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.

14. Demons of Our Own

Dear reader, I hope you are enjoying my story. If you have gotten this far, please leave a comment or a like/following. Although there are only two comments now, stats say over seventy of you are reading.

One more point, I have been having trouble with consistent formatting of punctuation marks in Word – go figure, right? Let's face it, has there has never been a weird behavior in Word, right?

I have had a request to use italics in the inner dialogue to make it clearer. Please let me know what you think.

As always, thanks to Shadeslayer113 and CherryJamOnToast for help and support.

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 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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Demons of Our Own

What Loss Wrought

John was able to hobble around a little, not much. 'I would still be in a bed if the same accident had happened back in the States and I woke up in Walter Reed.'

With that thought, John suddenly stopped, his face betraying the shift to his new dark and dour mood. Realizing the change, John shook his head and resolved to continue to circuit the infirmary's main floor.

"He is thinking of her again." Eric turned and slid down the wall to sit beside Charter in her hiding spot, he passed her the binocs, and she moved up to watch John through the windows as he circuited the room.

"How can you tell?" Charter's voice was even; Eric often thought she might be a robot, nothing seemed to excite her, at least that he had seen. Eric had bested her twice in arm wrestling. This was after he had beaten all the blacksmith's helpers. On the third attempt, he had expected her to try something; what she did, he didn't expect; she licked her lips then winked, and lightning-fast kicked him – hard! He found himself staring at the ceiling of the Maiden arm pinned to the table. He then asked her out for a date; she said she was seeing someone, and that was that. Since he had returned from the Hinterlands, she had been glued closer than his skin. Red's doing, no doubt, but it gave him someone to talk to that did not obviously want something. Suddenly being something of a legend had worn thin as highly inflated stories of the goings-on in the Hinterland had gotten around Haven.

"How do you know?" Charter asked, never taking her eyes away from her subject. The man was now bent over something, his back to her.

"I just know the guy; ever since his wife Mariah left him, he has been dying a little every day." Eric could always read John, and John hated it. Eric had saved his friend's life many times by being able to read him. He had read John's determination in Africa and had delayed his self-destructive heroics just long enough. Unfortunately, Mathew had impulsively thrown himself on the grenade instead of John. The boy's actions had saved some young girls but at the cost of his own life. Eric had been willing to let the girls die to save John and the other men. As much as Eric admired John's deep moral compass, Eric had no romantic ideals, not anymore. It was about doing his job and staying alive, plus he loved John and the others too much to watch them throw themselves away on people who would just end up in the same hut in a month or year. The problem was not within their stars but within themselves.

This time Charter did look down at him while holding the binocs steady on her target. "Will that be a problem? Should you assume command of the detachment? Do I need to inform the Quartet of the situation?" Charter tried not to feel too much; people lived and died, innocents died more than others, and these were not innocents - they were soldiers, not sentimental old women.

Eric realized that he had said far too much, "No, he is a pro; he just needs to see that dying here will not get him back to Mariah or Sarah." He glanced up at Charter and realized he had done it again, 'Stop talking, Eric, just stop talking.'

Charter turned back to her subject; John had turned to the window. "Shite!" She put the seeing glasses down. "Just shite."

"What?" Eric asked, getting back up to look out the small slat through which they were spying from across the practice ground. Charter handed him the binocs, and it took his eyes a minute to find the window again.

John was holding up a handwritten sign – Leave me the FUCK alone.

"You think he knows we are watching?" Eric could not help but let a snicker escape him.

Weight of Loss

'We have stopped - again!' To say that Lady Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, Imperial Enchanter to Emprise Celine, was disgusted would be to point out the blatantly obvious. Although she did not do so publicly, that would be both gauche and deleterious to her position in the affections of the Herald of Andraste; it was a poorly kept secret. 'It is as if she does not wish to get to Haven!'

Vivienne watched as the Inquisition soldiers continued to assemble her tent.

"Is that what you consider proper? The roof is drooping; straighten it." She would have stamped her foot, but that would be undignified. However, her very shapely thigh and calf did … twitch ever so slightly.

Since taking what she considered her rightful place with the Inquisition, she had been subject to a series of surprising and disappointing discoveries. The first surprise, and not a little disappointing, was at how young and naive Lady Serrada Trevelyan was. The second surprise was the quality and type of companion Lady Trevelyan had taken to her company. 'And now here we are at yet another camp. We sit in the wilderness for yet another night, only hours from Haven!'

The only other affront to her peaceful mood was the piece of elven refuse who had somehow befriended the Herald, even over her own protestations.

"Sera, what did you do with my small clothes?" Lady Trevelyan shouted in sheer frustration as she shifted through several sets of dirty men's breaches which had somehow found their way into her own freshly laundered clothing. The shouting did not carry the rage it should have but sounded almost mirthful!

'Such language and discussion in front of the troops with that little imp!' Lady Vivienne could not help but glance at the soldiers who seemed to be deaf, showing no response at all.

Madam de Fer watched with growing frustration as the woman she had sworn herself to stomped through the camp, obviously looking for the bane of all their existence. This little shit had become a burr under her and everyone's saddle since attaching herself to the Inquisition.

"I wonder how long it will take her to find Sera?" Varric simply appeared beside Vivienne. Although only slightly less unnerving than a bard or assassin's sudden appearance, Varric was at the very least a name that would garner some interest at court. The little dwarf was watching the unseemly spectacle with some sense of amusement, or at least that is what he would have had one believe.

"Too long," Vivienne found herself replying. Her frustration was at its limit. She snapped her fingers, and there was an instantaneous whimper.

"Nicely done," Came the voice from the shadows. It was the apostate. Vivienne shivered at his voice. He was an example of all she loathed: a mage without allegiance, a threat to order and the safety of Thedas, its people, both mage and mundane, but worst of all, an elf.

"Thank you." Vivienne's reply was almost as icy as Sera was at that moment. It was clear to Vivienne that his appreciation of her talent was as genuine as her appreciation of his – that is not at all. "Why do you suppose that the Herald of Andraste would burden herself with such a person as this waif?" The unspoken "given that she has me" was as clear as if she had said it.

Moments later, from the darkness, came the Most Holy Herald of Andraste herself. She stomped through the camp, across and through all of their respective tents and possessions as if none of them existed, finally stamping directly to standing in front of Vivienne, looking irritated. It took a moment until Vivienne realized she was irritated at her!

"Vivienne, did you freeze Sera? If you did, please let her go. I need my stuff, and besides, she was just fooling around." Serrada asked with as even a voice as she could manage at the moment. "I realize that you are trying to help, but it was just harmless fun."

Vivienne simply sniffed and released her hold on the little thief.

"Ouch, who bloody well did that!" an outraged and somewhat drunk Sera called out from the shadows. "I was just having a little fun!"

"I am sorry, Sera, I guess I sounded upset. Can you please take your booty back and give me my things? I need …" the woman's voice cracked. "I need to bathe and do something, please I want to be clean when …" Her voice failed her, and from nowhere, Sera was there with an arm around the woman who was visibly struggling.

"It's okay; I was just fooling…." Sera's voice was gentle like she was trying to comfort a child. "Let's go get cleaned up. I will dump this shite; then we can go do what you want to." Sera led the woman to the Heralds tent.

Vivienne suddenly found Varric on her right and Solas on her left.

"What was that about?" Vivienne sounded both exasperated and concerned.

"I don't know how that girl does it, but she sure can read the Herald." Varric's voice sounded tired.

"Yes, she seems particularly adept at discerning the Herald's mood," Solas added, watching the duo enter the tent.

Vivienne glanced at the elf beside her and tried to stifle a shudder. "I do not understand. Is the Herald in distress? She seems much herself." Vivienne realized that she had missed something, and she loathed that oversight as much as she did the elf mage.

"This is the last camp where all of her friends had been before the Conclave. We always stop here…" Varric answered the question, "even when we could make it to Haven."

"It is a ritual." Solas answered, "I believe it aids her in coping with the loss of so many."

"You can not be serious!" Vivienne, her voice more a sharp whisper than its normal melodious tone.

"She, like Andraste herself, feels deeply for those who follow her," Lysette added without leave. As the most senior Templar present, and thus the most senior representative of the Chantry, she felt she could express her opinion.

"Perhaps you are correct, Lieutenant, however, her reasons are her own, and her privacy should be respected," Cassandra added, having walked upon the small gathering. She had been away on an errand to gather some small token on the Herald's behalf.

"Forgive me, Seeker; I did not know you were here." Lysette seemed to melt away from the confident young Templar she had been a moment before.

"Quite right, you should learn your place," Vivienne added, attempting to reclaim her superiority, feeling that the young woman had unjustly chastened her.

"As should we all, Madame de Fer," Cassandra added, as she stepped forward past Lysette, between Vivienne and Varric, continuing to the Heralds tent.

The group watched her pass. Solas and Varric noted the change in Cassandra's relationship with the Herald. Vivienne wondered yet again whether she had erred in her expectations of the Inquisition. However, only Lysette noticed the bundle of flowers – Andraste's Grace. Lysette knew their purpose; she had found the long-extinguished campfire a few paces off, one adorned with small trinkets and bundles of wilting flowers lying in and about it.

Guilt in the Night

"Maker not here again!" Serrada stood facing the throne of judgement. She did not turn but could hear the milling of people behind her; hushed whispers of confusion and concern, seeking understanding, one bewildered and frightened person to another. 'I can't do this now, I can't!' She closed her eyes, 'I will wake up, I refuse to do this now! Anywhere but here!'

Serrada had not opened her eyes, but she knew things had changed drastically. She could not guess where she was, she was sure her eyes were open, but the blackness was thicker than she had ever seen. Worse, she was hot, hotter than she could ever remember being. The air was thick, and for want of a better word, wet. The night was filled with unfamiliar sounds, clicking and cracking, popping and snapping, and sounds of things rubbing together. Not the soft sounds she was used to, nor even the noise of the high mating nights of frogs, but a constant background racket of an unknown number of creatures living their lives completely unaware of the human being in their midst.

She looked carefully around, trying to use sheer will to pierce the gloom. It was hopeless. She tried to take a step forward and suddenly bumped into something, something soft and wet and yielding yet hard. A tree, she realized she had bumped into a tree covered with moss or growth. Serrada tried to move around it; once beyond the tree, she found her view a little better there, some twenty or thirty paces ahead; she thought she caught a glimpse of a fire twinkling between the trees and shrubs.

The question was what to do. Fires could mean many things; if a campfire it meant some creature, but what kind? Even darkspawn light fires, but most likely, it was humans, perhaps elves, and maybe even dwarves or qunari. Regardless of who it was, she could not just stand there in the woods and speculate; she took a tentative step forward, trying to make her way toward the light while remaining hidden.

Serrada was quite proud of how much her woodcraft had improved; between Solas, Varric, and Harding, she had learned to remain silent and reasonably concealed compared to the young woman who blundered through the forest near Haven a seeming age ago. She had almost made it to the edge of what appeared to be a clearing when she realized that she was not alone. It was more of a feeling than something that she could consciously identify, a sense of the presence of others rather than the actual recognition of their being here or there. She did not know their number, but there were several. They moved more quietly than she, seeming to pass through the forest around them rather than disturb it.

She realized that they all were at the edge of the forest now. She chose to ignore those near her and looked out across the treeless space toward the camp on the other side of the clearing. In the firelight, she could see several individuals who appeared to be eating and drinking, celebrating something of their own. She glanced around and noticed the sky could be seen now; she could see the stars far above. What struck her was that there was the slowest shooting star she had ever seen. It moved lazily across the sky. At first, she thought it might be a planet, for it did not twinkle like the stars but was constant and intense. It seemed to blink red and green.

The sounds of shouting drew her attention back to the camp. Men had gone into the forest, and there was screaming and shouting of - a woman! She could see that the men had returned to the fire, and they were dragging at least one young human woman with them. She was fighting back with all her might. Finally, they reached the fire, one of the men backhanded her, and she fell to the ground sobbing.

Serrada bristled with rage and reached for her daggers, but they were not there. She realized that she wore only a simple dress; she could feel the cloth touch her, all over her. She wore nothing under the fabric, material so thin she was essentially nude. That revelation was shocking enough, but that was nothing compared to the sudden feeling that someone was near her again, and she glanced to her left to see … a man.

Well, he looked like a man, but not a man.

'Maker, could he be darkspawn?' She shrank back, for the very idea of being so close to one of those foul creatures brought her terror.

She shook her head to recover herself; the creature had not attacked her; in fact, it seemed utterly unaware of her presence. Her proximity gave her time to study it.

It was roughly man-sized, though she suspected it was very tall. It possessed two arms, two legs, all the same as a man. At first, she thought it had a large bulbous head, but she could see it wore some sort of helmet, with a strap under the chin, but that is where the similarity ended. There was some object in front of the helmet, like a great faceguard, but with glass and cylindrical protrusions. Its body crisscrossed with stiff ropes and straps of various sorts running this way and that, over and behind the creature, in no pattern, Serrada could understand. The skin was dappled with different hues and colors, so well-crafted and designed that the beast was nearly invisible, and if it had not been for proximity, she would have missed its presence in the gloom completely. So well hidden was it that Serrada was sure that this creature was one of the things she had sensed but been unable to see even though they were all around her. All wholly hidden in the thick foliage of the forest.

The screaming had changed to howling, which drew Serrada's attention back to the drama taking place across the clearing, the brute who had struck the terrified girl was now standing over her. He attempted to remove his impediments as his men who held the girl were grasping and tearing at her sparse clothing. The girl now redoubled her struggles. The man's intent was now clear to Serrada, and she was preparing to launch herself into the clearing when the creature beside her whispered something to her, or at least she thought it was to her. It was such a quiet whisper that she could not clearly hear it, so soft she could not understand a word of it.

There was a whoop of approval from the celebrating men near the fire as the girl's body was laid bare, and she resumed her pleading. The monster had exposed himself and prepared to force himself upon his captive; then, so many things happened that Serrada was left to wonder what they all meant. The great beast of a man lurched first forward then rearward as a shower of blood erupted from his chest and head simultaneously, first from the front then the back. Then his body fell backward as his knees bent and body crumbled.

The screaming girl fought loose of her stunned captors, and she scrambled up to run, but one of those holding her tried to stab the fleeing naked girl. It was his turn to discover the feel of whatever snuffed out the life of his leader. His chest burst open in a shower of blood and bone. The girl ran past the fire; her dark naked skin glistened in the illumination of the flame; she ran and disappeared into the darkness of the forest beyond.

It was then that Serrada realized that the creature that had been so close to her was now gone! Indeed, it was sprinting across the meadow toward the fire, heedless of its exposure in the open. She followed, running as fast as she could, now hopelessly behind the being she pursued. Halfway to the fire, the creature let loose a roar, and Serrada could see the ground revealed in flashes of crimson flame. Ahead many more of the previously celebrating men were now reaching for limbless crossbows, the shape tickling her memory. Still, she had no time to consider the weapons as she closed on those who were trying to meet the onslaught of the creature she shadowed.

All around her, she could see others running, exact copies of the creature she pursued, including the bulbous head, flames spouting from them as well, at least an arm's length out in some, others only a hand. The roar was beyond description but yet they moved so swiftly.

Death itself reigned now. Men seemed to spring from the ground, and every shadow, again Serrada thought of darkspawn, but these did not have the horrid stench and twisted form of the cursed creatures, so what were they then? As she leaped over one whose corpse lay facing the stars, its face twisted clearly in death; she was sure now, they were men, just men.

Abruptly there was just such a man, directly in front of her, but between her and the creature, she was following into battle. Forgetting she had no dagger, she struck at his back, aiming for the heart, but her hand passed through it as did her whole body; momentum carried her to the other side! She had no time to consider the implications when the creature she was chasing must have sensed the danger or had been alerted because he dropped and rolled to avoid the man's attack, now intent on killing the creature. The creature's movement was so fluid, so practiced, that it reminded her of Smiles when he played with a mouse, a simple movement, a duck of the arm, a roll to standing, and the limbless crossbow spoke in fire and rage — the attacker's chest exploded, its back erupted outward, and the man fell at the creature's feet.

There was no time for celebration or consideration; too many men were there to take his place, and the creature along with its fellows fought onward. Man after man seemed to just appear from the forest, from the grass, from shadows, from thin air about them, but the creatures simply dominated them. Either through their peculiar weapons or finally with hand and dagger, the men died, screaming what must be insults and profanity. One does not need to know the words to discern the intent.

As quickly as it began, it was over, as the last man fell with a creature's dagger stuck from below the jaw, its passage up through the mouth and protruding from the top of the man's skull. The creature glaring into the sightless eyes; jerked forward and down on the hilt, and the last of the men crumpled with a river of blood erupting in the blade's wake.

All around the creature, she had followed, clearly the Alpha, the rest of the creatures seemed to be checking the bodies of the men around, as two went into the forest to seek out where the girl had run. Some small part of her told her to fear for the girls, but the greater part knew that they were now safe.

Moments later, Serrada was shocked to see a train of bound and weeping girls, most barely of marriage age, following the girl who had escaped. She was still naked but at least covered with a blanket as they led the group out. There must have been two score girls, all weeping and thanking the creatures, regardless of the language that was clear. The Alpha was speaking, but Serrada could not understand. He was giving orders, seeing that things were done to his liking.

Out of the corner of her eye, Serrada caught the movement of a man who Serrada thought was dead. It abruptly lifted himself enough to throw a ball the size of Serrada's fist toward the girls. The Alpha, and one of its kind, started toward the object when the leader tripped. Two of the others used their weapons to turn the attacker into an unrecognizable pile of meat, just as another of the creatures threw itself onto the ball near the huddle of now screaming girls.

There was a resounding thump; Serrada could feel the sound more than hear it, a shower of blood and gore came from the creature who had leapt on the ball. This was all too familiar. She had watched this play before; somehow, she knew its ending would be different.

Serrada could see the crimson mist clear, and the Alpha creature rushed toward the stricken creature on the ground. Even as it did so, the other creatures began to use their weapons on the bodies of the defeated, ensuring that they were all indeed dead.

She found herself rushing to the side of the Alpha; she was seeing without clear understanding but knew it was important.

She had fallen to her knees opposite the body. The Alpha knelt over the clearly dead creature. Blood was seeping from holes in its back; the head was twisted in an unnatural direction, its arms were drawn up to its side. Still, the Alpha carefully and gently turned the creature over; the contrast struck Serrada's heart, such care after such violence.

'It is so tender. I wonder if we are as careful with Inquisition soldiers?' She made a note to see how the fallen were treated, knowing Cassandra there is probably a whole litany of things that are done; she almost smiled at the thought when she noticed the Alpha was fiddling with something, and the growth on its head was lifted, then the helmet came loose and off. It was then that she could see what was under the helmet…

Cassandra had started to doze; it was her turn to watch Serrada sleep. They had begun taking turns in the event she woke up screaming again. Serrada would not speak of her dreams, at least not to her. Still, they must be particularly disturbing, as she often woke screaming, usually in some incoherent sentences, about mercy or judgement. But not this night; no, this night was different.

This night Serrada Trevelyan rose bolt upright in bed and shouted "John!" Her eyes wild but not seeing.

"It is going to be a long night," with a sigh, Cassandra did something that was not at all natural for her. She got up and held and comforted the woman; she followed until she finally relaxed and returned to sleep. Then Cassandra again renewed her watch.

The Burdens We Carry

"Mathew!" John sat bolt upright in bed, which was painful. His injuries were primarily healed due to Adan, Gisselle, and Gliril; healed yes, but all thought he would feel twinges for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, he had been so sedentary that he was just not used to moving. There was a steady stream of people trying to get him out of bed, day in and day out, since moving back to his quarters. Eric had finally gotten mad at him for goldbricking. Giselle had given him a disappointed look, and Gliril had gotten so angry she had threatened to stick him with a pin. To have Gliril threaten anything had motivated him to at least start walking up and down the stairs, going to the head, and getting his own food ‒ if nothing else, so that the girl did not have to empty his bedpan and haul a tray up to his room.

The truth was he was goldbricking, and he knew it. He could move around better than he let on. He was just feeling sorry for himself.

John did not feel like doing anything, and since he still hurt and Eric was doing an incredible job leading. In the dark of night … he wondered if he was needed at all.

"Master, are you alright? Can I do anything for you?" Gliril asked, the light of the fireplace's dying embers giving enough light for John to see the silhouette of the elf girl lying on the floor.

"Gliril, I said you don't have to sleep here." John had told her and told her and told her. It had worked out as well as the whole master thing.

She stood up and walked toward him, trying to make as little noise as possible, for others were sleeping nearby. And for almost as many times as he had told her to stop calling him master, and she did not need to sleep on the floor, he cursed Leliana for the gift of the incredibly sheer silk sleeping dress she had given Gliril. The light of the fireplace and the moon through the window passed through the material as if it were not there.

'Leliana, I hate you!' A mantra he often repeated these days.

"Gliril, please, I just had a nightmare; please go back to sleep. I will be fine." John tried to hunker down in his bed before she could get close and start to rub his back or, worse, get into the bed with him. "I am fine, just a nightmare."

"I know, master, I hear all of them. Who is Mathew?" Gliril sat down lightly on the edge of the bed and reached over to the small table he used as a nightstand. It contained several of Adan and Gisselle's concoctions as well as a couple of Gliril's own creations. She took one and poured a small amount of liquid into her hands, and rubbed them together.

She was so close now; he could feel the heat of her body. That distraction caused him to forget his original objections and simply answered her question as she started to rub his temples; the oil smelled heavenly.

"He was one of my men; we were in Africa trying to rescue some girls from … it doesn't matter." John realized that had been likely a galaxy away and was definitely a lifetime ago. "They took the girls to force them into marriage; we were asked to help return them. We found the camp where the girls were kept, we killed the terrorists, and in the process, one of my men … Mathew, threw himself on a grenade to save the girls. He died; the girls didn't." His voice dropped off.

"He was a great hero blessed with a hero's death, a great man." Gliril's hands had stopped massaging John's temples; her voice held genuine admiration.

John chose not to challenge her perception of a hero's death. To John, death was just death, and all the romantic shit aside, Mat was just as dead.

"He was. You two would have gotten along well; he was as stubborn as you and just as intense." John could not help but wonder if that was part of why he liked the girl, but he did not feel like thinking too deeply about it. He was sure that Mat would have absolutely fallen for Gliril, and just as likely the converse was true, yet another thing Mathew would miss. The massage and oil were doing their jobs.

"If you allow me, I can hold you and comfort you while you sleep?" Gliril reached down to gather the hem of her nightdress in her hands, to get into bed with her master.

"No, Gliril, I will be fine. Please, just go back to bed; I can sleep now." He smiled at the girl, knowing she would do anything for him, especially if it got him moving. "I promise, I will be fine. You have so much to do already; you need your rest."

Her disappointment showed on her face. John prayed she would find someone worthy of her. 'Yes, Mat would have loved her.'

"I will be fine, thank you." He added, patting her hands.

She did go back to bed, smiling at him in the moonlight, and then slipped into sleep. John envied her for that. For him, it was a battle to get to sleep and nearly impossible to stay asleep. The oil, the massage, and sheer exhaustion helped as he tried to relax.

The jungle was always awful when you were in full body armor. Everyone talks about the deserts but at least sweat works in the desert. It never does in 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity.

"NO! I am not doing this!" John screamed to the void around him. He was not doing this nightmare again.

He was in a different place, a strange place, devastated and broken. Burned and tortured skeletons, some fused into the stone itself…

'Where in the fuck is this?' He turned and turned like a ballerina on a music box, but there was nothing familiar about this place. Broken stone, tortured bodies most hardly recognizable as human, some even glowing red.

BOOM!

John heard the explosion high above his head, the flash of sickly green light, and the sound of sizzling electricity. He looked straight up. There was the breach, directly above his head. He had forgotten about the breach — 'How could I forget about the fucking breach!'

Abruptly he realized where he must be! "This is the temple at the center of that explosion!" He tried to gain some sense of direction. He could remember that Haven lay down the valley, but he could find no path … no landmark … nothing to orient on. He had never been to the temple site, obviously not before the catastrophe, and only seeing the devastation from a distance, so he had no way to navigate.

'There is no point in staying here.' Looking at the mountains' peaks, he guessed and started moving, walking at first, then running. It was easy. Running on Thedas was effortless; on Earth, he had always loved running, but Earth had greater gravity. His body was used to carrying heavy gear, and he was wearing just light clothing. On Thedas, running felt like walking, and jumping felt like flying, but the graveyard around him caused him to consider where he was.

'I hope I don't run into anything.' Suddenly he wished he had some plate and his M4. He slowed to a walk. After turning a corner, there was a great open area, perhaps once a courtyard, now filled with nothing but rubble and twisted broken bodies, tortured souls who were caught in the open. Little was left; even the walls had been blown outward from above.

He was looking for an exit, a way back to safety and friends, to the peace of Haven. John was so focused he nearly careened into a group of others after rounding a corner. He slid to a halt. He thought he recognized them all and was about to shout, but his words died on his lips. The four people, so familiar yet so strange, were ahead with their backs to him. All focused on something lying on the ground near what looked like the remains of a shattered wagon. He felt the need to see, to share in their experience, their obvious grief. He quickly closed the distance to come up behind the group. He could recognize them: the dwarf, the elf mage, the soldier. He moved around, carefully, so as not to interrupt them.

"Serrada, don't…' John could hear Cassandra's voice. It was something strange for her; it was a voice filled with pain and compassion. John now moved around to see the faces of the shared grief; he saw the look of pain in Cassandra's eyes matched her voice's anguish. "Don't. You can do nothing." John turned to watch Serrada approach – something. He could just make out … a body which seemed to be buried in books beside the burned and broken wagon.

"I can tell his parents…" Serrada's voice came back over her shoulder. John sprinted to try and stop her. He had made the same mistake - how many times had he seen Mathew, Kevin, Eddy, Carlos, and a dozen others? How many times had his nightmares been of Eric, LJ, all the rest, even Mariah and Sarah? He would spare Serrada that. He made it around her and got ready to push her back. She seemed so intent on her quest that she did not see John. His hands prepared to stop her; he pushed … then he found himself on the ground.

"What the …" he had just passed right through her. Getting back up, he rushed to her side as she knelt … it was a boy.

John had seen burn victims like this before, most from explosions of large IEDs and truck bombs, but this was one of the worst he had ever seen. The right side had taken much of the damage; the left relatively untouched. Clothing, skin, and much of the hair was scorched or burned completely, in some areas burned to the bone. The thinner exposed tissue on his face and head was heavily burned. His right cheek was gone, his teeth showing through, there was a void where his right eye had been burned out, the socket clear to see, further back his head was burned black, skin and tissue burned to the skull. Serrada was checking carefully, finally finding what she was searching for. She stood, then turned to go.

"Serrada, are you alright…" John tried to speak with her, his voice as gentle and understanding as he could make it, glancing one last time back at the body of the boy who had plainly meant so much to her. When his eyes returned to Serrada, she was gone. The surroundings remained; the body was still there, although the clothing was undisturbed by Serrada's search, he could hear voices coming around the corner. Varric, Solas, Cassandra, and Serrada again, John watched the tragedy play out again, line for line from the start like a loop. However, this time he focused his mind focused on her hearing.

As she stood up from finding what John now recognized as a necklace from the boy's body, he focused his mind in his effort for her to hear.

"Serrada, can you hear me? It is John Gray." She went on just as before; however, this time, as she was about to disappear, she suddenly looked perplexed. The scene reset.

"I am not doing this again!" Serrada's voice came lofting over the wreckage and destruction. To John, it sounded both plaintive and commanding.

"So be it, this is but a sliver of your failures." A voice so loud and deep that it shook the ground around them. John lost his footing as the ground shook, and he had to cover his ears.

Shifting scenes, indistinct shapes resembling people, and places flashed through, mountains grew then crumbled, all so quickly John felt like vomiting.

Abruptly they were in a small meadow; random boulders lay strewn about; it appeared empty, but John sensed it was not. He could feel people moving up ahead of him. They were trying to keep cover, moving toward a pond directly ahead.

'That is strange, it is at least seventy degrees out here, and that pond is frozen?' John had no time to think through the implications, as at that movement, he saw Inquisition forces breaking cover ahead of him; they were led by Serrada, followed by Cassandra and Varric, then Solas backed up by soldiers in steel armor and scouts in leather.

Moments later, all hell broke loose. Lightning, then fire, following ice, and lightning again. John realized he was well behind them and woke from his stupor to give chase. By the time he caught up with Serrada, whatever happened was reaching its conclusion. Serrada was holding a young woman, a discarded bow lying beside them both. Serrada was desperately trying to help the girl. John had never seen a person die from arrows, but he had seen death enough to recognize it. The girl was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, but that did not seem to hinder Serrada from trying. The woman's face was a portrait of sorrow, loss, guilt, desperation, and grief. He somehow knew that the girl was dying because Serrada was at fault, or at least she thought she was. How he knew it, he had no idea, but he did.

He moved through the onlookers, their faces that they shared her grief, but he also saw awe that she could weep for … for what? A girl? An enemy? An innocent? He was beside her now. He knew she could not hear or see him. He studied the pain, the wails of sorrow, sobs of tears as the young girl died. He listened to the girls dying words, but he had heard something of it in Haven. But to see it, to hear Serrada … it was different.

"This is killing you, inch by inch." He could almost see her soul dying, losing something with each life she took. He felt tears of his own, some for the dying girl, many more for the dying woman trying desperately to comfort her, and a few for himself.

'I wonder if I looked like that in Mogadishu?' He could remember the incident all too well; he often wondered if it was the start of the breakup with Mariah. He and a team were to rescue some hostages taken by Somali pirates. Somehow the intel boys had identified a house with the hostages. As usual, they were fucking wrong, it was another house a block away, but it did not matter.

They were told the house, did a simple insertion into the area, got to the house easy as a drunk coed on spring break – just too easy. John led; they breached the door, slick as shit, which should have been the first clue, but things were moving too fast.

Through the door, there was a kid, maybe 11 or 12. He picked up a rifle to defend his home, his mother, and sisters. In a split-second, John had to make a decision. He did; the kid went down with three bullets in his chest, the empty AK clattering to the ground. The house was secured, the mother was hysterical, as were the younger children, while José tried desperately to keep the kid alive.

The interpreter questioned the mother, and that is when they heard the automatic weapons fire from down the street. John stayed with José, and the rest went to figure out what had happened. More gunfire. They could not get an evacuation until the firing stopped; helicopters do not take well to bullets; ten minutes later, Eric returned with the news that the hostages were dead, as were the pirates. José fought for the kid till the evac arrived. John insisted they take the mom, the girls, and the boy first; none of the team objected.

It could have gone wrong for them, but another bird was there almost immediately, and they were back on the carrier. Twenty-four hours later, he was debriefing. The boy was dead; his mother and sisters would be relocated to France or somewhere. The team all got commendations, the pirates were blamed, bombs were dropped, and the giant government rug came down to protect itself. All because of some desk soldier asshole's inability to read a map.

All this John relived as Serrada sobbed while cradling and rocking the dead girl.

John felt something … break, or more accurately break open. Rage, rage at the helplessness of it, rage at the waste, rage at the greed and cruelty that war created and bred, it all exploded inside him…

"Enough!" John shouted in his rage, waking to find himself sitting upright in his bed. It was dawn; the little newly laid fire was just beginning to take hold in the grate. A cold breeze blew through the sliver of the open window, gently blowing the curtains Gliril had made. Gliril, herself, was gone. Probably to do her morning chores, her silk nightgown swayed gently with the breeze—another day in Haven.

Long Journey of a Short Road

Serrada thrashed through another nightmare. Most suffer nightmares on occasion; for them, there is no audience of their nocturnal dramas, save a parent or lover. However, Lady Serrada Trevelyan was not a normal person. She was the Herald of Andraste, sent by the Maker to save Thedas, or so it was said around the campfires for uncounted leagues around.

Vivienne appeared in Serrada's tent Varric was on duty this morning; it was just before dawn. He had not had a comfortable night's sleep since leaving Haven, and he was looking forward to one this evening, but somehow he doubted that would come to pass.

'Man, this job is not what I thought it was.' He was not grumpy. After all, how many authors have the opportunity to spend time with just one hero, let alone two, and he was in her presence! He had spent the sleepless hours trying to decide what it was that made her … her. He honestly had no idea, but sometimes, just sometimes, he would catch a glimpse.

"Does she always sleep so … fitfully?" Vivienne whispered as she watched the woman twist and turn in her bedroll until it resembled an ornately rolled and pulled pastry.

"Pretty much," Varric never took his eyes off of the woman, now seemingly in combat with something somewhere, "she says she can't remember the dreams, but they happen every night."

"To what purpose?" It was an honest question. Long ago, it was decided by the Chantry that other than during the Harrowing, watching someone sleep was of no practical purpose if the dreamer could not recall their dreams.

"Well, we try and figure out what she is dreaming about, and then try and work her through it the next day." Varric hoped that that is what they were doing, rather than figuring out what bothered the woman to manipulate her with it later. "Sometimes it works…"

"Doubtful, especially if she can not recall the dreams." Vivienne was dismissive; after all, this was one of her areas of study, "I assume that the elf has tried to watch her dreams in the Fade?"

"Chuckle's name is Solas, and yes, he has," Varric liked the elf mage, if for no other reason than he gave people like Vivienne heartburn, "he says that she is exceptionally good at shielding her dreams, how and why she does it, he does not know."

"Enough!" Serrada sat straight up in her bed. Fully awake but still looking exhausted.

"Vivienne, Varric, what are you doing in my tent?" Serrada was clearly confused; Varric knew she did this every morning.

"I am sorry, Herald, we were just speaking of our plans today; I just came to wish you a good morning." Varric tried to sound as sincere as he could, "Ready for breakfast?" He knew she was not, but it changed the subject.

"Yeah, let's get moving." Serrada moved and acted as if that was the last thing on her mind. She looked like a blanket that had been beaten.

"My dear, perhaps we should talk when we reach Haven; you do not look well." Vivienne had seen mages tormented in the Fade till they broke. It was part of the Harrowing, after all. Clearly, this girl was not prepared for the burden she carried. 'Who could possibly be? This burden is too much for anyone, but a burden shared?'

"Perhaps we will, Madame de Fer, but we must get to Haven first, and we won't do that sitting on our arses." Serrada pulled herself up, donned her coat, and left the tent, with Varric and Vivienne in tow.

"Are we ready to break camp?" Serrada asked the officer who presented herself every morning, and like every morning, Serrada chastised herself for not remembering the woman's name.

"Yes, Herald, we are ready. You may break your fast…" The woman was about to offer some food and drink but never got the chance.

"No, let's get moving, I am not hungry, and we can be to Haven by lunchtime." Serrada's stomach was as likely to disgorge itself of last night's meal as be willing to accommodate another, so better to get moving.

The trail from The Last Camp Site to Haven was so familiar by now her horse could have made it alone, so often trod that Serrada did not even realize she was moving until they had finally crossed the bridge and approached Haven's outer gates. In fact, the last thing she could recall was mounting her horse, then the next moment, it was hours later, and the gates were swinging closed behind her.

"Home again." She said to no one in particular, and no one, in particular, heard it. The exhaustion in their leader's voice sapped the energy out of them. Something in their demeanor alerted her to their sallow mood, an instant of realization — 'This is my fault, I need to snap out of it, or I am going to get them killed.'

Serrada lifted herself up, squared her shoulders, and genuinely tried to smile. She suddenly remembered her father's words after a long hunt. She was just fourteen and exhausted in her saddle, ready to abandon her horse and go to her tent. Her father forbade it and made her see to her horse; then he turned to her. 'Smile, Serrada, your men need your reassurance; they have worked awfully hard for you; let them know you appreciate it.'

"I would like to thank all of you for your hard work, risking your lives, and putting forth so much effort. Thank you." Serrada tried to remember each of their names some came easily, others she had to be reminded then apologized for the failure. With the last of her energy spent, she turned and walked back to her cabin, trying with all her might to remain upright.

"She is learning," Solas was leaning on his staff.

"Finally, I was starting to worry she was an arsehole," Sera leaned on a post and watched the lovely sway of the receding Herald.

"Waste of effort, they will do what they are told," Vivienne flounced toward what she would shortly make clear was her rightful place in the Chantry.

"That one is going to be trouble," Varric commented to the group; no one disagreed.

The Hunt Begins

Gliril rushed back to her mistress's cabin. She had two people to serve now, and she had double the burden, double the work, double the concerns, double the worries, and yet Gliril found it difficult to wipe the smile from her face. She was on her way back with the fresh laundry; she still felt a little guilty for not having washed it herself.

It had been barely two weeks since Charter had come to her and said that Lady Cousland wanted to see her — so many things had changed.

Since that first meeting, she would dump her load of laundry off with the other servants, give them instructions, and hurry off to her training with Charter; that is how it started. Now, of late, it was more often with the Lady herself and on particularly rough days - both.

Her domestic work had suffered; Charter instructed her to have the other workers help her, Gliril felt she had no choice but to ask. Initially, she had received pointed stares by the servants as she dumped her burdens on them, then outright refusal. That had continued until Charter found her desperately washing the day's laundry late into the night; this after hours of training and serving her charges. Charter had inquired as to the why of it, and not wishing to implicate those who also toiled, she had replied with the least weary smile she could muster, "I can live with three or four hours sleep, I am young." Charter listened and left, and Gliril thought the matter forgotten, that is, until the following day.

She took the morning's bundle to the wash house, intending to store it there until all her other chores and training were done. She pulled the door open, pushing the bundle ahead of her, and she nearly ran into Lady Nightingale, Lady Charter, and Lady Josephine. Gliril caught the end of the conversation "… and thank you for your cooperation, Maker bless your day and thank you for your efforts."

"I am sorry, my ladies, I was not watching where I was going. Please forgive me." The fear in her voice was palpable; she tried to curtsey and nearly fell over, both from the weight of the laundry and sheer exhaustion. Leliana snatched up the bundle of clothing as Charter and Josephine caught Gliril before she fell.

"You are exhausted! Straight to bed with you…" Josephine was on a mission, Charter glanced at Leliana, and both shared a smile. Things would be changing since Josephine was involved. Leliana passed the bundle to the head laundress, who took it without complaint.

"I can not, my lady I have so …" Gliril would love to have finished her thought, but it was not to be.

"Nonsense! Anyone who is not blind can see that you are exhausted, to bed with you this instant!" Josephine did stomp her foot, then taking Gliril by the arm; Gliril looked too tired to argue but afraid she was doing something wrong. She looked at Leliana, who nodded her assent. Gliril finally gave way as she was led back to the Chantry and Josephine's own bed for a day's rest. Josephine gave orders for the girl to be waited on hand and foot and allowed to return to her duties only after a full night's sleep, Josie planned to take her rest with Leliana anyway, and she also knew that Leliana would not object.

From that day, the servants had gladly taken the bundles, offered to iron them, and return them themselves, all with smiles and curtsies. Gliril was initially completely confused, but Charter had told her that Leliana needed her ready to protect the Herald as soon as possible, and that meant others had to take some of her burdens.

When Commander Gray was injured, her labors had significantly increased, but the laundry did not even bat an eye; they just took the extra bundles and carried on with the same cheerful demeanor. Gliril always made sure to help them as she could, often with extra rations and other small gifts and favors she could secure. Shortly it became clear that the laborers sincerely appreciated her. They recognized her as a leader of their hard-working group, one with the ear of the Herald; what more could they ask for?

All this history tumbled through her mind as she finally closed the distance to her mistresses' cabin, her first stop. Her life had changed in so many ways since coming to Haven; although Seggrit was a pig in many ways, he never used her. Then she met the Herald, and her life had transformed from a series of nightmares to a series of dreams going from good to better to best.

Just that morning, she had dropped off these very bundles, "Please wash and iron both of these, keep them separated, and I will return for them later this afternoon." The women curtsied, both human and elves. She still was uncomfortable with elves curtsying, and the humans following suit, although new, was very disconcerting, although she could not explain why. Now she needed to retrieve them, far later than she had intended.

Her other duties had consumed more time than usual. Her new daggers were giving her fits; both Charter and Leliana had decided that the pummels were too heavy but only after wasting hours practicing with Gliril, thinking she was responsible. She sent them back to the armorer for correction. She learned that it was sometimes the daggers and don't keep beating your head against a wall; the wall always wins.

Moments ago, she burst into the wash house with apologies to recover the fresh laundry. "Thank you for your work; I do appreciate it." She turned to go then remembered. "Oh, I almost forgot, here, please share this." She gave them the pot of honey; it was one of the last. The wash women were astonished by her generosity and were all curtseying as she left; Gliril's cheeks were red to her breastbone.

She was rushing, as usual. She had to put the clothing away as quickly as possible, first mistress's cabin, then master's, and back to Charter's place to meet Harritt for the armor fitting. He had been as excited as a boy to make her armor; it made Gliril uncomfortable, not the nudity; she had been nude with many human men; it was the fuss they were making about her armor and weapons. It was a great deal of money to pay out for her, but Sister had told her that it was necessary, and the Herald was in danger at all times; it was her job to protect the Herald with her body if that is what it took. Gliril was more than willing to die for mistress if that was needed.

She knocked, there was no response; she used her key and opened the door, "My Lady, are you here? It is Gliril? May I come in?"

The room was silent and empty, no sign of the Herald save a note on the table next to a half-eaten meal Gliril had left for her before retrieving the laundry, with the delays that had been nearly three hours ago!

G.

Gone hunting, back for dinner. Gliril, do not worry!

S.

Of course, she would worry; that is her duty. She would hear about this if she did not go looking for her mistress; she was sure of that. Luckily, she would tell Charter on the way to masters quarters. Which is what she did; seeing Charter, she quickly showed her the note, and Charter headed up to report to Sister as Gliril continued to her second charge. She also found his rooms empty,

Gliril,

Thank you for my laundry; I am going to try and go for a walk.

John

PS Don't worry, please.

Gliril was on the edge of panic now; she had managed to misplace both her charges. She quickly finished putting the clothing away and bolted down the stairs. Running directly into LJ at the bottom, she did not see him, which was an achievement in self-distraction given his broad frame, which towered over everyone except John Gray himself.

"Whoa, girl, where are you headed in such a hurry?" He caught her by the arms, lifting her clear of the floor as if she were lighter than a feather; he was trying to keep her from falling. He did it so effortlessly Gliril was confident he could lift her with one hand, perhaps one finger. He put her down as gently as a mother would a baby.

"I am looking for Master John. Do you know where he is?" She showed LJ the note.

"That son of a …" LJ suddenly realized where he was and whom he was with. "… donkey, yeah, donkey." He thought for a minute.

"I know he has been getting restless the last couple of days; I bet he walked toward the outer stockade; he had heard that there were some rams out there, and he wanted to see them." LJ looked pensive but tried not to seem too concerned, "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, I will go, but if someone comes asking, please tell them I am going after him." She ran out the door, empty-handed, what she would do if he were in trouble, she had no clue, but out she went anyway.

Master Chief John Noel Bates Jr. watched the little elf girl race from the building; through the window, he watched her run down the trail toward the old cabin and out of sight. 'That was the girl they used to call Rabbit!' He chuckled to himself and gathered his coat and rifle to follow her. He left his own note.

Burden Shared

Serrada looked at the meal that Gliril had just given her, hot and ready, it smelled wonderful, and she wanted to eat it as much as she would a plate of druffalo droppings. She sat for several minutes, trying to eat her meal. She knew she needed to; she wanted to, but she just could not; in a few minutes, she could stand no more.

"I need to get out of this place." Serrada realized that the walls were closing in around her. The air was starting to feel thick, and she needs some fresh air.

She grabbed her cold-weather hat and coat, her bow and quiver, and headed for her door.

John was sitting up in his chair, finally had dressed, 'I am getting soft.'

He needed to move more than he had been. He did lap after lap around the infirmary, and now he was pretty much able to walk without any crutch.

'It's time to get out of this damned building!' He looked out the window and saw someone walking on the trail; he thought he knew who it was but was not sure, not until she stopped just this side of the old cabin. He saw her face under the fur hat and coat; then, she turned toward the outer stockade.

"I think I could go for a walk." John started looking around for his outer clothes; it took him far longer than he had hoped. He kept wondering about the dreams he had had, the time he saw her out the Missouri farmhouse window, the more recent nightmares of the temple, and the girl. "It was time for a chat with the Herald of whoever."

"Where did that girl put my clothes?" He looked everywhere, finally finding them in a locker; it was like she was hiding them, so he would need her to go out. 'I am being paranoid, man I really need to get out of here.'

Twingie as he was, he got his clothes on something nice and warm.

While dressing, he was struck by the quality of the needlework. As a soldier, often far from home, he had needed to learn a thing or two about a needle and thread; he had gotten quite good at it. Still, Gliril's work was a whole other level, so consistent, from top to bottom, precisely spaced, the same stitch and space, shaking his head as he put his right leg into the double thickness pants, 'I can't believe she made all this stuff with needle and thread.'

The clothing was lined with short, dense fur from some animal he could not identify, but it was certainly warm. So warm he needed to get out into the cool air.

The main floor was empty; a few days ago, it would have been full of his people, now they had other tasks. Sam helped the Inquisition freely, along with the other scientist; his soldiers were working hard as well. They still were not allowed their original equipment, but he was sure that would not last long. Mostly it was because they did not need much of it; they had enough solar chargers for what little equipment they used; they needed axes and swords more than rifles or computers.

As little as it was, the equipment they had caused quite a stir. After he was up and around, John had Sister Nightingale asking about the radio equipment and if they could make more? John had some electronics training, just enough to know that it was a real challenge to make even simple wireless sets, but he would ask the guys. He was not surprised his radio guy - Knox and Sam's electronics guys Haung and Cavendish had bit hard on that. The last thing he had heard, they were looking for glassblowers and jewelers to make old-fashioned tubes! He shook his head as he looked for something to lean on, just in case.

With everyone having their own busy lives in Haven, he was alone most of the time as everyone had somewhere else to be; all of this reality had contributed to his depression, for that is what he recognized it as. Who needs a leader of a group that is not a group anymore?

His search for a cane, or something, brought him near Rachele's usual lounging spot. It was near the fireplace for light, here he found a beautifully carved staff. He assumed it was still a work in progress from the pile of shavings in the kindling bucket. He would not take that but found a freshly cut and shaved staff ready for carving. He hoped Rachelle would not mind his borrowing it.

He assumed the carving was occupational therapy; she had gotten a great deal better once she could sleep, but she was still odd. While beautifully carved, he could not understand why she had made them? Why a staff?

John looked at the carved staff; it was intricate, carefully made, and beautifully done, covered in symbols and with deep grooves for inlay, but of what? There were sketches on the table next to her work; of course, the girl sketched everything and opened books and scrolls. Most he could make neither heads nor tails of any of it. Whatever this was for, he put the piece of art down and took up the roughhewn brother instead.

He opened the door and walked out. As he walked, he realized that on Thedas, a staff wasn't just a long cane but was — a staff! 'Fuck, Gandalf fits here better than I do, that's for sure.'

He headed down the trail, following the footprints of a woman named Serrada whom he barely knew and dreamed of constantly; he was going to follow her and find out why.

Be Careful What You Hunt

Serrada was sitting in a natural blind, a small tree bent by snow, in a cop of trees near an outcropping of stone. Luckily the stone blocked the bone-chilling wind off of the mountains and lakes. She was bundled up in thick furs, but it was still cold, and sitting did not make it warmer.

'Maker, I didn't think this through.' her whisper did not leave the tiny space, all the while she tried to suppress shivering. Her hunt had started well; a couple of young rams had blundered into her bow range before they even knew she was there. She had dealt with them and moved on. Now she was just sitting, trying not to think.

Thinking always ended the same, thoughts of Lian or any number of others. If not that, then it was what she had to do next, Red Cliff, the mages, Therinfal Redoubt, and the Templars. She could almost hear them, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, and Josephine screaming in her face in a demon-inspired choir — choose. Choose! CHOOSSSEEE! All in perfect harmony, 'Cassandra bringing in the base.' That thought made her snicker, which spooked a ram she had not seen.

'Shite!' She watched the older, wiser ram bound out of bow range. Her anger flared, as usual, angry with herself. Serrada's father had understood her; her mother constantly thought that she needed punishments of one form or another. However, her father knew her better. He knew that there was no greater punishment for Serrada than his disappointment; well, perhaps it was only surpassed by the sting of her disappointment in herself.

She had to remind herself that this was not about hunting but clearing her mind.

'He wanted something here so that he will be back.' She worked on her meditations; Solas had tried to teach her to center her mind, it had tremendously improved her marksmanship. That thought immediately brought back the face of Kara just before the arrows….

Serrada shook herself, trying to break the mental image. 'It is bad enough she haunts my dreams; I can't start seeing her face when I am awake.'

She wept for the girl often enough; now, the guilt started to make her concerned she was going mad.

"Snnnorrt!" The sound came through the trees. It was deeper and fuller than the juveniles she had gotten earlier. Soon she could see the ram; he was magnificent! He was a hand taller and broader than any she had seen before; his horns curled in a complete circle ending in outward-facing spikes and as thick as her hand at the base. Simply the most incredible creature of its kind she had ever seen. He watched her at first, then, off to the right, she heard footsteps, and the ram bolted to the left.

"Shite!" She said under her breath. Using her skills, she kept to cover and shadow. It seemed a good time to practice what Charter and Leliana had taught, the skills that assassins used. Moving swiftly but quietly to the left, she flanked the ram; he was moving toward the large area which had been cleared of trees by an avalanche years before. The Inquisition had already used most of the fallen timber either in cabins or their fires; come spring, it would be the largest open meadow in the lake area, and this ram was heading for it!

She flanked at a dead run, trying to be as quiet as possible, moving left as fast as she could, she would have no chance if he made it to the clearing, but something on her right near the old cabin had spooked him.

"Shite some lumbering lummox looking for me, no doubt!" She was angry, for no reason she could discern. It had been happening a great deal; lately, she had even snapped at Gliril, which had caused her almost as much grief as killing Kara had. Snapping at Gliril was like kicking a puppy.

Dodging trees and leaping over broken stumps, she made the edge of the trees before the ram. Nocking an arrow, she prepared for the best, hoping the ram would emerge from cover and praying she would get a shot at it. She could hear the ram snorting and stomping, trying to scare off whatever was following him.

Over the sound of the ram's challenges, she could hear the lummox; finally, the ram broke cover. He got to the edge of the clearing, waited, stepped out to see if it was safe, no more than twenty paces from Serrada; that was his mistake.

She released the arrow, the string twang, flying straight and true, hitting the ram just below and behind his left shoulder, so powerful and sharp was the hit that the arrow buried to the flights in the body. The ram bounded straight up, kicked at something behind him, and bolted across the meadow. It was over now; it was just a waiting game, waiting for nature to take its course before she recovered the carcass.

Hunting such a fine animal was always bittersweet, the thrill of the chase, the control of oneself in making the shot even as your heart was in your throat, but you always knew that something would give up its life for your need. There were always mouths to feed in Haven, nothing would be wasted, and the pelts would bring gold into the Inquisition, or at least ward off the cold of the Frostback's, but still. Now that the thrill of the chase was gone, Serrada had to acknowledge one truth as well.

'Now I am killing for entertainment.' That thought brought her mood down to the dirt again. She trudged on to follow her prize; it would not go too far.

There was a great rock a little over halfway across the meadow; she decided to make for that to see if she could see the ram.

As she walked up the slope, she noticed something that caused her to stop and froze her heart. Wild druffalo!

Domesticated druffalo were contrary and challenging enough, breaking fences, knocking down even stone walls, but wild druffalo were dangerous as well as contrary. They might leave you alone without even taking any notice of you, or they might decide to charge and stomp you and your horse into a paste. Their horns were so large they could skewer a mounted knight through horse and rider. It was best just to leave them alone. Here she was, out in the open in knee-deep snow, with nothing but a dagger, a bow, and three new arrows left in her quiver.

"I, sure as shite did not think this through!" She looked back to the tree line; she was more than halfway to the large rock in the meadow. It was a longer trek back than forward; besides, if she was careful, she might not disturb the beasts, and she did not want to waste the ram. She inched toward the rock more quietly this time.

Climbing the rock, she began looking for the ram; the blood trail was too light to see at the start but fairly clear from about midway through the meadow, it was a heart shot probably through both lungs, a normal ram would not go more than a few dozen paces, but this old ram was tougher than the younger ones.

'I bet the arrow shaft is staunching the bleeding.' She scanned the tree line looking for a sign, then she glanced back, there was a man walking, a mage by the look of his staff.

Serrada crouched down; it was not Solas and certainly not Vivienne or any of the healer mages surely, she was a little snow blind, the bright light of the snow made it difficult to discern any clear features of the man other than it was clearly a man, his height and broad shoulders gave that away, as well as the way he walked. The staff was simple, not adorned with lyrium or crystals, 'An acolyte then?'

Serrada searched her memory, trying to recall anyone telling her of a new mage recruit; they were rare enough in the Inquisition that she would have been informed. No, she could not recollect any.

She watched him walk haltingly along the path the ram took; he was scanning back and forth, following the blood trail. He was head down, 'He doesn't know about the bloody druffalo!' The realization is a stunning one for Serrada.

"How stupid can you be?" She was now crouched down on the stone, trying to keep cover from both the stranger and the druffalo up the slope. She was torn; she did not want to attract the druffalo ire any more than she wanted to chance an attack by some unknown mage. The problem was that she could not reconcile how some unknown mage had gotten by Cullen and the soldiers, or Lysette and her Templars… Then it dawned on her – 'They could not! This was no mage; it was just someone using the staff to walk!'

With the realization came recognition. 'It is John Gray!'

Without thinking, she sprung up, trying to get his attention, which she did; he stopped and looked at her; even from this distance, she could see the surprise on his face. She motioned for him to come to her; luckily, he did. Unfortunately, the sudden appearance of a potential threat and the smell of fresh ram's blood had caused the druffalo a hundred paces up the slope to take an interest in the man with the stick as well.

It began to paw the ground and snort. John must have heard it, Serrada watched him pause; he seemed to be looking up the slope; he must have recognized his danger, he moved toward the rock as quicker but not quick enough. Finally, he was between her and the druffalo, but the druffalo was gaining fast, not charging yet but trotting along faster than John could hobble in deep snow.

Serrada could see that his efforts were too slow; he would never make it if the animal charged; she leaped from the rock landing a dozen feet from its base in a dead run, trying to keep John between her and the druffalo to block the beasts view of something rushing toward it. John was fifty paces from the rock but moving far too slowly, Serrada got to him just as the druffalo blew a huge snort throwing snow from its bowed head, and began its charge.

"Hurry, we have to hurry!" She took his arm over her shoulders, a challenge since he was so much taller. 'I wonder if this is how Harding feels when we meet.'

She tried to rush him as fast as possible, but he was still injured and not moving quickly enough. She could hear the beast blowing and pounding the earth; she could almost feel its footfalls up through the ground. "I will distract him, try and climb the rock!" She dropped back from under John's arm.

"No, it will kill you; just get up on the god damned rock!" John had stopped, wanting her to get to safety.

"Keep going, you fool!" Serrada screamed at him in desperation. 'Why are men so stupid!'

She raced toward the druffalo waving her arms and shouting, "Come on, you ugly stinking son of a rabbit!"

She had the beast's attention now; she then veered hard to the left toward the nearest tree line. She knew a druffalo charge in the open was far faster than a human can run, but they are stupid and don't turn well. The trees would at least give her a chance to maneuver using the trunks to avoid the charge.

She made the forest line, the druffalo had turned away from John and was trying to follow her, she moved from tree to tree, always keeping a trunk between her and the beast, but soon she was running out of trees, and the bellowing of the druffalo bull had attracted attention, Serrada could see others of the herd moving toward her, and they were not happy.

"Shite!" Worse, she could see that John was having trouble climbing the rock!

She had no choice; she bolted for the rock through the last of the leaf-bearing obstacles. The druffalo had been so intent on her previous position that it did not notice the change, but one of the others had. Luckily, there was enough distance to get to the rock.

She reached John and started pushing him up. He did not much like it but took the aid anyway; the staff clattered down to lay on the ground.

Glancing back at the staff, he saw the beasts were coming fast, reaching down, "Give me your hand!"

This time she didn't argue; he hauled her back up onto the rock she had been on before. Finally, they both sat at the summit of their tiny mountain.

"What in the Maker are you doing out here!" Serrada's anger had returned, and she was letting him have all of it. "Of all the rock-headed things to do, you are not healthy and ready to be out of the nursery! You could have gotten yourself killed, and instead of that, you almost got me killed!"

"I just went for a fucking walk!" John yelled right back; she was sitting way too close anyway. "What the hell is wrong with this place. I just wanted to get some fresh air, and I followed you, for fuck's sake!" Scooched a little further away and turned toward her. "What the fuck are you doing out here anyway?"

"Why! What did you miss about the giant wooden stockade, you blockhead!" Serrada was glad he had moved a little further away; he was just too close; it made her feel funny; it was worse when she was holding him up before. "And what do you mean 'wrong with this place?' what is wrong with Haven! Are you such a child that you must be kept track of? Should I have a nurse made brought in? Do you need a wet nurse also? Are you looking for a breast to suckle?"

The druffalo were pounding and pawing at the base of the rock; the one who initially charged was now pawing the remnants of the staff, and only now did Serrada realize she had discarded her bow and quiver to get John up onto the rock.

'Shite! I really like that bow!' The loss only added to her anger; neither human, busily shouting at each other, took much more notice of the animals at the base of the rock.

"What?" John was not shouting now, "what are you talking about?"

"I heard that you have been chasing after Gliril, if I ever find out you touch her, I will …" Serrada was so angry she was red in the face; however, she stopped immediately when she saw the look in John's eyes.

"Don't you ever accuse me of anything like that again. Woman or no, we will have a problem." John's voice was low, and as close to a hiss as he could make it, he turned his back on her and was silent. A brave thing since she was the only person with a weapon.

She looked at the sky above; by the sun, she had been away for perhaps an hour and a half or two hours, Gliril should have found her note by now. As cold as it was around them, Serrada felt most of the chill was between them.

Hunting the Hunters

Gliril raced down the path, following both sets of footprints. She was not a Dalish hunter, but she had enough woodcraft to follow humans through the snow.

She guessed the ones that were her mistresses; her master's trail often covered them. That meant that her mistress went out first, as she suspected.

"Why is he following her?" Gliril would not allow herself to think anything ill of either. "He must be going to protect her, but he is too ill, and that is my task!" She redoubled her speed, passing through the stocked gate and on into the forest.

Behind her was Little John; he was loping along, not a sprinter by nature, but he could cover ground as needed. He was delayed because he had stopped to grab one of Paddy's rifles, he would explain later, but LJ knew he had to be sure he did not scratch it. The 300 Winchester Magnum could deal with anything any of them had seen on Thedas. He brought it because he had heard that there were some really big beasts out in the forest, and he did not want to fuck around if it were needed.

LJ followed after Gliril, who was about a hundred yards ahead of him, he was slowly gaining on her, but man, that little elf girl could move those tiny buns. Eric and John had often arranged impromptu foot races with the local kids in Iraq, John and Eric could cover ground as no one LJ had ever seen outside the Olympics, but Gliril was like lightning on her feet. She would leave them both behind if she wanted to.

Gliril had stopped; she was examining something in a tree, then took off again. By the time LJ got close, he recognized it as a ram, hanging to cool; from the looks of it, it might be frozen now, below and a few paces off, here was a pile of offal left for the scavengers.

This scene repeated itself another hundred yards down the trail; clearly, the rams were plentiful here and why they eat so many of them in Haven.

Gliril was out of sight now; well down the trail, he had seen her veer off to the left toward a clump of trees near some rocks; he headed in that direction. The snow was getting deeper; it was well past LJ's ankles, almost to his knees; it must be hard for Gliril to move through it. Whether that was true, he had seen no evidence.

"They are not here," she told LJ when she came out of the path, then planting her feet with her fists on her hips. "Why did you not stay to get help?"

'And they called her Rabbit!' LJ could not help but smile; she reminded him of his first girlfriend – Trisha - five foot even and ninety-five pounds of fierce.

"I sent word to Cullen, and I did bring help." He patted the rifle, "This is Riley, and believe me, unless we see a dragon, she is all the help we will need. Maybe even for a dragon."

"Fine then, I am worried. Mistress has already taken two rams, and both have been hung long enough to freeze. They should have been back hours ago." Gliril's voice showed more fear than even the frightened expression on her face displayed.

"Sure, little one, lead on." LJ swung the rifle down and chambered a round. "If we see something, I want you behind me."

Gliril reached for her daggers and could not find one; her expression went from worried to shock then embarrassment. "I ran off without any weapons!"

LJ's smile only broadened, "We can't have that; you would be nearly naked!"

He reached for his right leg, withdrew his Bowie knife. "Here, this is one of my favorites; it is as sharp as fuck, so be careful."

Gliril took the knife, it looked small in the huge man's hands, but it felt like a short sword in hers. It was heavy in her hand but was so perfectly balanced, much better than the one she had practiced with earlier in the day. 'I wonder if I could get Harritt to make me one?'

"Ready to go, little one?" He asked over his shoulder as he started following the trail.

"After you, kind sir." Gliril ran after him, being careful to watch the sharp blade in her hand; as she passed him, she shouted, "Don't get lost." With a smile, she slowed slightly to remain only just ahead of him to keep him from spoiling the trail.

Back and forth, they raced each other till they came to the edge of the forest. The sight that greeted them brought the race to a dead stop. There across the clearing was a rock, surrounded by a handful of druffalo; most were happily grazing on grass they must have pawed up while trying to climb the rock; another two had bedded down and were lazily chewing their cuds, the largest of the group was still snorting and bellowing in anger. What caught and held their attention, however, was that atop the rock were two figures. Gliril and LJ recognized the figures, they both burst out laughing.

Shared Burdens

"Who was Lian?" John was sitting with his back toward the Herald. His voice was level and only loud enough to be heard over the lowing, snuffling, and general carrying on of the herd of druffalo that surrounded their perch. It was remarkable how much noise these creatures were capable of making. Right now, they seemed to be happily munching grass that they had discovered at the base of the rock. A little more lethal but not much brighter than the cattle he had helped with in his youth.

"What did you say?" Serrada was not even sure she heard him; was that him or something in her head.

"Who was Lian?" John had turned toward her, shifting his body as far as his stiffness would allow. His ass was falling asleep, and the cold of the rock was seeping through the fur of his pants and coat; he tried not to let it show.

"How do you know that name?" Serrada turned further toward her companion; they were almost face to face. Her face revealed her flair of temper, but he showed genuine concern and was open and honest; she felt her anger began to melt with that realization. Then she slumped in exhaustion, emotional exhaustion this time. "He came with me from my home in Ostwick; he was a squire, the best I ever had…" Her voice broke as it always did when describing Lian. She was not entirely truthful, but with all the aggrandizement she had heard and been apart of, he deserved something.

"He died in the explosion…" She could not carry on.

"I know." John said, 'how can I tell her.' Or he would have, but the next thing he knew, he had a dagger at his throat.

"How? You have to the count of three. One…" Serrada's voice was colder than the ice around them.

"I saw it in your dream." John did not even flinch at the dagger, it was not the first time a blade had been there, and he doubted it would be the last.

The dagger dropped, not just from his neck but from her hand; John watched it fall, clattering down the rock and bouncing off until it finally hit the biggest druffalo angering it again.

"How?" Serrada's eyes showed complete shock, "Are you a mage? Solas says he can not see my dreams, how…"

John just laughed and just shook his head. "How the fuck should I know?" He thought for a second, "How would I even know if I was?"

It was Serrada's turn to laugh, "Maker, I have no idea." She took a deep breath, "I sent him to see the sights, he was robbed, so I gave him some money to buy a gift for his mother…" she withdrew the charm around her neck and showed John, she held it out for him.

"That was the necklace I saw you take from his body." John touched the delicate gold charm; it was a small, superbly crafted symbol of a woman; it reminded him of the statues he had seen in the Chantry. It was beautiful, but what he felt was the heat it contained, heat from her body, a heat that seemed to enter his. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable, vulnerable. He let go of the symbol of Andraste, and Serrada returned it to its home close to her heart.

"I told him to stay near the entrance; he must have found the bookseller; he loved books. I recall a book seller's wagon near the entrance…" She felt the tears coming; she had tried so hard to restrain them, she could not force them down anymore.

John impulsively put his arm around her; in any other situation, he would never have been so forward, but it seemed so appropriate — so needed. At first, she started backward, then when the tears came, she melted into him; she wept quietly for several minutes.

It was Serrada's turn to ask a question. "Who was Mathew? Where was the battle that I saw?"

It was John's turn to stiffen.

"I guess we have seen each other's dreams." John realized the obvious.

"He was the junior member of our team. It was his first overseas mission; we were sent to rescue some young girls who had been kidnapped. They took them for forced marriages." He took a deep breath; those missions always seemed like Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the hill.

"We killed, or thought we killed the bastards; I was trying to round everyone up and make sure the evacuation would take place when one of the rat bastards threw a fragmentation grenade. Not at us, no, the fucking piece of shit threw it at the girls!" He said the last through clenched teeth; the rage was evident in the brilliant red of his face. "I just moved, they were the same age as my daughter, I didn't even think, I just moved, but I tripped … I don't know on what. When I recovered, Mat had…"

"It was too late; he was gone; he saved the girls but died doing it." His voice was solid but lifeless as if he was just an echo of a living man. "He was so young, so much to live for…."

"That is what I can't understand; I should be dead; even though it was a concussion grenade, smaller than the one that killed Mathew, it should have blown me apart." John had been thinking about this for hours; why was he alive and Mathew dead.

"Hasn't anyone told you?" Serrada was shocked, "I thought they told you!" She would have a conversation with the Quartet on this.

"Told me what?" An edge came to John's voice. "What?"

"Your device worked, Solas through a barrier around it, the strongest he could; your device exhausted him for days; he slept for two straight days! I have no idea what that device is, but I want a box of them!"

"Well, that explains a lot," John found a small stone and threw it; it bounced off the rock and hit the angry druffalo; it did not improve the creature's mood. "I thought it was magic and potions, or maybe the grenade was defective."

"Oh, there was magic, believe me, we bought every available bundle of Elf Root and potion we could find, and I spend two days searching for Elf Root myself." Serrada turned to face John fully, "John, I am no one to tell you how to feel. If the dream I saw was close to what happened, I saw a group of brave men fighting to protect terrified and helpless young girls…."

She turned back to face the angry druffalo, not seeing the beast just a few feet away. "I saw Mathew die; I saw the pain in your eyes, but try to remember he died doing what he thought was right, and that is all that matters."

"I am so sorry." Serrada spoke softly, and she truly meant it, "People don't know how much it hurts to lose someone who was there because of you. I question every decision, every move…" She did not even realize she had switched to first-person; John did; he held her a little tighter. Nothing but comfort; besides, it was cold, they needed to share body heat.

They spoke of the weight of command, the cost of decisions, and the pain of the death of those who look to them. They talked for seemingly hours, then they just sat and watched the druffalo happily munch grass. All but one, the one who was hit with the dagger, the one who stomped the staff, the one who seemed to think his honor had been injured and wanted satisfaction, the biggest of all the druffalo bulls … he made it clear that it was him or them and he planned to ensure it was them.

Well, he did until he collapsed on his legs, dropping like the finger of God or the Maker had snuffed out his life. In a way, perhaps he or they had, shortly after came the clap of thunder John recognized as a high-power rifle shot.

Gathering the Lost Sheep

"Maker…" was the only thing Gliril could think to say. She would never have believed it if she did not see it. The druffalo was at least two, maybe three bow lengths away, and still, the weapon LJ used had caused the huge druffalo bull to drop like the Maker himself had killed it. She merely shook her head; she was happy LJ had told her to cover her ears; even through them, the sound was unbelievable.

As she watched, the other druffalo raised their tails and bolted up the hill and into the forest, leaving the dead bull and the two people on the rock. They still stayed on the rock as Gliril and LJ moved toward them across the meadow; LJ cycled the rifle; he just remembered to capture the brass before it was lost in the snow. Paddy had told him the brass was worth more than its weight in gold; he did not know why but he did not argue.

They walked across the meadow; LJ kept an eye on the forest, Gliril sprinted to the couple.

Gliril raced as fast as she could to her mistress and master. She was at the base of the rock, she gathered the dagger, which was lying under part of the druffalo, more disturbing she found the remains of a staff and the broken bow and destroyed quiver.

"Oh mistress, your bow…" Gliril gathered up the broken pieces. She was closer to tears over the loss than Serrada would have possibly imagined.

"Oh, sweetheart, it is just a bow…" Serrada intended to slide down the rock to hug the girl, which was easier said than done since she was stiff and sore and chilled to the bone. Lifting Gliril to her feet, she kissed her on the forehead.

"Mistress, you are frozen… Master, how could you let her freeze like this?" Gliril was angry; she was not thinking.

John very slowly worked his way down the rock. He was stiff, sore and every joint and tendon hurt, 'I guess I got more exercise than was good for me.'

"Oh, Maker, I forgot you were injured!" Serrada bounded up the rock again to help him; she did not notice her shadow who took the other arm.

"I am sorry, master, I spoke out of turn. I was just so worried…" Gliril tried her best to lift the man, but he was so much heavier than she, but she tried.

The three-headed creature of John and two women finally got to the ground. LJ was inspecting the carcass of the druffalo.

"That was a good shot there, LJ," John stood with the aid of his helpers, "it certainly will make some good eating, I suspect, that hide will make a tent and that head!"

"Thanks, Boss; I was more concerned about it making you into paste, but thanks for the ideas. How do you think Dr. Sam would take to having that in the Maiden?"

"I think Flissa would object first if anyone would." John tried to laugh, but only a cough and a cringe came out.

"Alright, back to bed with you," Serrada commanded, and with Gliril's explicit agreement, they started toward Haven without quiring John in the matter.

"See you later, Boss; I got work to do." LJ was about to start cleaning the druffalo when he realized he did not have his knife. "Hey Gliril, can I have my knife back?"

"What knife?" Gliril looked over her shoulder; she smiled sweetly; both knew he could see the very blade tucked into her belt behind her back.

LJ belted out a huge belly laugh, "Fine. If you happen to run across it, I could really use it!"

Without a backward glance, Serrada pulled her last remaining dagger from its sheath and tossed it back to LJ; it landed between his feet two dozen paces behind her.

"Fuck, I have to remember not to piss that little woman off." He bent down and grabbed the dagger; he looked at it carefully, clearly hand-made and worked but, "It is a good blade."

"Thanks, Boss. I will return it as soon as possible; do you want the hide?" LJ shouted after them, now halfway to the edge of the woods. She simply waved the free hand, and he took it as a no.

LJ watched them go; he was wondering how he was going to clean and quarter four thousand pounds of animal, at the edge of the forest, the group stopped and turned, then John shouted, "There is another ram in the woods over there, don't forget it!" Then they turned and were gone.

Home Again Home Again

A day later, John was sitting by the fire in the common room reading a book. He was still hurting, sore muscles, but Adan and Gliril had been working together on his aches and pains; he was feeling the best since coming to Thedas. As usual, he was alone, but for the first time in a while, he was fully dressed before breakfast and not holed up in his rooms; it made him feel good to be up and around.

The front door opened.

"Mind if I come in?" the familiar voice asked; he could not see its owner because the door blocked her, "I brought gifts?"

"Oh? I have heard the stories about Free Marchers bearing gifts." John's voice was light and … happy; he stood, slower than he might have previously done, but at least he was on his feet without a crutch.

"Just kidding, please come in." John tried to stand fully upright as Serrada closed the door; he was pretty successful. "That is right, isn't it? Free Marcher?"

"Yes, very good! Bearing gifts?" Serrada's confusion was evident; she looked down at that tray with tea and Gliril's cookies, "Don't people bring gifts where you come from?"

"Sorry, it means something back … where we came from." The joy seemed to leave his voice a little. "I will explain it later if you want."

'I need to get him back in a good mood; I hate duplicity.' Serrada kept the smile as warm as she could. Gliril had suggested the cookies as a peace offering. Serrada was desperate for anything and accepted the cookies with tremendous appreciation; besides, they were wonderful. "I wanted to thank you for coming after me yesterday. It was truly kind of you …"

"Stop," John was still smiling but looking at the ground now with hands in the air, a sign of surrender, "I just screwed up your hunt; I had no idea what it was like outside the stockade, I should have asked someone before I just followed you." His legs were still sore; he needed to sit down; it was getting close to his next Elf Root dose; he had actually expected the knock to be Gliril or Adan at the door, not The Herald. "Besides, I have been around; what do you need?"

The smile on Serrada's face dimmed to almost nothing, "Why do people always assume I need something from them?" She asked mostly to herself; it was yet another burden.

"I am sorry, that was not fair." He had not meant it the way he knew she must have heard it, "I just meant to ask if I could do something for you, or if you needed something?" He tried to lighten her mood; he was sure that the pressure was getting to her; she was far too young to have the burdens that she bore, but for whatever reason, she was given the responsibility, and he felt the need to help her carry it, although he could not explain why or how he could.

She brought the tea service over to the table next to the fire; the table was always there, she had visited Sam a couple of times for tea, and Sera had drug her there to meet Rachelle.

Until yesterday John had been up in his rooms or over at the infirmary when she visited, during the increasingly rare times she was back in Haven. Until their impromptu chat on the rock, she could not think of a single conversation of more than two sentences between them. She knew that needed to change.

John settled himself down, going so far as to cover his aching legs with a blanket that had been warming by the fire.

"Honestly, I just wanted to talk." Serrada set the service down; his actions gave her cover to start, "How are you feeling? You took a beating yesterday, and you were not completely well."

John felt better than he had in days, but he had feigned the need for the blanket to give her cover to open up.

"I have felt better, but I think I am none the worse for wear. You were impressive out there, the equal of a championship rodeo clown." John had meant it as high praise; rodeo clowns keep injured bull riders alive when angry bulls want to turn them into stains on the ground.

Serrada froze, "I beg your pardon?" Her temper flared, she hated the notion that her brilliant red hair defined her temperament, but it did more often than not. "You see me as a clown, a jester!"

This time John was taken aback. "No! Oh God, you have no idea what I am talking about." He tried not to laugh, but he did, which resulted in an even grumpier look from Serrada. "A rodeo is an extremely dangerous sporting competition … oh, forget it. Let us have a drink some time, and I will explain it. I was just trying to compliment you on your skill; you moved with the best; it was incredible to watch…." He realized he was staring at the woman's eyes; they were so beautiful, so blue. It was several seconds before he realized he had stopped talking, and she was just smiling back at him while wearing that relaxed, casual look that women have when they know they are being admired and they don't resent it. Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable.

"I am sorry, I should not have been staring; it is just your eyes remind me of someone, someone I miss very much." John managed to stammer through a poor excuse of an excuse which was pathetic, to begin with. 'God, why do I feel like I am eleven again and asking Cathy Jones to go to the dance?'

"No need to apologize, your wife, I assume?" Serrada had enjoyed the admiration that she had received from John. She had never been a woman to seek the attentions of men, much to her mother's often expressed exasperation. Still, since becoming the Herald, she often felt that she was no longer allowed to be Serrada either. She enjoyed being admired, a new experience for her; she could see the attraction to such attention.

"Ex-wife…" John said, with a flat tone, one that did little to mask the emotional pain that underlay it.

"Ex-wife? What is an ex-wife?" Serrada handed John a cup and saucer; it was second nature for her to pour out, she had done it a hundred times, and it was the first time she had been allowed to since awakening in the cells below the Chantry an eon ago. It was different this time; it was not a chore, but a pleasure—a moment to relax and enjoy a friend's company.

"You know, the court says, you were married, now you give all your money to her, and then you are not." John thought the joke was funny, forgetting that the same 'joke' had fallen flat with Cullen, for the same reason it did now.

"You mean the marriage is undone? How can that happen?" Serrada looked pensive for a moment, "Oh, I am sorry, did she die?" She desperately tried to understand how a vow of marriage could be unmade; you can't unmake a vow, break it, yes but unmake it? The only way is if she died.

"No, she is not dead; she lives with her new husband and my daughter in Calif… Never mind." John sipped from the tea; he hated tea, at least he did right now, but it was better than talking.

"I am sorry, I don't understand." She had known, of course, that love is not always for life and that marriage was sometimes for political or social reasons, especially in the nobility, but that did not make it less binding or less permanent.

"Well, it used to be a lifetime thing based on religion, then it became a legal thing to keep track of assets…" John could see he was not getting anywhere but kept trying, "The point is that the marriage is ended in a legal sense anyway; the emotions don't stop with a judge's signature. Even when a judge tells you your daughter isn't yours anymore." John finished more to himself than to her.

"I am sorry." Serrada could not imagine how one's child would stop being their child because of the stroke of a quill.

"Yeah, you said that already, it's okay, it was another place, another life…" John tried to smile genuinely, but Serrada could see the pain in his eyes. "You surely didn't come here to listen to me whine; I do that too much as it is. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I did come to chat, but there is something." She put down the tea, 'No wonder people think I am always asking for something; it's because I always am.'

She took a deep breath, "I wanted to thank you for allowing your people to help the Inquisition; you have no idea how valuable they were…."

"Well, as to that, I didn't allow them anything. Eric took them out behind my back." He sounded a little angry about that but then relaxed, "He and I had a discussion, I would have approved it, and he did it well."

"They must have been extraordinary; Harding is buying them drinks, the others are as well; my guess is your people will have to be brought back in wheelbarrows, and the Inquisition will gladly provide them." She snorted a laugh, and John snickered as well, "Well, you will need a couple for LJ…"

"I don't know, he has sparked a great deal of interest in several of the serving girls as well as others…I suspect he will find somewhere to sleep…," She felt her throat go dry, she took a sip of tea to buy time. 'Why am I blushing? I am a grown woman! Stop blushing!'

John noticed the rising color but pretended not to, "Well, LJ has always been able to make friends easily, not as easily as Eric, but LJ's last longer."

Serrada burst out laughing, "Leliana tells me she is keeping a list of Eric's friendships; apparently, it is rather extensive. I think he competes with Bull. Does he not keep many friends for long?"

John put down the cup and saucer; his face was suddenly cloudy, his voice quiet. "He used to; she died."

"I am sorry," Serrada had lost count on how many times she had said that since entering the building.

"Yeah, so was I; she was something. Not like Eric and I, we wanted a career in this … shit storm … Makayla just wanted to go to college. They killed her just because of the uniform; she never had a chance. She was not doing anything, just doing her job, and some goat fucker shot her." John's rage was building, something he hated; he had to get control of himself.

"I assume he avenged her death?" Serrada watched the man she barely knew, and she saw the pain he felt for his friend's loss and the waste.

"No, well he tried; I had to reign him back in; his patrols took very few prisoners, let's just put it that way." John decided to try one of the cookies, if nothing else, but to change the subject.

"Hey, these are good! Did you bake them?" The words were out of his mouth before he could think; it was sexist, but he grew-up old fashioned; he was trying to adapt, but old habits die hard, and besides, if she did, he wanted her to have all the compliments he could give her, mainly because they were fantastic! Most of the food they had been given was passable but not really good per se, it could use some pepper, which he had not seen, and salt was expensive.

'Hey, I think I remember a pepper grinder Sam had! I need to talk to Sam; if she still has any peppercorns left, maybe we could germinate them… Pepper was once more valuable than gold, and we could make a living at least for awhile.' John made a mental note to try and grow some peppercorns.

His thinking was interrupted by the howl of laughter from the woman sitting across from him.

"If I had baked them, you would probably be dead, but definitely toothless!" She laughed so hard she had tears streaming down her face. "Oh, if mother could have heard that!" She went on to tell stories of her cooking efforts, some of which the pigs refused to eat and had to be buried far from the keep. Doors and windows left open even in the dead of winter had ended her cooking lessons.

Toward the end, even John was laughing, with tears streaming down his cheeks and a fair amount of nasal involvement as well. He enjoyed the laughter; it had been a long time, an awfully long time.

Finally, Serrada stopped laughing; a sigh belied her heavy heart, "Yet another failure and disappointment for my mother." They both became quiet for several minutes.

"No, another Gliril miracle, she is a gift of the Maker." The cloud lifted slightly; John tried to let her off the hook.

"There is no doubt about that, Yahweh or Maker; I don't know who, but definitely a gift." John took another from the plate, 'I will have to get some more of these; I will get fat but wow, who gives a fuck.'

"Yahweh? What is that?" Serrada asked, a look of definite interest. 'Mother Giselle will be very interested in this.'

"Wow, Mother Superior would love to hear my explanation of that one…" John sat for a moment, and he could not see what harm it would do, but still. "I don't know how much everyone has told you about the faiths back … there. It is hard to explain, but there are …"

John started giving a general accounting of Earth's religions and faiths; he was clear he was not a scholar of Earth faiths, so much of the information may be surface or simply incorrect, but he covered what he knew, remembered, experienced, or believed.

For her part, Serrada listened as intently as she could; there was a bewildering number of faiths, denominations, general rules, caveats, and mixtures of beliefs that she was soon lost. What was clear was that Earth, John had taken great pains to avoid the name, had a long and complex structure of faiths and, strangely enough, people with no faith at all.

John had tried to omit the name of their home, but the others had been freely willing to share its name along with a great deal of other information; Leliana and Giselle had been spending a small fortune on paper and ink to get it all recorded. She suspected at least one of the Nightingale's operatives was listening even though she was not sure.

However, she was sure that it was pleasant to listen to the man; it was also clear that he had a deep faith founded in not just simple childlike acceptance but a bedrock faith tested by tragedy and loss, then built upon to form the foundation beneath the good man seated near her.

"I know that is the long way around your question, but that is why I am a Christian although not a particularly devout one," John could hear Mother Superior chastising him, in the other ear Sister praising him for his efforts at explaining the seemingly haphazard mosaic of Earth's faith.

'All paths can be a path to the true faith in Christ.' He once thought she would tattoo that on the inside of his eyelids, thankfully she had not.

"I am still confused, but perhaps you can explain more to Mother Giselle; I am not particularly learned or devout myself, I am, or was the extra child, the unneeded one, that is until…" her voice dropped, she slumped somewhat forward, elbows on her knees, something she had done since she was a child when she felt overwhelmed, a midpoint between her rod stiff upright posture drummed into her by her mother, and the need to wrap her arms around her knees and hide her face in the back of her legs and cry.

"It's alright; you don't have to tell me anything; I probably would not understand anyway," John himself slumped, looking at the fire, "I am reading a child's book trying to understand the references you all take for granted." A hard edge started to creep into his voice, "I asked for something the other day, and one of the staff burst out laughing and bounded out of the room."

He sat up straight now. "Then another one for something else, she turned green and vomited, and the truth is I can't remember which was which and what I asked for!" His voice was taking on a much harder edge. "How am I supposed to lead my people, know where and how to task them when I can't even order a sandwich with the correct cheese and mustard on it!" He threw the book across the room with a thud.

"Feel better?" Serrada asked him with a smirk; she had kept her eyes on him. "Do you need me to burp you?" Her smirk had turned into a gentle, warm smile, "I draw the line at changing you; Gliril tried to give me a detailed report on that, no thank you."

John just chuckled; he could feel his embarrassment in the heat of his ears. "That will not be necessary," but half-joking, half-serious, "I could use a hug from time to time."

"No problem, Commander Gray, I will see when The Iron Bull is free…" Serrada's smile was broad; John noticed how beautiful the smile was and how her eyes sparkled when she did it. 'Man, I need to get out more; this is so not appropriate. John Gray, you are old enough to be her father! She could be Sarah's older sister!'

"No thanks, I already have one qunari boyfriend; two would just get all icky." The grin cut clear across John's face. Serrada burst out laughing so hard she nearly toppled the table and tea service.

"Be careful; you will dump the cookies!" John grabbed the dish and caught a wayward cookie before it escaped to the swept but still questionable floor. "With all the meat roasting, I doubt the five-second rule applies." John put the cookie into his mouth; it just fit.

"First, that is disgusting, don't do it again," Serrada said as she duplicated his minor feat, "secoondd, whaatth issth a fivv seccondd rule." She asked as crumbs fell from her lips, those beautiful full rose-red lips.

John almost choked on his own mouth full of delicious baked goods. "Dear Lord, you are going to fit right in with this group of barbarians."

"You don't have a five-second rule on Thedas? How much food do you waste here!" He feigned shock and outrage at the waste. "If it is on a clean floor, food dropped for less than five heartbeats is safe to eat, if its filthy two or three heartbeats and if the dogs get it first watch and see if they die."

The look of shock on Serrada's face, mouth still filled with cookie crumbs, caused John to choke. He fought for air, she sprang from the chair, this time actually scattering the tea set, but John still had the plate of cookies in his hand and saved those on the hearth while trying to remove the cookie crumbs from his windpipe. Serrada rushed behind him and hit him on the back as hard as she could, which John learned from the pained muscles and deep blue bruise the next day, was pretty fucking hard! Luckily, he did not have to administer the Heimlich to himself. Still, her strike had dislodged the offending fragment, which flew free and bounced off a nearby table.

"Well, that was stupid of me." John coughed and tried to watch his step; the teapot had broken into several pieces, as did one of the saucers, but the cups were saved, little comfort since the set was ruined.

"Josephine is going to kill me!" Serrada dropped to her knees as if she might somehow, by will, reassemble the destroyed porcelain. John knelt with her as quickly as possible; they were side by side.

He could hear the tension in her voice. He helped her put the pieces back on the tray; fortunately, they had already consumed most of the tea. They worked together in silence for several moments until John had to ask.

"Serrada, what is it that you wanted?" In a soft, calm voice, John kept his level and smooth. Serrada froze; John took the pot's final pieces and the unbroken top and placed them all on the tray. Holding the tray steady, he took her hand, her left hand, and encouraged her to stand, which they both did at once.

"I read Harding's report." Her voice filled with awe, "They took over a hundred prisoners! Just a handful of your men killed two dozen sellswords; some of them were veterans of the blight from Ferelden - all in a handful of minutes! If that was not enough, they took a Carta hideout — a Carta hideout! Killed a dozen darkspawn, took two dozen more Carta prisoners, stopped a red lyrium smuggling operation, and no one even got a scratch! Harding is ready to marry every one of them, Maker I think she would marry ALL of them!"

Serrada was now pacing back and forth, her exhortations coming with ever-increasing energy. In the end, she turned toward John, her hands over her head in exclamation.

When she turned to him, she froze for a moment; he was just standing there, holding the tray of porcelain shards and cups.

'How can he just stand there smiling! Andraste, his teeth are so white, his smile is just beautiful.' She stood there for several moments; finally, she snapped back to her duty.

"I need your help," Her voice was soft and level, almost apologetic for breaking the silence. "we have people being held in an area south of the Hinterlands in a marsh. Our forces are overstretched, and I don't have enough to rescue them, but I can't just abandon them like the Quartet wants me to. They say I should go to Red Cliff or Therinfal Redoubt; I will have to choose - again! We need both the mages and templars!"

"People follow me because they believe in the Herald; how long will that last if I abandon them?" She paced again, seeming to have forgotten John completely, "But the Newcomers! They took a heavily guarded fort we could not take in two attempts, then they crushed the Carta, and slaughtered darkspawn all, all with no losses, no injuries, not even a scratch!" She was repeating herself, pacing again, and gesticulating almost wildly. "We could save those men, I could go to Red Cliff with Vivienne and Solas, a First Enchanter will impress the loyalists, and Solas is an apostate that has to buy something! We could send John and his people to Therinfal with Cassandra and Lysette; Cassandra is a Seeker, a known leader of Templars and Lysette is a templar, and John and his people are clearly accomplished warriors; it is just dripping off of them…"

"Well, I don't think we are dripping anything…." John was still smiling, if a little less than before. "When do we leave?" He could hear the desperation in her voice, but also the dedication to her people, and that touched him.

"You need to know something; we have limited ammunition; once that is gone, our weapons are just fancy clubs," John stated the truth flatly.

That was a revelation to Serrada and not a welcome one. "How long?"

John could see her hopes burn down around her. "Serrada, I don't know, we need to do an inventory, repack our equipment, try and see what we have left…"

Serrada's hope returned, at least a little. "Do you have enough to do what they did in the Hinterlands?"

"I think so, but not a sustained campaign …" John responded honestly.

"Maker, I don't need you to fight a war; just help me as much as you can…" Serrada walked directly to John; she looked up into his eyes, "help me save my people. Please."

"Let's go take this to Josephine," he swept his hand theatrically toward the door. "Lead the way, my lady…." At which point he froze in place as if Vivienne had turned him to ice, "wait, you really are a lady, aren't you? Shit, what should I call you?"

'He is so sweet and so cute being worried now.' She had hoped that this would never come up, but she knew it would.

"Preferably not shit." She chuckled at the face he made.

"Please call me Serrada at least in private, if in public I guess you should use Herald or Lady Herald, and in official settings The Herald of Andraste Lady Serrada Trevelyan…" She had never felt comfortable with the titles she was born with. Still, the last weeks made that seem minor; now, she liked the titles she was born to, which were far more comfortable.

"Well then, Serrada, shall we go find the lovely Josephine?" He again used the overly dramatic flourish, nearly toppling over in the process, "We must bear the casualties to her and give her our condolences."

Broken Porcelain

The walk toward the chantry was far more pleasant than either Serrada or John would have thought. She told him about some of the features, the places that he had visited before, people he knew or thought he knew; he listened intently; some of it was a revelation.

"I had not realized what I have missed," he said as they passed the Maiden and headed toward Adan's cabin. "I guess I have not been trying to…"

"You were trying to keep track of your people, keep them together; nothing wrong with taking care of your people, John," Serrada said; his thankful look brought color to her cheeks. 'Andraste, I sound like a love-struck maiden.'

Neither noticed the looks, and genuine smiles of the various onlookers from Charter to Varric to Solas along the walk to the Chantry, through those doors they would stand before the Quartet, and neither was in a hurry to end the walk.

Finally, they both stood in front of the Chantry doors; days before, John had been hesitant to enter, now Serrada was the one hesitating, "She is going to kill me slowly, you know that right?" She stood before the door, then glanced toward John. "She only let me borrow it on the promise I would protect it with my life…."

"Don't worry, Serrada; it will be fine." He opened the door and walked in; Serrada entered beside him.

"Just let me do the talking, okay?" Serrada asked, "Maybe I can think of something …"

John could feel the eyes of the mage named Vivienne; he wondered if she was in the chantry all the time to hide from the riffraff; she sure seemed the type. The assorted sisters, a couple of healers, and an elf mage he didn't think he had met before talked with Mother Giselle near Josephine's office.

"I am sorry, Herald, but Lady Montilyet is not in her office; I believe she is with the other leaders in the War Room." The elf mage said as they approached Josephine's door.

"Thank you, Mineave." Serrada nodded her head.

"Just gets better and better. I was hoping to beg her forgiveness between the two of us." She whispered to herself, but within John's hearing.

Finally, they stood before the door, "Sure seems like the Mother Superior's door. Did you clog the toilets?" He asked with a grin; Serrada snickered, "Possibly, what is a toilet?"

She put her hand on the door latch and pressed, then opened the door and walked in.

Across a large table with maps and diagrams stood the four most influential figures in his people's lives, Lady Cassandra Pendaghast, Commander Cullen, Lady Montilyet, and Lady Cousland, any one of which could end his and his people's hopes of returning to Earth or short of that, making a life on Thedas, and he was about to offend at least one and possibly two of those very people.

'Okay, John, I hope you remember junior high Shakespeare…' He started before Serrada could take the blame or even say a word.

"Please forgive me, Lady Montilyet; I was clumsy and caused an accident," he stood fully erect and pulled away the cloth covering the shards of pottery, revealing the true extent of his crimes.

"It was wholly my fault, and my Lady Trevelyan has been heartbroken; she could have done nothing to avert the disaster that I caused, so I beg you to forgive her for my sin; she is completely innocent." John would not even let Serrada say a word, "I know that this has great sentimental value to you, both of you, and it pains me more than I can say to have caused either of you such pain, but doubly to have caused both of you this pain since you have been so generous and welcoming to my people and me. I will endeavor to find some way to make up for this fault, as best I can." He placed the tray on the table, careful not to disturb the maps or any of the other items.

Serrada simply stood speechless, her mouth agape.

"The loss is truly grievous to me, Commander Gray; it was a gift bought at a great price by a very dear friend." Josephine glanced at Leliana, whose expression was utterly neutral; Josie knew that was not a good sign for Commander Gray.

"What do you propose to recompense me for the injury you have caused?" Josephine saw an opportunity and was going to capitalize on it.

"I believe that my people have been of some assistance to the Inquisition recently; I will ask them what other assistance they might be able to give. I understand that some of our skills might help you rescue some of your soldiers down south of the Hinterlands? I will ask them to assist as we are able."

John was starting to feel tired; he leaned on the wall. "Alas, I myself have no assets other than my right arm, and that is not what it was; I am still recovering, but with Mother Giselle's aid as well as Master Adan's, I will train to be a soldier in the Inquisition and place myself in the service of Lady Serrada Trevelyan The Herald of Andraste if she will have me, and devote any payment I receive to replace your losses."

All of the Quartet were taken aback, but none more than the mentioned Lady Trevelyan; she was now staring at him in open shock.

"That is very generous, and although it will take time for the monetary cost, there is still the matter of the loss of a much loved and treasured heirloom…." Josephine was enjoying the play, although she felt that it was rather one-sided, so far they had gotten all they wanted from Commander Gray and more, but she could not help but wonder what more he was willing to give for a loved, but in truth, a relatively inexpensive tea set, after all, it did not even have magical runes to keep the tea warm.

"I have given thought to this as well, on my … back home, potters and those who make such things use the broken remnants of other works as part of new works. Perhaps we could send these shards to an artisan who could incorporate the broken pieces into a new set, a sort of rebirth of the lost items, a rejuvenation of what was lost, and perhaps with your blessing what might be gained." John was exhausted; improvisation was never his favorite part of drama, a class he thought would be an easy A, but Sister Agatha would have none of it. It was one of the most challenging years of his whole academic career, and that included college.

It was the Nightingale's turn to speak. "You speak wisely Commander, I believe that it is an excellent idea, accidents do happen, and you have offered to both compensate for the gold lost but also provide a touching opportunity to renew and honor the old." Leliana had thoroughly enjoyed the exercise; she had received a report from Charter before the two had even finished gathering up the shards; she knew full well what happened and that the porcelain safety was as far for the Herald's mind as she bumped the tray on the way to aid the stricken commander. "I think it is an excellent salve for the wound. Do you not agree, Lady Montilyet?"

Josephine took up her business pose, "I will consider it, but I cannot see why it would not suffice." She shifted slightly while writing on her notepad.

"Most gracious of you, but I must ask a boon, I know I am owed nothing, but I ask that when fit, I will be allowed to train as much as I am able with the intent of leading such of my people who are willing, with the accompaniment of Lady Pendaghast and Corporal Lysette of the Inquisition Templars. I hope they can reason with the Templar leadership at Therinfal Redoubt. Perhaps it will mean nothing but perhaps their curiosity about us, and Ladies Pendaghast and Lysette will pique their interests enough to at least talk." John was at the end; he could not play-act anymore. He hoped it was enough. Regardless, he needed a nap.

"An insightful and welcome suggestion Commander Gray," Cassandra, although not as amused by such games as Josephine and Leliana, did understand the gravity of his offer, much more than he did, she suspected. Still, she was confident that he was right; she doubted if reports of the Newcomers capabilities had not reached Therinfal, after all, the parade of prisoners both human and dwarf which tramped through the Hinterlands at the head of a handful of Newcomers and Inquisition soldiers, would not go unnoticed and certainly would set tongues wagging. "I would be honored to accompany you on such a mission. I would volunteer to begin your training, but I will be with the Herald on our rescue mission in the Fallow Mire, perhaps Commander Cullen?"

"I would be honored; I will consult with Master Adan and Mother Giselle on your recovery immediately, then we shall begin; if you are half as adept as your men and women, you will do just fine." Cullen bowed slightly, John returned the bow, almost toppling over.

"Perhaps, just not today." Serrada had finally recovered her voice. "Josephine, I am so sorry …"

"I will take him back to his rooms. He needs to rest…" Serrada instinctively found herself putting her arm around John, although nothing gave her the impression he needed it, but he resisted and turned to face her.

"I appreciate your kind offer, and although I am fatigued, I believe I can make my own way back as I have taken up far to much of your valuable time. I suspect that these good people need your attention much more than you need mine; however, I do have one request." John waited a moment for dramatic effect, "Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight?"

Serrada was utterly taken aback, "I … I would … I would love to." Her eyes darted from Quartet member to member, Cassandra looked like she wanted to vomit, Cullen had a smirk, Josephine was biting her lip, and Leliana had a full smile.

John's eyes never left hers, "Excellent, shall we say seven bells … but where shall we go?" This time he did look at Leliana, and Josephine immediately jumped to attention.

"I will arrange everything; it will be in the…" She began to scribble furiously, creating notes to send to the kitchens and the support staff.

"Till this evening…" John took Serrada's hand and kissed it, over the top perhaps, but he thought he heard a sigh from one of the ladies behind the table. He carefully chose the hand, the hand that everyone avoided, the one that no one looked at, the hand with the mark.

He stood up as straight as he could, walked to the door, and made his exit without another word. "Wow, playing Romeo for an entire semester was worth something at any rate."

"Well done, Commander Gray, you are adapting well." Mother Giselle commented with a broad and honest smile. "You should be ready to start training as early as a day or two, perhaps tomorrow if I send my mages, do you agree?"

"Do what you need to do Mother, I am in your hands." John continued down the great hall toward the door.

"She is not for you, and you must know that." A languid deep voice came from the shadows.

"What? Who is what?" John asked, honestly surprised at the voice, let alone the comment.

"You very well know who and what." Vivienne finally came into the light of the hall, "She is of noble birth; we can not even establish your birth noble or common; her family will never allow such a match."

"I will write her family immediately; that will end the matter." Her voice was as oily as it was sweet. "Avoid the pain you will feel and inflict on her; just drop your sordid, little contrivances now."

"First, I have no sordid little contrivances other than to enjoy my evening meal with the most interesting and engaging person I have met on Thedas." John took one step forward; he felt the cold tickle of magic on his skin; he had faced death before, he ignored it. "Second, write your letter. I honestly have no plans other than to try and make a friend and lighten the load that girl is under, but if she is who I think she is, you will make our relationship stronger with your meddling, so write your fucking letter bitch, and choke on it."

John turned and left, yanking the door open with the strength of an ogre. As it slammed closed, he did not see the shock on the face of Madame de Fer, nor did he hear Mother Giselle's comment on the exchange.

"They will make a lovely couple." She turned away from the still reeling Vivienne as Giselle walked away, "I do hope they ask me to officiate."