The plan had been to just get the fuck out and worry about the mess later, well now it was later.

"I plan to provide you with a simple demonstration of what we call our primary weapons. These are true combat weapons, but my countries citizens downrated versions for hunting and self-defense, I have seen a similar thing here." John looked at his audience and realized they understood nothing of what he said, 'Crap, this is going to be harder than I thought.'

He was looking for his custom CQB short barrel rifle; his primary rifle was somewhere in Haven, probably under Leliana's bed if not in it. He had been carrying it when he was captured. Something that would have to be discussed at some point. The rifle he was looking for had one real use - clearing buildings. It had an integrated suppressor, did not make it movie quiet, nothing did, but it kept you from going deaf immediately anyway.

He found his belt. It had his personal Walther, the PPQ 45 Mariah had given him; actually, he had bought it, and she had wrapped it, but they laughed about it. John looked at the pistol for a moment, thinking how beautiful she looked in the maternity dress she was wearing when she gave him the freshly wrapped present. He set the belt complete with knife, mags, pistol, and flashbangs on the table; it made a little more room to search the carrier.

Everything was jumbled up from all the times it was hauled around; they had not had much time to pack, so everything was basically dumped into each carrier and what had once been orderly confusion was now plain chaos. Heavier things like ammo had sunk to the bottom as things had been jostled around, lighter things like belts and clothing had floated to the top.

John was so focused on finding the ammo mags before they started thinking he was doing something he should not, he absentmindedly took out a belt of one of the team members, from the size probably Mamiko's. It had a tourniquet carrier, Glock 19, a couple of full mag pouches, and a grenade string. Nothing unusual for this sort of mission, John set it on the table beside his belt. Still no green-tip magazines!

He found a couple of mags with 55-grain pills that would do but he wanted green tip to be sure; others were fragmentation rounds, not good for his plan. On the table, they went as well, next to the belts.

Finally, after moving what seemed like a mountain of equipment that should not have been in this carrier in the first place, he was able to put his hands on a full mag of green tip 5.56.

The mag was heavy in his hand, 'Won't be heavy for long. How many rounds did we bring? 2-300? It won't last long either. Then its sticks and stones, well maybe sword and shield.' He looked around briefly, 'Wish it was sticks and stones; I know how to throw a rock.'

He had had the M4 custom made for him by the armorer; it was carbine length integrated suppressor, and it had cleared more buildings with John than he could remember, and it had never failed him. He pulled the sock off the rifle, he liked it better than his issued rifle, but it was not useful for reaching out and touching someone. He had done the desert camo paint job himself, and he was proud of it. He put his right arm through the rapidly adjustable strap then over his head, and he felt - dressed. He had forgotten how it felt to be complete.

"Infantry soldiers use these, we take and hold land, then let the pols decide what the hell to do with it, usually after a whole bunch of soldiers and civilians die for it." John finished checking his M4, put in the magazine, and charged it.

John was so focused on the rifle that he did not notice the glances his audience was giving each other.

"This is an M4 rifle; it is a standard weapon. It is based on engineering, metallurgy, and chemistry. I guess you would call it alchemy." John explained without realizing he was not informing. He realized that he was just making it worse and that he was just trying to avoid giving them the apple.

He walked toward all of them, each in turn. "You will need these, put them in your ears, you will need them. This will get loud, and in this stone box, the sound will permanently damage your hearing." He went from person to person, dropping two small round balls of – wax. Gliril had been gracious enough to donate the wax.

"I do not understand? What is this for?" As usual, Cassandra balked at any suggestion from one of the Newcomers. John simply shrugged.

"I sure don't give a shit, lady; it is your hearing. If you want to be deaf as a board in a few minutes, that is your business." It was clear that John did not care whether Cassandra followed his instructions or not; he did, however, put his pair of wax balls in his ears, "Make sure it covers the whole area of your ear, like this." He showed each person how he had done it, and all followed his lead. John noticed even Cassandra had quickly followed his instruction, she might be stubborn, but she was not stupid.

"Good, let me check…" John went from person to person, checking each ear. "Good, I don't think my insurance would work here, so I want to be careful." He was gratified that even the tall brunette had done what he asked; in any other situation, he would have asked her out for a drink, but she seemed like she did not like him all that much. Eric had talked about asking her out; John silently wished him luck.

John checked that function, the chamber was clear, he dry fired it a couple of times, then charged it, checked that the safety was working correctly and that the fun switch went into position properly. Then, he realized he couldn't stall any longer; he grabbed a mag of green tip and stood behind the barrier.

John motioned for them to take cover, "Everyone, please get behind the barrier, this should be safe, but it is possible there might be fragments flying around, and I don't want anyone hurt."

"Cover your ears, this has an integrated suppressor, but it will still be loud in here," John then put the device up to his shoulder. It looked like any crossbow Serrada had ever seen.

He was happy to see that although they must have felt foolish, they did as he asked. John flipped the safety to burst mode; full auto was for movies and machine guns. This one was set up to fire three-round bursts, but he could string the bursts so fast that it was hard to tell from full auto. He had originally thought to do a mag dump but by the third burst he could not clearly see the shiny new piece of Inquisition armor target, so he stopped.

It took only a few moments for the dust and smoke to clear.

The damage to the breastplate had simply been devastating. Hole after hole had been punched through the metal exactly as John had expected, not much different than a car body. The nine rounds tore the plate to shreds; the clang of a gong accompanied each hole.

John noticed that his demonstration was convincing, as everyone remained in place while he cleared the weapon and ensured it was safe. He walked to the equipment table and removed the rifle from his shoulder; suddenly he felt naked again. He still held it for waiting for the impending storm to break.

It was then that Serrada glanced at her comrades; Cullen's hand was on his sword hilt, Leliana had her coat open, and daggers were easy to see, but Cassandra's sword was free and in her hand.

Cassandra followed Commander Gray to the table with his equipment, "What was that!"

'And so it begins.' John double-checked the M4 was clear, then put it across the carrier to cool.

John turned to face Cassandra; her wrath and blade, which was more dangerous, was debatable. She was so close to him the tip cut his shirt, as well as the skin beneath; John tried not to show the discomfort.

"I tried to tell you, Seeker, these weapons are centuries ahead of any weapon you have seen." John had studied wars since his youth; as he stood there, he could recall the paintings and photos then movies that had documented man's seemingly insatiable desire to slaughter each other, but the horror did not come close to his own experience. "I have seen these weapons kill - kill hundreds."

From the corner of his eye, he watched the Herald move toward the two soldiers, her voice cut the silence, "Cassandra, you must stop, put away your sword."

John watched Serrada move up behind Cassandra, a dangerous move given that the woman was shaking. John wondered whether it was from fear or rage.

"We need to leave here and get some air." From behind, Serrada reached out to grasp the woman's sword arm, pulling it back away from him.

John kept his eyes on Cassandra's. Finally, Cassandra looked away, visibly relaxing.

Cassandra sheathed her sword and still facing the table. John noticed she seemed angrier than usual; he supposed he could not blame her; he had just crushed what she thought she knew about her world.

"I agree; the air is too thick for breath and foul." Solas was walking toward the three; John thought the elf mage's eyes were boring through him.

At that moment, John realized his vulnerability and danger. "Don't touch anything!" He tried to make his voice as commanding as possible.

'I need to get this fucking carrier closed before the temptation is too great.' He started grabbing stuff and putting it back, not trying to do so in any order way; it was a mess before, which he could not make much worse.

Unfortunately, Cassandra could not restrain herself, and everything went to shit.

"I will not leave, not until each of these devices is explained!" Cassandra snatched up Memiko's belt, the closest object to her, on the table. "You say these devices are not based on magic! I want to know how they work!"

Later John could only vaguely remember seeing Serrada grab the belt, as she tried to pull it away from Cassandra to return it to the table.

John had been trying to put equipment back as fast as possible; the belts were the last items on the table when he realized Cassandra had grabbed Memiko's by one of the grenades!

In an instant, as Serrada pulled the belt down, the grenade must have come off the belt in Cassandra's hand; maybe the pin caught, who knows, all he knew was he heard the click and saw the spoon fly, leaving Cassandra holding a live grenade whose fuse was burning, and in this enclosed stone grave it would kill them all.

After that, it was all reflex; he pushed Cassandra toward Serrada as hard as possible with his left hand and hit the grenade out of her hand with the right. His eyes were locked on the dark gray-green grenade like it was a flaming giant cobra. It moved as if the air were made of honey. He did not see what happened behind him as he shouted and followed the bouncing ball of death.

"Grenade!" John shouted enough so that all could hear it; he hoped Eric did too.

It was not like he decided; not really, it was reflex, worse; all he knew was he had failed to keep control; it was his responsibility. He remembered Mother Superior preaching that 'a death was owed for sin' he supposed it was his time to pay the bill.

It was all hazy, José said it was likely shock; Mother Giselle thought it a gift from the Maker sparing him the painful memory. Who was to know which was the correct answer?

He followed the ball as it rolled, finally coming to a stop on the floor near the cells.

Seeing the grenade stop, he just leapt on it, or he tried to, but something was in the way; all he could do was wrap himself around it as best he could.

Then there was a blinding flash; John thought for a moment how weird it was that he could not hear anyone, and for such a bright flash, it was suddenly very, very dark.

Leaving for Val Royeaux

"Herald, I know you wish to wait, but there is no more time." Cassandra was pleading now, not ordering.

"I understand that, and I want you to know I am willing to go soon …" Serrada started but was interrupted.

"Mother Giselle has told me that Commander Gray will recover, that he will be a bed for several more days, but he has a remarkable ability to heal." Cassandra's tone toward Commander Gray had changed somewhat but still carried an edge of uncertainty regarding the Herald and Commander Gray relationship.

Leliana and Josephine exchanged looks, not a conspiratorial exchange but one that made Serrada uncomfortable. Cullen simply looked like he would prefer to be in a dragon's belly.

"Alright, out with it. What is going on?" Serrada stood with her arms crossed over her newly remade armor, she loved it as much as she had before, but now after the demonstration, it didn't feel secure. She did appreciate the addition of the double-layer silk lining Gliril insisted on; her slowly healing burns were thankful as well. She had heard of the conversation that took place between Master Harritt and her young friend. Gliril had made it clear that although she appreciated the protection that the armor had provided Serrada, she has some suggestions which she hoped he would consider. Serrada smiled, something she had found difficult over the last few days.

Josephine started the conversation, "Herald. No, Serrada. We are concerned for you …," It was clear to all who was the point of the dagger, while the edges watched, "we are concerned about the relationship between you and the good Commander."

Serrada smiled, a smile that was not reflected in her eyes. "I cannot help but wonder what business that is of yours?"

Her raised hands of surrender halted their protests, "However, I will try and allay your fears. The answer is quite simple - I do not know."

Of all the possible answers, this was the one that the Quartet had not expected. So much so that they were silent.

Serrada took a deep breath and tried to clarify, "I want you to know that I am aware of how this appears, or at least could be made to appear. Even though I may be 'the spoiled daughter of a minor noble from the filthy backwoods of the ass end of Thedas'." Serrada glanced at Cassandra, who was now blushing deeply and flexing her fingers on her sword hilt.

Lady Pendaghast had been enraged with Serrada for several reasons and the cells' events being the capstone. The Seeker had unburdened herself with Leliana and Josephine in the abandoned cabin outside of Haven. Elf woodcutters working the logging site had gone unnoticed; they remembered what they heard and whispered it among themselves till it found it's way into Gliril's ears. Serrada knew she was taking a severe chance by outing her little network but noticed that Leliana smiled a little at the Right Hands discomfort.

"I know a little of The Great Game, I despise it, but I know something of it. I will answer your questions because I know that you are trying to protect the Inquisition, the Herald of Andraste, and I truly do believe that you are trying to protect - me." The end of her declaration was soft. "I choose to believe that you have my best interests at heart, not just the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition."

"Serrada – sister - why do you care so much about this man?" Leliana was now taking the lead, her voice was melodic and compelling, but in this case, Serrada was sure she meant well with genuine concern – at least she choose to believe that.

"Leliana, I honestly do not know. I wish I did, but I just know," she tried to make all of them see but Leliana the most, the relationship was distant, but still, they were sisters, "I know that I must do all I can for them. But you have my promise that I will not compromise the Inquisition, and I will do all I can to close the Breach. That is all I can tell you, but also know that somehow, somewhere you will understand, but I don't know how or when."

She turned back to all of them, "In the end, you just have to trust me." Serrada looked each person in the eye, "I will leave you to talk; I have to pack to go to Val Royeaux. Tell me what you decide."

She could hear the voices beyond the door, but Serrada turned toward the distant exit, head up and shoulders back.

"I know that must have been difficult for you, my Lady Herald." Mother Giselle seemed just to appear; Serrada was so preoccupied she might have overlooked Andraste's return. "It is difficult for some to hear uncertainty from the one they look to lead them. Your honesty with them, but mostly with yourself, will serve you both well. Good fortune on your travels, and I will see to Commander Gray, assuming your Gliril will allow anyone near him." The delight was evident on the woman's face.

"I am not a leader. That is their job, I am just a title, but thank you." Serrada nodded to Mother Giselle before she could respond, then continued toward the door.

She found her cabin cleaned and orderly after her night's sleep. It had been three nights since the demonstration, and she finally could sleep. Her traveling cloak was cleaned and ready, along with her riding boots and spurs, both polished to high sheens, her saddlebags carefully packed waited alongside her freshly cleaned bedroll.

Serrada inspected the packing, not because she distrusted Gliril, but simply to kill time until the Quartet had reached their decision. As usual, Gliril anticipated her mistress impeccably, including everything Serrada had thought of as well as things she had forgotten.

She had gone through everything a third time when the soft knock came at the door.

"Enter!" Serrada welcomed the interruption; she was somehow sure if she went through it all again; she would undoubtedly forget something.

Cassandra entered wearing her riding gear, her armor peeking through the cloak, her often worried sword pummel visible; the woman took a knee with her head down, looking at the floor.

"I wish to beg your pardon Lady Serrada Trevelyan, most Holy Herald of Andraste." Her voice was level and sincere.

"Cassandra, please, please get up." Serrada had to repress her desire to either giggle or run to the woman to pull her back to her feet. "We are friends for, my part, no matter what happens, I count you as one of my dearest friends, and certainly my closest woman friend. Please don't indulge my ego by calling me 'most Holy' anything; you have no idea how being the Herald of Andraste scares the shit out of me."

"None the less, I beg the pardon of Lady Serrada Trevelyan, most Holy Herald of Andraste." Cassandra did not lift her eyes to meet Serrada's or to Cassandra's heart the Most Holy Herald of Andraste.

'Is this the way it is going to be?' Serrada could feel a single tear slowly fall down her right cheek. The loneliness of it all came crashing down on her. Somewhere in her memory, she recalled a similar conversation with someone else, but who remained just beyond her reach.

'I will be alone with this. Was this what it was like for you, Andraste?' She felt as if her heart was crushed, and she would never be able to be a true friend with anyone again, for she would always be a title, not a woman.

"If that is what you wish, Lady Cassandra Pendaghast, the Herald of Andraste, grants forgiveness for her part, now tell me what sins burden you." She managed to say these words; where they came from or what they meant, she could not say, but she did find Cassandra was looking up at her with wonder.

"Where did you … I … by my actions and stubborn nature endangered your life and the lives of all who were with us." Cassandra's voice was full of emotion, from disappointment with herself to rage at her callousness and stupidity. "I offer you my resignation as … as whatever I am now. I have told the others of my decision; they await only your response."

"Go get your switch, return here." Serrada returned to her, packing, "Go on." The door closed, and she sat down on the bed. 'Maker, what am I going to do?' In the heat of the moment, she had planned to break the switch, mostly as a childish act of defiance, then she realized she needed something better.

It might have been only moments before Cassandra returned.

Serrada knew what she intended to do. "You came to me for forgiveness. I grant it to you on one condition. You must reciprocate and give me yours."

An hour later, both women sat gingerly in their respective saddles. A feat that would have been difficult to achieve if not for the happy return of Gliril, Serrada's pride was not as injured as her posterior at Cassandra's administrations. Humiliation or no, Serrada was very willing to allow Gliril to apply a healing balm to the consequences of her apology. Cassandra was initially resistant until she tried to fasten her belt buckle. She immediately relented and allowed the gentle touch of the young elf girls' balm to at least reduce the discomfort of Serrada's admonitions about her stubbornness. It was all for the good since Serrada was seriously considering giving another lesson when Cassandra realized her error and swallowed a healthy quantity of pride, allowing Gliril to do her form of sorcery.

It must have indeed been magical given that they now sat. Although not wholly curative, it would make the afternoon ride out of Haven somewhat less painful.

The whole of Haven had been surprised, if not amazed, to see the two women walk out of the Heralds cabin arm in arm. They laughed and whispered together about their foibles and shared stories of how their respective tempers and stubborn streaks had gotten not only themselves but their siblings into trouble as serious as their own and sometimes even worse.

Strangers to the small group of Inquisition leadership might have been astounded to see these two women who, by all accounts, were adversaries if not outright enemies. That they had somehow bridged the gap between them to become closer, if not cordial to each other, was indeed a miracle. Those who were in the know knew better about the relationship, but they were still stunned at the change and were joyful for it.

"Gliril, take care of your charge. I want him on his feet when I return; it will be several days." Serrada spoke to the girl who was adjusting her stirrup lengths.

From this vantage point, she could see several of the Newcomers were receiving instruction on the basics of swordsmanship from Cullen. Others were trying their hands with the bow or learning how to use a shield. 'This is good; they need to make some friends here.' She felt genuinely good for them, the realization of her loneliness was easing some, and she felt better when others were finding a place.

"I notice the others are already out practicing. Keep an eye on everyone, but most of all, take care of yourself." Serrada leaned down and placed her hand on the girl's shoulder; Gliril was rapidly becoming her anchor, someone who saw her as something beyond 'the Herald of Andraste' certainly that was still there, Serrada knew she could not escape that, but at least she saw her as something more.

"I will, mistress, I promise." She smiled up at Serrada as if she were in the aura of some heavenly figure. "I will also speak to Master Adan to ensure that I have a good supply of both burn medicine and the other soothing rub for you and … others."

Cassandra's in other situations might have blushed, but she snorted a laugh.

"That will not be necessary, child." Cassandra's voice was level and firm, but without even a sense of malice or anger, "I have learned my lesson; I suggest you do lay in a good supply for our Herald; I do not think my lessons have taken yet." With that, she smiled and turned her horse to take point and started toward their destination.

Serrada leaned down still further so she could whisper into Gliril's ear. "I am serious. Be careful, Gliril; take care of him and yourself. I want you both here and alive when I get back."

With that, Cassandra, the Herald, Solas, and Varric turned their horses and a contingent of scouts and escorts to set up or reinforce the Hinterlands camps and begin communications between Val Royeaux and Haven.

As the Herald rode away, Gliril was not the only set of eyes watching her leave. Not far away, man wrapped in bandages from shoulders to waist leaned heavily on a crutch and supported by the window frame of his second story rooms, his eyes never leaving the young woman as her horse galloped out of sight.