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.

15. Out of the Fallow Mire

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.

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Out of the Fallow Mire

The Rain Never Ends

Lieutenant Eric Robert Johnson United States Navy hated horses, so of course, he had spent days on one.

'I can't help but wonder who I pissed off…' Eric looked up into the sky for some answer. It was about the time a wave of lukewarm rainwater hit him full in the face. 'Fucking great!'

The rain was coming down so heavy that the drops bumped into each other and turned into sheets like a carpet of rain so heavy it might knock you off a horse. That was bad enough, but the lightning and the thunder.

"I wonder if this was what it was like in an artillery barrage?" Eric could not help but think of home.

Riding gave you time to think; sometimes that was good, other times not so much. 'Was there any going back? Was there anything to go back to?'

That thought put him in a foul mood, nothing unusual lately. Things had been going along ok, and Eric could pretend that life was not what it was because he had a constant stream of young women to keep him occupied. But it was just an illusion, and he knew it.

The rain did not let up, neither did the horse as it traveled on. Every step made his ass hurt, although it took a day or two more than the Hinterland trip.

As strange as it sounded, in some ways, Haven was like home as a kid, sparsely populated, rustic with simple amenities like his family ranch in northern Utah. That thought brought him back to a sore spot, his brother Randy. He knew that Randy would have loved everything about Thedas.

Eric's best friend and idle was his older brother Randal, or Randy to his friends and family. There was a total of eight kids at dinner, they had a sister between them in age, but no one could tell with Eric, the youngest of the brood. Randy and Eric were as opposite as night and day. Randy was a bookworm who loved old stories; his heart was with King Arthur and the round table knights, later it was Tolkien with Aragorn, Boromir, and Minas Tirith. Eric loved a good fight or a bad one for that matter, throwing balls, hunting and fishing, but above all things, Eric loved Randy.

After reading The Lord of the Rings for the fiftieth time, Randy decided to make swords and shields in their dad's wood shop and talked Eric into helping. Grandpa had driven them into town to the library, and while Eric and Grandpa looked at books on soldiers of WWII, Randy had researched swords and shields and armor. Then it was off to the workshop.

By the end of summer, they had gotten rather good with them, only getting bruises on occasion. As they got older, they seemed to have gotten much better, even doing demonstrations and often beating 'knights' at the renaissance fairs outside Lehi and as far away as Denver.

The rain and the trail led on. Around them were now swampy grasses and dilapidated houses and rough cabins, the horse splashed through more puddles and across little streams.

He absentmindedly rode, Eric could not see himself, but his memories brought a wan smile. He thought of many lazy summer days when, after chores, they spent happy hours bashing swords on wooden shields; who was Arthur or Percival neither wanted to be Lancelot; he was an asshole traitor. Somehow Eric was always Percival, and Randy was Arthur. Eric's smile dimmed as he remembered his high-school lit teacher reminding the kids that Arthur was a tragic figure who died in battle after being betrayed by his closest friend and his wife — it was prophetic.

Eric planned to follow Randy's footsteps, graduating with honors, going on a mission to someplace exotic, marry his high-school sweetheart, and go to BYU. They had the grades, and Grandpa had promised the tuition. All a perfect plan.

Then Randy was gone, no mission, no marriage, or BYU. Instead, a diploma in the mail and a surprise Army enlistment.

Eric didn't get to his graduation either. No, he spent that day with his family watching his mother try to hold back tears as a grateful nation gave her a flag. That was when Eric laid out his new path. First, he would complete school and his mission for the Church; then he would marry Tammy if she would have him, lots of LDS wives had soldier husbands. Finally, he would take up the sword for Randy.

Even now, their beaten and bruised wooden swords and shields hung in their room over their beds back in Utah.

The horse in front of him suddenly lurched, and Erick looked up. Serrada's arm was in the air calling for a halt. The column of Inquisition forces stopped. That was fine with Eric; all that reminiscing had put him in another foul mood. The incessant rain and constant watching by everyone did not help.

He realized he was no longer alone; beside him was The Iron Bull; he had already had one lecture about the article in the man's name.

He kept noticing glances from the qunari; Eric wondered what he was looking for; finally, he had had enough.

"What?" Eric's head turned to face the side of beef, who rode a few feet to his right.

"Hey, you been kinda quiet, I didn't want to disturb you, but I was just wondering. The Ben-Hassrath want to know more about you guys, and I need to give them something." Bull shrugged his enormous shoulders.

"Tell them we shoot fire out of our asses," Eric replied to the question.

Before they left, John gave them the mission brief with a final message; he made it short and sweet — "Shut, the fuck, up!"

"Well, that will definitely get a response." Bull laughed. "Look, I am not trying to be an asshole here, but we have to tell them something!" The last was almost a plea.

"You look. We are just trying to get along here, alright? I have no idea what to tell you," Eric didn't dislike the guy, but he did not like spies, and this guy had come right out and told the Herald he was a spy! "That is all above my pay grade."

"Yeah, that is what I thought." The Iron Bull turned back to look ahead. "You guys need to get it through your heads that they know about you, and one way or another, they will find out what they want to know."

Eric hated horses, yes, he did, and right now, he was not terribly fond of Bulls either. He pulled the horse up short, turning to The Iron Bull.

"Let me make myself clear, The Iron Bull. You are the Ben-whatsit agent; keep them in line. Any of our people disappear, get murdered, or stub their toes going to take a crap, and I will personally rip off your head and shit down your throat. Am I clear?" Eric did not want any miss understandings.

"Big talk for a little man." Bull growled, pulling up close to look down on Eric, "Any time you want to try that, let me know."

"Let me make it clearer; I watched my boss take a quinary apart without breaking a sweat; I am game if you are…" Eric did not back down one little bit.

Bull noticed, to be honest, he did not want to piss anyone off, but he was not going to back down on this; he needed to make an impression, plus it would be interesting to see...

Bull did just as Eric expected; Bull laughed and threw a punch.

Martial arts, like HapKiDo, Taekwando, Judo, and Wing Chun, are widely practiced on Earth; some are less known, but all are refined and taught generation after generation. Others are specialized in military training, like Krav Maga and a hundred other variations, all of which can be effective against an opponent. However, a true master of martial arts understands that these are simply tools; one must train in many disciplines then take all that training and throw it away, keeping what works for them. Combine that knowledge with a person who dedicates their lives using those skills to take the lives of their enemies? That is an elite warrior who is by nature a weapon.

One such weapon was the target of Bull's punch. It was a decent punch, one that would have rung the bell of most warriors on Thedas and killed many, but it was a bit slow and overextended since it was from horseback, not as effective as it could have been. In the exact moment, Eric spurred the horse forward, blocked with a punch that was faster, shorter distance, had his and the horse's weight behind it. The Iron Bull hit the ground with a massive splash of mud and dirty water. Eric deftly grabbed the reigns of Bull's horse.

"Maker, are you two finished yet?" Serrada had pulled up beside Eric.

"Worst case of mine is bigger than yours I have ever seen," Blackwall, with a snort of laughter, added from the head of the column.

"Good one." Came the sigh from the ground; Bull was not trying to get up. "I think I would rather be kicked in the head by a mule."

"I think you were, Bull." Serrada wheeled on Eric, "Lieutenant Johnson, what exactly is going on?"

"He was weaseling for information, and I set him straight to talk to the brass. He then made a threat, or it sounded like it to me, and I told him where to stick it, and he threw a punch, I threw a better one." Eric responded while shrugging his shoulders.

"A much better one," Bull started up by grabbing the horse's stirrup and pulling himself up.

"Well, Bull?" Serrada responded, "What did you learn?"

"You were right, Boss; they are loyal to each other, and that one is fast and hits like a girl …" Bull adjusted his jaw then pushed a couple of loose teeth back into position, "a really mean, strong, fucking big girl." He smiled at Eric and winked, and Eric rolled his eyes.

"This was a test?" Eric looked completely confused and a little angry, "Some sort of fucking test!"

"Watch your language, Lieutenant." Cassandra had ridden back to join the little discussion. "You may use that sort of language in your own company, but we expect greater decorum."

'What the fuck? Seriously, why all the games? Is this a test? What? To whether we can fight? Harding should have told them we can…' However, he only asked, "Why?"

"I read Harding's report, she said you and your men were good with your weapons, but an archer can be deadly with the bow but helpless when his quiver is empty." Serrada responded, "Some men are excellent with sword and shield when the opponent is a practice dummy but can not kill. I needed to know for myself."

"Bull was wondering as well; he had heard of the Haven Duel and wondered if it was a fluke from an out of shape Tal-Vashoth and wanted to know." Serrada continued, "I decided to kill two serpents with one blow; I don't apologize, I don't have time or space for those who cannot defend themselves with any weapon at hand." She turned and rode back to the head of the column with Cassandra.

"No hard feelings?" Bull added, finally crawling back into the saddle, he was still very dizzy, 'I wonder when the little fucking dragons are going to go away? Going round and round makes me want to puke.'

"No, sorry, I went overboard." Eric was feeling a little weird about the whole thing. They both spurred their horses forward.

"Listen, you were right not to trust me. You shouldn't, but you have to trust someone, or you will go crazy." Bull responded; he actually felt for the Newcomers. He knew very well how it was to be on the outside, always trying to control information to protect himself and his friends. He hoped to continue that razor's edge balancing act; he had built his own family; he would not let them down.

"Look, don't worry about the Ben-Hassrath; Red told me upfront that the story was shit but that she was working on firming something up. I will keep the bastards busy until then."

"Thanks, I just feel like we are swimming in shark-infested waters with steak floaties." Eric had to admit he did feel a little better and a little bit more relaxed. It is hard to stay in red-zone all the time.

Bull belted out a laugh, "Yeah, I know, right? What's a shark?"

Curiosity Kills A Kat

The pebble that started an avalanche was a single question, the one Tessa asked Gliril. Gliril and Tessa were kindred spirits; both were now orphans. Like Gliril's parents, Tessa's father had died in the Fifth Blight, but unlike her parents, he was a warrior with Cailin at Ostagar. Tessa and her mother took refuge in the Chantry and followed their Reverend Mother to Haven for work; Tessa's mother had been so happy to be given a senior servant's position at the Conclave. Tessa was apprenticed to the kitchens in Haven.

"Where do they come from?" Tessa asked the question while she and Gliril were standing together, sifting flour for cookies. Cookies just like those her mistress had given as a peace offering. Tessa asked the question nonchalantly, or at least she tried to, but she did not have the skill, or perhaps Gliril's training with Charter and the Nightingale had caused her to question why the question was asked.

"Who?" Gliril knew who she meant but was trying to buy time. 'Maker! Please, Tessa, don't ask, Andraste, please!'

"The Newcomers silly, where do they come from? Everyone wants to know!" Tessa tried to keep her voice even, but the eagerness was showing.

"I don't really know Tessa; I wish I did; wouldn't it be wonderful if it were someplace mysterious?" Gliril tried to sound as vacuous as the romantic girls she often heard dreaming of a prince they hoped would discover them. "Maybe they traveled from the sea? Or flew on griffins, no those are all gone, eagles maybe?" She giggled, hoping it sounded sincere. Both girls were giggling.

"Oh drat, I am out of Sweet Crystal; I will be back in a moment." Gliril raced from the kitchens and looked for Charter, who she found near her cabin; Gliril used her hand signals to arrange a meeting in the Chantry.

Just inside the doors, Gliril related Tessa's question, and Charter immediately looked troubled, "Quick girl, go find Tessa and bring her back to the Chantry. I will find the Nightingale."

Gliril raced to the kitchens looking for Tessa, but she was no longer there, but her things were, which worried Gliril; Tessa was to finish the evening baking. Gliril found the bread still in the ovens and over-baked as if Tessa had left in the middle of her task, something Tessa would never willingly do. Hunter appeared, and Gliril sent him away with a message then continued her search. She checked the shared cabin Tessa lived in, but she was not there. Fear was growing in her heart; intuition compelled Gliril to fit behind her cabin. There she found, in the refuse barrels, Tessa, or what was left of her.

"Oh, Tessa, what did you do?" Gliril tried to lift the body out of the barrel, but it fell over on the snowy ground. Her still-warm body was bound both hand and foot; a cooking rag was stuffed in her mouth so far that it poked through her deeply slit throat. Gliril was no mage, but she had seen enough; it was too late for Tessa; it had been too long, and no mage or potion could revive her.

Gliril found herself rocking the body of her friend. "I am sorry, Tessa, I was only gone for a few minutes; I should have taken you with me. Please forgive me. What happened, honey? Who did this to you?" Tears were flowing down her cheeks now; she could see the trace of tears in the flour on Tessa's face, a face now frozen in fear, her clouded eyes still open.

As if by way of answer, Gliril noticed the girl's fist was tightly clenched. She carefully pried the fingers open to find a small fetish the likes of which she had never seen, even in Seggrit's wares, but she had seen similar runes on dwarven writings.

"You found her," Charter whispered and knelt near her and Tessa. "I am sorry Gliril, do you have any idea who did this?"

"I am sorry, Tessa." Gliril repeated, carefully laying her body down, "No Charter, I don't, but I am going to find out. She was clutching this, looks dwarven, I will ask Varric. Please take care of her." Before Charter could respond, Gliril was gone.

From the servant's cabins, she moved across Haven; running oblivious of others, she raced directly through the center of Haven, crossing between Leliana and the Quartermasters tents, leaping down the wall where Varric pitched his.

"Varric, have you seen one of these before." Gliril showed him the fetish. He looked at the small piece of polished bone; his eyes showed recognition immediately.

"I thought I recognized that pile of nug shit." Varric grabbed Bianca and started toward the village's main gate; he did not even look to see if the elf was behind him; he knew she was. "He is Carta! I thought he was familiar, but I couldn't place him till you showed me that … thing."

Through the gate, they went left; the South Gate was permanently closed since the Conclave explosion, both at a dead run.

"Who is he!" Gliril asked; they were running side by side now; Varric was running so fast that he could barely talk; Gliril was not even trying. "What is this?"

"Fingerbone" breath, "Token…" puff, "Initiation…" pant, "First, victim…" breath, "Family …" pant, "Usually distant…" puff, "He … sister …"

Gliril pulled in front of the dwarf, who was nearly out of breath, "You mean he killed his sister to join the Carta?"

Varric stopped, bent at the waist to breathe, "Yes … usually distant … family … uncle … grand … parent … Not him … killed … youngest … sister only ..." He looked up, Gliril was examining the bone, they both started running again. Still, Gliril was already a dozen paces ahead and swiftly leaving him behind.

'What kind of sick shite kills his sister?' She glanced down at the sliver of bone that marked a murderer and a victim. 'She must have been a baby!' Gliril thought of Tessa, bound, terrified, and murdered.

'You like to kill girls, do you? Well, try me, you shite!' She could feel the weight of the Bowie knife in the sheath she had made for it; it was so long it ran the length of her back.

She had no way to identify him, but there could not be that many dwarves leaving Haven; however, there were enough that she had to get to him before he left; otherwise, she would never catch him.

With the Inquisitions growing fame and success, there was always a steady stream of people crossing the bridge, so many that the guarded doors generally stood open; her only hope is that there were fewer leaving than entering this time of the day and that those numbers would slow the bastard down. She pushed her body with all her will, forcing legs well past their normal limits, feet pounding snow-sprinkled paths tread firm as stone by many feet. Her sharp eyes searching faces coming and backs going, finally, she thought she saw a shape, well ahead almost to the inner gate which, as she expected, stood open.

"Hey! Close the gate! Close the gate!" She tried to alert the guards, but they did not hear her with travelers' din and general noise. 'I am not in Inquisition a uniform; they probably wouldn't listen anyway!'

It was too late; the dwarf had passed the first gate before she could alert them.

'If he gets past the second gate, I will lose him in the crowd!' A real danger since she had not yet seen his face, but providence or vanity caused the dwarf to make his first mistake.

The dwarf on horseback turned, smiled, waved, and blew her a kiss! She now knew his face and the tattoos he wore.

Gliril's blood boiled now; she had been feeling the pain of the chase, she had sprinted for better than a quarter-mile, and she was nearing the end of her strength, but something about his actions made her feel renewed. Rather than flagging in her speed, she found herself running faster than she imagined. But she knew it would not be enough; once past the inner gate, the crowd thinned until the outer gate, she watched him spur his horse and increase the distance between them, but she did not slow. He was almost to the outer gate.

"Maker, please don't let him escape!" She tried to force more speed from her legs, but she could not match a Ferelden Forder. "Andraste, please help me!"

As if an answer to her prayer, Gliril noticed a group running up the hill toward the outer gate. They ran in formation, four of them, two abreast, all in perfect timing; one was a mountain of a man, but none were small save one, which Gliril realized was a woman. They were perhaps a hundred paces down the path from the outer gate headed back to Haven; the dwarf passed the outer gate and turned directly toward them!

Without a thought for her safety, Gliril leapt to the top of the bridge parapet, a hundred feet above the rocks below.

"Master! LJ! Stop that dwarf!" She waved her arms and screamed at the top of her lungs, but they were too far away. She could see them stop and look at her, cupping their hands to their ears.

'They can't hear me!' Screaming till her throat burned, "Stop! … That! … Dwarf!" She pointed to the mounted dwarf now moving toward them.

Here is when the dwarf made his second mistake. If he had simply kept his horse at a walk on the crowded lane, he might have been able to escape. After all, he was not the only mounted traveler leisurely riding his horse down from Haven toward their own destination; he would likely have never been noticed. But unfortunately for him, his nerve did not hold.

Katrin, a cousin of the Carta legend Jarvia of Orzamar, glanced over his right shoulder, seeing the elf slut. He knew she was that scullery wench's friend, and she was shouting and waving her arms like a fool; well, it did something that the Orzamar guard, the Ferelden army, and even Carta enforcers had failed to do. Seeing the Inquisition quartet straining to hear the sluts screams, he panicked and spurred his horse while whipping it to a run.

Frozen to the spot, Gliril could only watch; the horse plowed through the travelers, many merely pushed aside, but others were trampled. She could see her master and his companions now understood that something was very wrong and were swiftly reacting, but what could they do? They had no weapons, not a shield or sword.

She watched helplessly as Tessa's killer made his way to freedom, and her hopes of justice for the girl burned around her. Or so she thought, when as the beast and the horse beneath it came close to her master, she saw the mountain of a man, LJ, leap with a grace she could not believe of him and tore the dwarf cleanly from his saddle. Both were tumbling down the embankment toward the rocky floor of the gorge below. Master John and the woman chased after the tumbling pair as a third man, Rodeo, she guessed, captured the panic-stricken horse before it could cause further injury.

As if a spell were broken, Gliril broke free of her frozen state and ran down the wall to the outer gate, finally leaping to the pavement. She did not see the end of the tussle but arrived as LJ was climbing back to the road carrying the struggling dwarf by the throat. As she approached, Gliril could see the hilt of a dagger protruding from LJ's left shoulder. At this point, Varric and panting Inquisition soldiers were nearly upon them.

"Quick, strip him; he might have poison," Varric shouted as he gasped for breath. "I really need to lose a couple of pounds."

Gliril watched as the dwarf frantically fought, searching his clothing for something, then she realized what it was.

"Looking for this?" She held up the fetish, 'It must open somehow, I will give it to Mistress Leliana; she can decide what to do with it. But I want him.' At this point, the dwarf had gone limp; Master John bound his hands behind his back as the woman bound his feet.

"You and I are going to have a little talk." The malice in Gliril's eyes sent a shiver from the top of the dwarf's head to his feet, so intense was it that even John took a step back. "You are going to answer every question we put to you, then you will answer for …" The name caught in her throat.

Varric and the soldiers took the naked and bound prisoner to the Chantry cells. John thought of his own time in those cells and felt a qualm of sympathy for the dwarf; that is until Gliril told her master what the dwarf, they now knew was called Katrin, had done; John's sympathy evaporated like morning dew on a Sahara dune. That sympathy returned but only briefly when he saw the hunger for revenge in Gliril's eyes.

He knelt on his knees and made her stop and look at him; even on his knees, he was nearly as tall a she was.

"Gliril, listen to me. Don't let this little son of a bitch destroy you." He felt himself near tears; she was so much like he imagined Sarah might be. "If you lose who you are, then I will lose someone I love very much."

He fought back his tears, 'What is wrong with me!'

The realization was so profound that it escaped his lips, "I can't lose another daughter." So quiet were those whispered words, only Gliril heard them, and they touched a very long-forgotten part of her; she kept them in her heart.

"I promise I will not let hate destroy me. I must know why, and he must pay. Tessa was … She did not deserve what happened to her." Gliril held his eyes; a tear fell. Then she was gone.

"They grow up so fast." Varric followed the procession.

John just stood, watching them go, feeling more alone and empty than ever.

Justice or Revenge

"Commander Gray," Lady Leliana Cousland caught him while he was just finishing his afternoon blade work.

"Take a break, Commander; you look tired." Cullen wiped the sweat from his brow, sweat that was not present on John Gray's forehead. "I have work I have been avoiding; perhaps we can continue after evening meal or tomorrow?" Leliana and John watched as Commander Cullen walked away to find some water.

John put down his practice sword and shield. They were each double weight. She surveyed the pile of broken shields and two broken practice swords, all while shaking her head in wonder.

"Please leave something of our commander; it would be a shame if you killed him in practice, no?" The smirk Leliana gave John would have put Mona Lisa to shame.

"I promise he will not die on my account." John's response was colder than the Frostbacks. He surveyed his men helping the Inquisition soldiers with their PT. The foundry had been most helpful in providing scrap iron ingots for dumbbells and barbells. They would be in decent shape in a few weeks. They both watched as soldiers took bets on a competition between LJ and Okanog on a bench press; the weight had exceeded four hundred pounds and showed no signs of stopping.

"What can I do for you, Lady Cousland?" John was practicing the titles, trying to get himself used to them, and he was careful to ensure the chilled edge extended to her name.

"Leliana, please, have I not told you before?" Her friendly tone sounded honest, but who could tell.

"Yes, you have. Now, what can I do for you, Lady Cousland?" John tried not to be disrespectful, but he was still angry; no - furious.

Her sigh was not subtle, nor was the look of regret or perhaps pain in her eyes.

"I have come to tell you something about Gliril's … conversation with our Carta guest. As well as to discuss my concerns…" Leliana actually sounded nervous, "You may not know that I have been teaching young Gliril some … skills which she may find useful in the coming months and years." She could hear the rage in the man's voice; although she sympathized and thought if she were in his place, her feelings would be the same, but she was not, and she would use whomever she must to close the breach and save the world – Gliril included.

"May we please go inside? The things I wish to discuss are for your ears only." She started toward the door to the common rooms, seemingly expecting him to follow. Luckily, he did have the kettle on the hearth; the water should be hot by now.

Following, John wondered, 'Where is Gliril anyway?' He had not seen the girl since she went to participate in the interrogations of the Carta spy. 'Do I want to know?' They sat in the common room; it was disserted as was usual these days, everyone to their tasks, it was now a lonely place at times. He moved the furniture to allow them to talk.

He sat in an uncomfortable silence with Leliana, who for the first time seemed — nervous?

He was more than a little angry with her, mostly because she was partly responsible for the changes that Gliril had been going through. Still, in truth, he knew the Gliril was not Sarah. Gliril had survived horrors that he could not imagine, but that did not mean he should not want something better for her — as he would for Sarah.

He was finishing the tea preparations; he had been taking some lessons on this too; Sam being English, was helpful in that as well. He had learned on Thedas, making tea was a skill that was expected of everyone regardless of their station. It was a good thing he was a fast learner.

"You must remember, she came to me, … well eventually…" Leliana wanted to be completely honest with this man, much would depend on his trusting her, "I never intended to harm her, but she is always close to the Herald…"

"Her name is Serrada, not Lady Trevelyan, not the fucking Herald of whoever," he paused, knowing he had gone too far. "I am sorry, Andraste, her faith deserves more respect than that, but her name is Serrada. If you wish to speak to me about her and remain in one piece, you will do her the courtesy of recognizing her as a person by using her name, not that fucking title!" John was standing leaning over the shelf near the hearth; he had made it to give him space to make tea. He had just filled the teapot too steep, replacing the kettle on heat. John now realized his hands were gripping the heavy timber on which sat the delicate tea service. He clutched the thick beam with such intensity that his knuckles were white.

Leliana's response was quiet and measure, "She is both, Commander, to us. Yes, she is Serrada, a remarkable young woman who has a heart, dreams, desires, needs, but to the rest of Thedas, she is the Herald of Andraste, and we need her to be that, otherwise everyone will suffer for it." Leliana said softly; she had moved up behind the man she was trying to reach, "Everyone."

Leliana continued, but now her voice carried a strong undercurrent of sorrow, "I know what it is to love someone who means something to everyone." She paused; John did not look at her; otherwise, he might have seen the strain and a tear, "They can never truly be yours alone, but worse, they can never truly be themselves, except perhaps they can when they are with you. Treasure those moments Commander, they are all too few."

The silence was heavy; Leliana was breathing evenly, trying not to show the tension she felt or betray her own sadness. Leliana knew it was possible for this meeting to go badly, perhaps tragically so. She was formidable, and she knew it, but from the reports, she had received… Cullen had said he was a natural swordsman, already better than many of the Inquisitions ordinary soldiers. He had great potential with proper training.

The others of the Newcomers were not so skilled; he had said that Eric and Patrick had some experience; the rest were novices and would need a great deal of training. As for Commander Gray, Cullen would hand his training off to Cassandra, the only member of the Inquisition who was a renowned swordsman. Leliana had already seen him fight bare-handed. She knew if he lost his composure, she would be in the fight of her life, one she could not afford to lose. That is why so many of her people were waiting, just in case. She did not think it likely, but she could not afford to be wrong.

She pondered the man whose vulnerable back was to her, although she suspected he was not all that vulnerable even now, 'His only weakness was his men, and now …'

'Maker, please let him see reason; we are not his enemy, The Herald…' Suddenly she had a flash of understanding; she thought of how Ellana must feel, to be this person, this creation of circumstance and pomp, not just a woman who was torn from her love by duty. 'No, not The Herald, Serrada Trevelyan.'

"Jam or honey?" John asked without looking at Leliana. He could not help but wonder, 'I wonder if she will simply knife me in the back and be done with it? Would I even try to stop her?'

Somehow, he knew she would not, perhaps to torture him more.

"Honey, please," Leliana said, her voice lacking in the usual confidence she seemed to have in abundance.

"John, Gliril is not your daughter, and Thedas is not your Earth." She let that hang in the air.

"For her sake, I wish it were. The girl's life would have been much more joyful." There was a sigh of sadness buried in those words, not envy or jealousy as he might have expected.

He could not help but wonder if she meant that as much for herself as she did for Gliril. He pondered if it would have been true regardless.

"Not necessarily. Earth is no Garden of Eden; it is full of pain and suffering. It seems to be the one thing we humans do very well, make each other miserable." He finished pouring out; he could easily see the new graves in the desert of Iraq; there seemed to always be enough pain to go around everywhere. He did this as he handed Leliana her tea. Then he sat down with his cup.

"She must learn to survive," She took a sip of her tea, "as must you and those with you."

"Is she alright?" John still could not look at Leliana, "Was it worth what it did … will do to her?"

"I believe so; we learned a great deal. I must tell you that that dwarf was a monster; Varric knew some of his history, he was well known to many in the Merchants Guild and many factions of the Carta – both the surface and Orzammar. He is - was - an assassin, a vicious killer who took great pleasure in his work. He was a cousin to a self-styled Carta Paragon named Jarvia, which bought him certain," She sipped but would not meet John's eye. "… privileges."

She waited a moment, took a sip, then continued, "He was sent to gather information and deliver a message of reprisal. He originally thought to kill Gliril or one of your people but discovered that they are protected and frankly more dangerous than he expected. Even then, he underestimated them, as his easy capture proved. I believe he murdered poor Tessa because he could not restrain himself."

"Easy? LJ had a dagger driven completely through his shoulder!" John looked incredulous.

"Yes, and still, he captured a trained assassin and carried him up the slope by the throat with one hand. I would consider that easy." Leliana sipped her tea.

"Regardless, I believe the message was received, and we, or rather Gliril, returned the … response which I assume was also received and avenged Tessa as well." Leliana did not meet his eyes; instead, she intently studied her cup.

"Where is Gliril?" John asked, looking out the window; he could not meet her eyes either.

"She is bathing." She put down the cup and saucer, "She has been for hours."

"You can't wash the guilt away with soap and water," John stated the obvious as only one who had tried could.

"No, no, you cannot." Leliana agreed, sharing the knowledge with him.

"Is he dead?" John didn't really care; after getting LJ back to the infirmary, he left to search for Gliril, but Charter, Giselle, and several guards would not let him into the Chantry; when asked what was going on, Giselle took him to where Tessa's body was discovered, and eventually the body itself.

"Not quite, but he must certainly wish he was. Gliril … it seems … harbored a great deal of rage …" She could not bring herself to describe what Gliril did to the dwarf.

Leliana continued, trying to explain, "Tessa could not answer his question, he could have left her alone, but he chose to murder her. Not because she was a threat, he knew she was not, no. He terrorized her then cut her throat because he could. An act in which he took great pleasure, drinking in her fear and suffering."

"That creature was traveling to the Hinterland; he was to visit a young girl at Master Dennet's farm. I suspect, Gliril saved several lives, Commander." Leliana was trying to help him see the necessity. "He would not have given us that information without … extreme measures."

John simply nodded; he understood the necessity to do terrible things to avoid worse ones, but he would have been willing to do them; it should not have been Gliril, "You should have asked me; I would have done it." His voice was cold, and even, he knew there was no reason they should. It was sure that there were those very able to extract what they needed, his scars proved that, but still, he would have readily spared Gliril the pain that he knew would come. "Why did you not ask?"

"Because Commander, it was not your place, nor mine. Gliril needed this, as awful as it was, she needed to gain some measure of closure, for Tessa but also for herself." She held his gaze, "I understand your desire to spare her the guilt, but she would not have allowed that I am sure."

"He will be returned to his employers, although he will no longer be able to tell…. They will likely kill him, a mercy really, given his … condition." She shuddered at the memory of the elf girl leaving the cells drenched in blood, accompanied by the boxes of salted appendages she had prepared and packed. The twenty-eight small boxes, filled with finger joints, in memory of a young dwarf girl, killed to convince the Carta that the torso that accompanied the boxes was worthy of membership. Torso was the more accurate term than the name Katrin. The dwarf that was once Katrin was now trapped in a prison of silence and darkness, as it could no longer see through empty sockets, hear through boiling wax-filled ears, or scream through a tongue-less mouth.

Putting down the cup and saucer, "We must discuss what caused this tragedy and decide how to avert its repeat." Leliana was determined to gain some control of the Newcomers for the sake of the Inquisition and their safety. John had formally offered to join the Inquisition, which had been kept from the other Newcomers. Leliana hoped it would not become an issue but, once known, might inspire the rest to follow suit. Although they were disciplined, they were uncontrolled, which made them a threat to each other and the Inquisition. That would have to end.

They spoke for an hour; when it was done, they had a plan, a good one. One that she would refine and then work with Josephine to implement. Finally, the second pot of tea was gone, and both their duties were pressing. As John did the washing up, Leliana paused at the door.

"Beware Maferath's folly, Commander; she belongs to all Thedas," Leliana's voice resounded with the knowledge of experience "it will be difficult loving her, but she will need your love, and I think you are strong enough to love her."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, looking around the now empty room.

Stories Have Meaning

On the day of Tessa's death, John called an all-hands meeting for after dinner. It was going to be contentious, and he knew it.

The mission to rescue the Inquisition troops was three days gone the day Tessa died. Luckily, given their recent work in Iraq, his guys knew the drill, and nothing was different on Thedas … JUST … DON'T … TALK!

Now, the Inquisition leadership had committed to spending the resources needed to work out a better story and put the pieces in place to make it believable. The question was - could he get buy-in? And by buy-in, he meant the academics.

Just as he expected, the scientists were not happy, not happy at all. Sam thought that asking Leliana to explain some of the things she had discovered and the bounty on any of their heads might help. It didn't; it just hardened their opinions that complete openness was their only hope.

Leliana had promised John and Samantha that they would be left alone, unwatched by her people, at least for the meeting, and those same people would persuade everyone else to stay away. She could not promise, however, that other means might not be used.

The conversation was lively, to say the least; the academics, led by Dr. Diya Sandhya Signh or Sunny for short, asserted that keeping back information would make them more of a target.

John did not know Sunny well; he and his team had spoken, and some drank with her at the Maiden. He did know she was one of Sam's techs, very bright as all Sam's people were. He had heard she had even had a short stint as a Medic with the Brits in Afghanistan. She was injured in a mortar attack and mustered out, and that earned some serious brownie points with his guys. Since coming to Haven, she worked with José; he could not recall why Sam chose her and made a note to ask, but the truth was that whatever it was on Earth, it was probably meaningless on Thedas.

"Can't you see, secrecy only breeds distrust," Sunny argued, and the academics all nodded their assent, "If we keep secrets and are discovered, we will never have any peace, and secrets always come out."

John sighed, "There in lies the problem; liars never believe the truth."

The argument seemed to go on for hours, as John tried to persuade them otherwise, then Hollywood had an idea. He brought Leliana back and asked her to describe what persuasion methods she had seen or heard of being used. Her description was clear, concise, and graphic; she even showed some of her torture scars from her own time as a guest of Ferelden justice. Those were displayed in private to whoever would look; Sam and Sunny came back from that display and promptly filled a bucket with vomit.

"That's the point!" Sunny screamed. "If we tell anyone who asks what they want to know, then they have no reason to go after us; all they have to do is ask! We don't owe anyone anything here; I just want to go home!" She crumpled, weeping, to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut. Until that moment, most of the heads in the room were nodding in agreement. Now everyone froze, watching to see if she was breaking. Everyone held their breath, and some wondered how long it would be before they failed under their own strain.

Several women rushed to comfort Sunny; it was not until that moment that he realized Sera was in their number. Lately, where Rachelle was, Sera was also, so he should not have been surprised. At first, he thought to say something then realized that it was a pointless exercise. Besides, he knew the looks that Sera and Rachelle exchanged, whatever Rachelle needed Sera and her bow would get. Anyone who thought Rachelle was an easy target would have a very rude awakening and an even shorter life.

Leliana looked as if she was going to leave, but John stopped her. "Leliana, please stay."

"You all might have heard that this morning, there was an incident." John started, he had not wanted to violate Tessa's privacy, and he had promised Gliril, but they were not listening. He took out his phone, "I will pass something around; you all need to see what talking costs." The photos of Tessa drew more gasps and a few retching fits.

John stood to get everyone's attention. "You say that keeping secrets is the problem; you say we are here now; we should share with everyone."

"That is a very naive view." John asserted in a tone that allowed no disagreement, "That girl died because she could not get an answer to one question - where we came from. Even if she had known, who would have believed her?" He swung his arm, gesturing to the world outside, "This is a world of secrets, as bad as anything on Earth maybe worse."

He stood straight now, using his full height to command attention. "Just how many do you think will believe you have shared all of your knowledge? How many do you think will be willing to use torture to ensure that you have given all? To ensure you share it with no one else? From what I understand, the Qunari are the only people who know what black powder is and how to use it. If our knowledge of gunpowder were known to the Qunari, how long do you think it will be before they launch a full-scale invasion to keep us from giving that to Tevinter or Orlais? How hard do you think Tevinter will work to get one of us to question? Maybe about how to make gunpowder, and what would they do to get smokeless powder, rockets, cannon, rifle, or a plane?"

He let the questions hang in the air; he needed them to have time to think. "Our only hope is to kiss the asses of those who can keep our secret and are not affiliated with any particular nation; the Inquisition is the only option."

The room was silent, except for Sunny's occasional whimper. "I know that this is not easy, but I am certain that it is the only way. No one here trusts us. We are a complete mystery and therefore a threat to every power structure but one." He glanced at Leliana, "I believe we have friends here …"

'This is harder than I thought.' John took a deep breath, "I have already pledged myself to the Inquisition. I will begin wearing the uniform immediately; that is how much I believe in this path."

Shock seemed to fill the room; the stunned faces certainly did, particularly those of his men. They looked at each other then back to him.

They all were silent, but John thought he had their support. Sam huddled with the eggheads; they whispered back and forth for a couple of minutes while John found his men surrounding him.

"So just when the fuck were you planning to tell us?" LJ started with more heat than usual for him.

'There are going to be more discussions on this, I can tell.' John looked each in the eye. "I planned to tell you all in private once Eric and Paddy got back. I am sorry, it was not an easy decision, it was not easy to take off my uniform, my flag, but I think I needed to commit so they can trust us. If I ever get back home, then I will be who I was, but now…."

He paused a moment to think, 'Who am I here? What am I here?' The answer did not readily come, "Now I need to chart a new course, for me at least."

"Are you still in command?" As Hollywood was looking at his feet, he softly asked the question they all had on their minds.

"Well, that depends on you. I picked all of you for this mission because of who you were and what you could do, not because of the uniform, rank, or service. Hell, if you were civilians, I would have picked you … well, maybe not Eric, but…" The group chuckled, "You all have to make your decisions, and I will respect them. We are a fuckload away from home, and God only knows if we will ever see it again. I can't hold you to promises made in a bar at Langley; we are here now. Regardless of what you decided, I have been proud to lead you wherever we have been and will go."

"Jesus, boss, you keep talking like that, and I will have to get drunk." Hollywood showed the emotions they all felt, "Look, I said I would follow you to Iraq, not for the fucking flag or some dusty shit no one knew about, but because you asked. I am not done yet, so let's just move the fuck on."

LJ suddenly wore the mischievous look that made John worry every time it showed itself, "Wait! You are Inquisition now, right? That means you get paid?" LJ turned up the volume, so everyone in the room could hear, "Drinks are on the boss at the Maiden when we are done. Let's take a vote or something because I am getting damned thirsty!"

No one seemed to hear John's protestations, and everyone agreed who would be getting the tab tonight. Then a vote was taken, and it was unanimous. John had carried the day, as did his wallet.

With the agreement came the realization that a new story was needed, not one that would discredit the previous story but supplant it with one that was fuller and more believable.

Leliana listened to the debate; of course, she had been gently directing it. It was always better for the person you are trying to persuade to believe an idea was their own rather than yours. They were more willing to accept it that way; she had gone to one of the covered windows and made a series of hand signs that she knew would quickly bring both Gliril and Josephine.

"We need a cover story, one that is better than they are from far away…" John looked around the room. "So, if you have any ideas, let's hear them…"

"Ya' sound like Ferelden, just say ya' come from here…" Sera stated as if it were as easy as that.

"Yes, yes, their accent is definitely Ferelden, but why would there be no record of them or their travels?" Leliana asked, knowing that the Chantry recorded every birth and death if they could, "They certainly are not out of the Wild, no?"

"Yea' no furs or nothin' how 'bout refugees?" Sera added, "Might be from Blight?"

"That may do for the younger ones, we could say from outer holds of Lothering …" Leliana's voice caught, thinking of so many friends she had lost there. "Or even survivors of Honnleath, I may be able to find a way to support that …"

"Hold on, how are we going to pull that off? I don't know a bloody thing about anything here!" Sunny had recovered her composure enough to respond, with lots of heads nodding in agreement, "Look, I appreciate the problem, but I have to be able to carry this off."

"Yeah, what the hell is a Lothering or a Honnleath? For that matter, I just barely figured out Ferelden was a country, not a state or province of Orlais!" Rodeo interjected, he was good with maps, but John and Eric were the only ones who had seen the large map of Thedas in the war room. Everyone else had only seen a simple representation of the larger map needed for the short missions they had been on; most had seen nothing at all.

The door silently opened, and Josephine swept into the room, followed by a quite circumspect Gliril.

"You do pose a problem," Josephine commented as if she had been in the room the whole time.

"I believe that some sort of education is in order. It fits well with your history; after all, you have never been to Ferelden, it would be reasonable to have some sort of training, education as it were." Josephine made a series of notes, "I have many other duties, but I can begin your education and will find a tutor for you."

"I will take time to assist, and I believe I know an excellent candidate to shoulder the burden once she returns from Red Cliff." Leliana glanced at Josephine, who took notes. "We will need a series of books, something simple…"

"I know just the author who might assist," Josephine smiled back at Leliana, "I will ask him this evening."

"That is fine, but it still does not explain …" Sam gestured with arms spread palms up, "us!"

"I have given thought to that… " Josephine stood close to the fireplace to get everyone's attention, "My family were sea fairing traders for many generations. We have heard of a series of islands well off of the coast of Rivain; it is said that the islands are invisible except on very calm days."

She enjoyed being the center of attention, telling the story with as much flair and suspense as any bard could. "No one has landed as it is surrounded by a reef just inches below the water's surface. A reef so sharp and deadly that no ship could hope to approach and survive! Those few who have seen these islands say that they are large and lush with enough room for thousands to make a life, but for anyone who ventured it, there would be no return!"

All listened to her story but looked back and forth between themselves, confusion evident on their faces.

"I propose this, that a ship or ships loaded with refugees from the Ferelden civil war were blown off course when trying to reach Rivain, and their ship went aground on the Invisible island. That the survivors made a home there and after many years finally were able to build a ship to at least fish and trade while the rest of their people lived on the islands in safety, hidden by the mists caused by waves hitting the reef." She seemed very happy with herself, smiling but still, the Companions seemed unconvinced; when she caught Leliana's eye, it was clear from the bard's smirk she was enjoying the spectacle.

Sighing, "It is obvious! Your people traded with Rivain, even Antiva, dried fish, nuts, and fruits from the island, but when you heard of the Blight thought it better to remain hidden on the island in case it spread. Later during one of those adventures, you learned of the mage rebellion and the templars response, and finally, the Conclave. Your leaders concluded they could not remain in secret any longer. An expedition was launched intending to send some of the incredible elven weapons that you found. They were hidden in an ancient fortress untouched by anyone for time beyond measure."

She was fully immersed in her role; she paced the room using her quill to add emphasis and sweep where she thought a theatrical touch would add depth to her narrative.

"Are you serious? An invisible island? A fucking hidden elven weapons cache? When does Frodo show up? Gandalf?" Master Sargent Joshua "Bull's Eye" Williams was having none of it, Rodeo, Nate, Sanchez, Travis, Hollywood, perhaps not as skeptical but concerned. They would follow John's lead, at least for a while. It was all just a lot to take in, and John knew it. From the looks around the room, the skepticism ran deep.

John walked over and grabbed Gliril, then Sera by the hand and walked them to the front.

"Look, I don't know about fucking Frodo, but we have real fucking elves and dwarves, and if you need, I can get a seven-foot-tall horned friend of mine who can pretend to be an orc! Oh yeah, we got a bitchy wizard, who could double for the giant spider too; she has her web up in the chantry!"

Everyone chuckled; some even openly laughed. "What about Gollum?" Was shouted by someone, which brought another round of uncomfortable giggles, which ended in awkward silence.

"Look, guys, I get it. It is a tissue of lies with some truth, but if they can sell this, it might be our only way to be less of a target, sure we have neat toys, but … " John stopped for a moment, running his hand up and over his head and down the back to his neck, "if I had known … maybe we could have buried everything, but I didn't. I don't think you wanted to stay in the Fade Crossroads or in that fucking temple in Iraq?" The looks exchanged said no one ever wanted to go back to the Crossroads, let alone die there, and being buried alive was not much of an option either.

"Leliana, Josephine, can you sell this?" Sam asked; she could live with the story, they would still be objects of interest, but now it would be the weapons more than the people.

"My family could place the proper rumors of strangers from Ferelden trading in some of the outer villages of Antiva; I have connections there…" Josephine responded, "Enough that it would support the story."

"I have some connections with certain individuals in Rivain, and we could ask Varric to assist in supporting the story through his contacts…" Leliana responded, thinking carefully of the beautiful pirate queen who might be willing to aid her for a price. A price that would not be too terrible to pay, especially if she could find Ellana to help her. The memories brought a smile tinged with remembered joy and present sadness.

"Yes, I believe it will work. We will say that you discovered the weapons but do not know how they were made, just how to use them. They resemble a common crossbow; yes, yes, I believe it will work. We must keep some of your other creations a closely held secret, but so far, the ones that have garnered the most interest are your weapons…."

"Fine, we came from an invisible island of scorching hot Amazon women, no wait…wrong movie…" Hollywood was being a smart ass, "Fine, but how did we get here?"

"It would not be difficult to travel through Ferelden unobserved, I can place some information along the way, I have some influence with the proper individuals …" Leliana mused, 'I wonder if Anora can sit down yet?' She softly chuckled to herself, 'It has been so long since I have seen young Cailin; he must be eight now, and little Ellana, five, no six?'

"Leliana? Leliana?" Josephine's voice broke her musings.

"Yes, forgive me, yes I believe we can succeed; it is a good story," The Nightingale asserted, still thinking of the passage of time. She looked a little sad that her time to bear children was almost gone, but that was beyond hope since Ellana was a Warden and if she could find no cure, would be lost to her anyway. The things that the heat of young love tends to obscure, passing time brings to mind.

"We are agreed then? I suggest that we begin your lessons tomorrow during the morning meal; I will speak with Master Tethras immediately; perhaps he will teach you something of our stories and dwarven culture. At the same time, Sister Cousland will also teach as her duties allow." Josephine added without asking; Leliana was busy, of course, but no less so than she, and she had committed to helping teach the Newcomers. However, it would have to be a closely held secret, and Leliana's people would have to be involved.

"I want Gliril here also," John stated in a way that allowed no argument, "If she is to perform all her duties, she should know more than she has been taught; I can not imagine that they taught her much…"

Rachelle leapt to her feet, "And Sera!" almost shouting.

"Nothin' doin' I have things to do…" Sera thought the idea of sitting and learning was as close to death as death itself.

"You will, and you will behave, or you will sleep alone!" Rachelle had rounded on her with her own fiery eyes' glairing back, feet wide apart, and fists on her hips. "I know you'll hate it. So will I, but you can spend time with me here." Sera opened her mouth to object but reconsidered and simply smiled and nodded eagerly.

That drew a chuckle from everyone, which said that the decision had been made. Sera did not look happy, but from the look in her eyes, she was willing to make the sacrifice to avoid lonely nights.

They broke up into small groups, speaking with Josephine about details and minor tweaks to improve and burnish the story, giving John time to talk with Leliana quietly.

"You were right, the story came out pretty much the way you thought it would, and the story is pretty good. I am impressed," John was impressed; there were important details different, but the outline was almost precisely what Leliana and Josephine had outlined with him earlier in the day.

"Thank you, yes I think it will do. It is paper-thin but more believable than the truth, Commander." Leliana knew that a lie with a center of truth was more believable. The Qunari would likely accept it, more palatable to their philosophy. The Tevinter would continue to wallow in their delusion of superiority, and the Orlesian court could go back to the Game.

"Further, it makes your people want to learn of Ferelden and perhaps make it your own," Leliana continued, at least until she saw John bristle.

"I know you wish to return to your home, Commander, but we must make provision for the possibility that you can not or that some may choose to stay." She nodded directly at Rachelle and Sera, who were engaged in activities best left to their rooms. That is until Sam threw something at them.

"Hey, you two get a room." Sam smiled; clearly, she was happy that Rachelle seemed almost normal.

"Bugger off; this is a room!" Sera threw the rag back and resumed her activities.

John just shook his head and returned his attention to Leliana. "Let's hope so, Leliana; I hate funerals."

John responded as the meeting broke up, "I assume you will start classes tomorrow?"

"Yes, Commander, your people are completely ignorant of many cultural facets of Thedas, and that will not do." Leliana flowed to the door; John could not help but notice how lovely she was. He found himself thinking that he was somehow cheating on Serrada, which struck him strangely since he usually thought of Mariah.

Along the Dryish Trail

As much as Eric hated the horse, he missed it now. Slogging through a swamp that stank of sewage was awful; the stench of the burning plague victims' corpses was a new low of disgusting, eclipsed yet again by the rotting bodies bobbing with the waves as they passed by, but worse, worse in ways that Eric could not even seem to describe … were when those cadavers started moving and attacking.

"Stop firing! Paddy, stop firing!" Eric grabbed Paddy's wrist with one hand; the other went to Paddy's shoulder to reassure him and stop him from wasting ammo.

Both had watched as the rounds just blew chunks of rotting flesh from the torso of the body, a zombie. The last two rounds blew the right side of the dead woman's skull loose, then completely off. It was Bull who finally used his giant double-bladed ax to hew the corpse from head to groin, and then the two halves fell to the ground and were still.

"Holy Jesus, what are we doing here!" Paddy's face told it all. He looked as terrified as Eric felt, "You can't fucking kill them; they are already dead."

"Control yourself, Sargent McCarl!" Eric's voice made it clear he had lost patience. "Stop wasting ammunition; we can't afford it; you have a sword now fucking use it!" He was trying to snap Paddy out of his terror while trying to control his own.

"Bull, keep an eye on him. Show him what to do." Eric walked back up to the front, where Cassandra stood guard; Blackwall and Serrada talked with Harding. Cassandra was trying to keep the waves of dead from entering the main camp.

"I take it that you do not fight the dead?" Cassandra stood feet apart; she had just finished hacking the head from a corpse, her shield was plastered with what looked like a thick paste of rotting human flesh.

"No, the dead pretty much stay dead on … back home. Only in fucked up movies … plays." Eric responded, trying to loosen the sword he now carried across his back.

"It is not that they are alive; they are still dead; they are not the people they once were. These are simply bodies animated by spirits or demons who are attracted by the local rifts." Cassandra was Nevarran; she had long ago lost her fear of the dead. As the niece of a high-ranking Mortalitasi, she had seen more than her share of dead walking.

"How do you know so much about them anyway? Are they running around everywhere?" Eric was hoping that was not the case. He rechecked his sword, he could not see them, but somehow he knew more were coming.

"When my parents were executed, my brother and I were sent to my uncle's home, a Mortalitasi, a keeper of the dead." Cassandra could hear the dead as well; she shifted her sword and shield. "You should draw your blade; they are coming again."

Eric drew his sword and tried to copy Cassandra's stance, feet apart directly under his shoulders; he tried to keep his strong arm slightly ahead, planting his left foot, his weaker side foot, for stability. "Watch my foot placement, bend the knees, don't grip too hard…" Then it hit him…

"Wait, what did you say … executed? For what?" Eric's mind was filled with a thousand questions, all of which he knew he should not ask.

"Yes," Cassandra responded, returning to her stance; she made it look so easy. To Eric, she made it look good, so much so he started feeling uncomfortable in the armor. "They sided against the king of Nevarra, they lost, and we lost them."

"My brother and I lost them," Cassandra repeated almost to herself, scanning the mire, her sword held firmly in hand, not even looking at Eric.

"Oh," Eric had never felt so uncomfortable in his life; he had written condolence letters, presented flags to wives, daughters, parents, but those had always been soldiers, Cassandra was one now, but not then, "I am sorry."

Cassandra noticed his efforts; her expression showed her discomfort, then it softened. She was not sure what to say, so, "Now, you do not have a shield; use your dagger. Go for limbs if you can't get at the head. Take off the arms, and they can't grasp you; legs allow them to walk, remove any of them, and they are much less dangerous. Be careful; some were warriors in life and may have weapons, although they generally can not use them as they did in life, they can still injure or kill." Cassandra checked Eric's stance, using her blade to adjust his foot position and posture.

"Good, this is good practice; when we get back to Haven, I will instruct you further." She was impressed; he did not seem as uncomfortable as most new to the sword. She had heard Cullen speak of the Newcomers soldiers, some already partially trained, others were clearly new to edged weapons, but all seemed to have potential. She had never watched because she was not a good instructor, Daniel had been her last student, and he had nearly asked to be transferred to someone else. Patience was not her virtue.

"I would like that, Seeker; I look forward to it," Eric responded; his voice clearly showed that he did. However, his gaze was firmly fixed on the putrid apparitions slowly working themselves out of the muck.

Cassandra did not respond, but she looked at the man; she did not know it, but her face betrayed a hint of confusion at his response and more than a bit of anticipation at the prospect.

A Fire Does Not Always Warm

John had more than watched the preparations.

He had swung an ax to fell timber, trim the limbs, and stacked the logs.

In the past, John had carried the bier with shrouded forms of those he did not know; today was different.

Lift. Today he walked behind Gliril; they all matched her stride.

He was trying to be careful - all the guys were, Tessa wouldn't know the difference, God bless her soul. However, Gliril would.

She knew Tessa; now she loved her; a week ago, she might have said something different but now? Today her guilt drove her feelings of friendship to love.

They walked in perfect sync, down the length of the Chantry hall toward the doors and the sunshine.

They had done it before far too many times, flown back to the States in lonely cargo planes with a flag-draped coffin, a comrade, and a friend. You might have hated the son-of-a-bitch the day before, but when that cargo bay closed, he was always a friend when it opened again.

John insisted that he take Mathew back himself; that was difficult, but nothing like standing on the tarmac in Kandahar as Eric tried hard to hold it together while the cargo doors slowly closed on him and Makayla.

John could not tell, but he knew they were all thinking of the last time they had done this; of course, Eric and Paddy were not there, but Sanchez and Rodeo were willing and had too much experience themselves. Besides, it was for the best anyway; John was still a little angry at Eric for tripping him in Africa, although he tried not to show it or let on that he knew what happened.

They were clear of the Chantry, eyes front, but John could not help but notice respect shown to all of the dead. Now he was proud of the precision his men showed in their task with their burden.

He had always scoffed at that pomp and shit that had gone into the funerals. The flags, the salutes, the person was dead, he didn't want any of that for himself, but it was not until his first escort duty that he realized that it was not about the person who was in the box; it was for the people who had to say goodbye for the last time.

They were now past Serrada's cabin; everyone was silent all along the way, watching the little body pass. It was as if all creation was silent.

He was alone early on in his life; he lost his parents at a point when the funeral was both confusing and terrifying. Worse, he lost both his parents; there was no one to help him bridge that loss. Until he was alone in a plane with the coffin of a young man, he never truly knew what the meaning was.

Through the gate now, the stairs might have been a challenge, but like a machine, they had just known what to do, Gliril had not even had to look back, the guys just accommodated, and she went along – Tessa stayed flat and level undisturbed.

John knew that Gliril could not look back so as not to see the body of her friend. The shudder of her shoulders was all he needed to know that she was weeping again. Her dress uniform looked good on her; Josephine must have stood over the seamstresses all night to make sure all six uniforms were ready.

Smooth left turn; past the practice yard, Lysette had the guard to full attention, helmets, and hats in hand. Tessa was not a soldier, so no military honors, but she had died to protect them, and so there was respect. The details were sketchy; no doubt whether Tessa was a hero or a villain was not the point now – for anyone.

When he picked up the new uniforms that morning, John realized why they were done quickly. It was all they could do for Tessa; all the women in the laundry, the seamstresses included, were wiping their bloodshot eyes. All had mothered Tessa after the death of her mother at the Conclave; her loss had in some ways been more devastating. To have survived and then to die, worse to die like that ….

Down, past the stables and blacksmith, the horses as quiet as if they were stone.

Onward now toward the natural pillar of flat-topped rock on the shores of the lake. Tessa had loved it there; before the explosion, she and Gliril would sometimes climb it and eat a snack and look up toward the Temple just visible above the ridgeline that had protected Haven. Since then, and especially once Serrada had taken Gliril in, they would picnic there, and Tessa would remember and tell Gliril stories of her mother and her childhood.

Now the stairs, gently Rodeo took the first step; John wondered if he had coached Gliril since neither had to look at the other; Gliril simply seemed to know to lower the litter, to keep the body level. Cullen had been as demanding as Josephine; the steps were deep and broad. The pyre was prepared, Mother Giselle waited at the top, along with Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, to honor poor Tessa and show the Inquisitions respect. It would be a tight fit and far too hot to stay once the pyre caught, but it was a nice gesture.

John and the guys all stood by as the ceremony took place; there were few dry eyes, even John shed a tear for a child whom he never knew but represented the death of so many he did know. His eyes locked on Leliana for a few seconds; she returned his gaze with more than a bit of compassion. Josephine seemed a little colder, but he realized why when she took a small step toward Leliana, he had heard rumors but had discounted them. Perhaps there was more to them than he thought, it was none of his business, but it explained some things. He really did not have an issue with Leliana; it was the situation with Gliril, the tragedy of Tessa, and his general frustration with the whole fucking situation. He tried to apologize with a sad smile of his own and mouthed, "Thank you." She visibly relaxed and returned his smile, as did Josephine.

'I am going to have to talk to Leliana; this isn't her fault,' John knew she was not trying to ruin Gliril, but still 'I know it in my head but …'

Giselle spoke, then sang, then invoked the Maker, with several "So let it be's" sprinkled in. He did not participate, not because he felt like José and Paddy, that it was disrespectful to God and Jesus the Christ, mostly because he was still unsure of his faith and coming to Thedas had not helped that much.

He watched Mother Giselle lead the mourners single file in descending the stairs. They assembled at the stone platform's base. It seemed a shock to find himself suddenly alone with Tessa and Gliril, who held a torch.

"Are you alright?" He asked; it was a stupid question that everyone asked; he knew he was uncomfortable, so was Gliril.

It was not like she would say, 'Sure, let's get pizza and a beer after I torch the remains of my best friend.' But everyone said it; what else was there to say?

Thankfully, she did not answer; he doubted she could from the tight look on her pretty face. Her emotions were right there, for everyone to see. Tears would start again in a moment, the trail of their predecessors evident on her face, their demise in a stain apparent on the lapels of her crimson uniform. She simply nodded, smiled as much as she could with a breaking heart.

John nodded back and tried to smile as reassuringly as possible, then turned and walked down the stairs to wait and pray with the others.

From the ground, he could not see Gliril nor hear her, but moments later he watched her descend the stairs as the flame leapt up behind her. She stood beside him as they both watched the fire take Tessa back to the Maker. It took a moment or two before he realized that Gliril had moved close to him and put her little hand in his. When he did, he released her hand, put his arm around the girl, and drew her to his side; holding her tightly with his arm, she buried her face in his side and wept.

Son of a Red Headed Wife

Eric held the burning torch with his left hand, his leaf-bladed sword with his right. It was lightly notched from passing through rotting armor, with the occasional rivet or sewn on bit of rusting steel. Both his hands ached from use and impact on uncounted bones and bodies.

He had asked Harritt to make it for him; it was like the wooden swords he and Randy had made as kids; it was lighter and thinner than the Inquisition standard weapon; right now, he wished he had ordered a shield as well, or another sword.

He was covered from head to toe in fetid water and a disgusting soup of rotting flesh and swamp mire.

"The smell is never going to come out!" Eric commented to no one in particular; he was trying to be funny; it wasn't.

"Perhaps so, however, given your bathing habits, how might you tell?" Cassandra thought her comment rather funny, at least for her; she knew she was not known for her sense of humor. The smirk smile on her face was signature.

"Cass, you cut me to the quick!" Eric could see the next wave of corpses moving up; the demon, whatever the fuck it was, was slowly driving them forward.

Eric had thought he was getting the whole spirits animating corpses down when they added demons. 'Fuck, this place just gets better and better!' He could see the decrepit fortification on the hill high above the shit hole marsh or mire or cesspool; it was all the same.

"Blackwall, Solas, report!" Eric shouted; he could see Paddy and Bull were bringing up the rear, walking backward; Paddy's claymore was holding up better than Eric's sword. But he really should have gotten a shield as well; he never realized how much a shield was a weapon and a defense.

"Lieutenant, do I need to remind you?" Serrada came up the side of the small mound toward the pillar at its center.

"Sorry, Lady Cousland, I… Sorry." Eric truly felt as if he had his knuckles whacked. He glanced at Cass, who was shaking her head with a slightly different smirk on her face now; she was ready for the dead who were shambling their way from the North.

"Blackwall, Solas, report!" Serrada's own smirk was identical to Cassandra's earlier one.

"Ha, Ha!" Bull's bellowing laugh rolled up the hill behind them.

"I believe this is the last monolith, Herald…" He was massaging his temples; dealing with these runes was an uncomfortable experience and one he was all too happy to be done with.

"Well, let's do this; I want out of this stinking cesspool." Serrada readied herself; her bow was ready, she had only a half dozen good arrows left, then it was dagger work. 'Six, just six left, and I have to get to that keep! Andraste, I could use some help!'

Eric noticed Serrada counting her arrows, "I still have two mags left …" He offered; they had all seen that they were much less effective against the dead; although they could blow them apart, the precious ammunition they needed was wasted.

As if she did not hear him, "Do it, Solas, let's get this over with." Serrada directed, and the elf mage did his thing, and all Hell broke loose, again!

She had heard him, "Save it, we have no idea what is up in that keep, and I want options." She nodded to Eric, "But thanks for the offer." She was moving up past Eric and was headed to Cassandras left as Eric had her right, or she seemed to be.

As Serrada moved past Eric, she came close to him; glancing at Cassandra, who was focused on the dozen corpses slowly climbing the hill, she whispered, "Make sure Cass gets out of here, promise me?"

Without a word, he nodded and adjusted his grip on the torch and sword, and moved up to Cassandra's right.

"Fuck, I hate those green ass plant things…" Eric watched as the creature approach.

"How many times must I tell you it is a Terror Demon." Cassandra sound exasperated with the man beside her; she shield-bashed the corpse on her left, trying to push it back to slice it.

"I know what you call the damned things!" Eric, he shouted back at her as he cleaved a corpse entirely in half from the lower left abdomen up through the upper right shoulder. 'Good thing this one is completely rotten, or my sword would have gotten stuck.' Just as he shoved the torch through the face of another.

"Funny the things you think about doing this!" Eric shouted to anyone who cared. Bashing the handguard of the sword through the temple of another corpse, trying to flank Cassandra, then using his boot to crush the knee of another, the cracking sound made him wince.

"Yeah? Like what?" Bull's deep bass voice came from behind and to his left, 'Probably standing on the landing, needs swinging room, like Paddy, between Bull's ax and Paddy's claymore it must be a meat grinder back there.' As if in answer to his thought, he felt something cold and mushy hit the back of his neck and slowly slide down into his collar.

"Well," he responded, trying not to think of what part of the corpse the goo had come from, "how can it rain constantly here and never seems like the fires go out?" They had found several burning piles of bodies, yet none of the Inquisition's troops nor they had seen anyone tending them.

"I got a better one," Paddy, was a bit further off, still behind him but to his right, "why the fuck does anyone live here!" Paddy sounded winded, but his claymore was singing its sweet song, a behavior that stumped Harritt but fascinated Bull, who tried to borrow it more than once.

"They had little choice in the matter." Cassandra took the heads off of two more corpses and started on the Terror Demon; the first was easy, it did its regular disappearing act, but Eric had learned to spot where it was going to emerge and put both the sword and torch facing down directly on that spot, the creature impaled itself through the skull.

"Nice!" Shouted Bull.

"Now get your weapon out," Cassandra blocked the attack of yet another corpse aimed at Eric's unprotected back.

"What is your point, Cass!" Eric put his feet on the shoulders of the dead demon, grabbed the hilts on either side of the blade, and pulled; the head came off with the sword, it took a moment to get to standing, but Eric busied himself with bashing the demon head to pieces on the rocks while fending off the corpses with his rekindled torch. "So, what is your point?"

Cassandra blocked two arrows aimed at Eric's exposed side and her own head; luckily, Blackwall killed the closer archer and Solas the other. She glanced at her left; Serrada and Solas were engaging the last of the Terror demons, soon this would be over, 'Thank the Maker!'

"Each blight scours and poisons the lands it touches; some of the worst areas never seem to recover, we just survived the Fifth Blight, great areas of Ferelden are now barren, seemingly unable to grow anything wholesome." She used the sharp point of her shield to bifurcate the top and bottom of a corpse, leaving the arms and legs striving to attack her; she crushed the skull with her boot.

A ball of flame erupted to her immediate left; Serrada and Solas were protecting their eyes and faces from the intensity of the flame; the Terror Demon screamed then died, "Great Maker! What did that?"

"Fucking waste of good brandy," Paddy replied. "Last of what I brought from home."

"Awwh, tell me that ain't true!" The pain in Bull's voice was heartfelt like he had lost a close friend. "That was some good shit!"

"'Afraid so big guy, one mouth full left, and I wasted it torching that thing…" Paddy sounded almost as mournful as Bull.

"Regardless, I wish to thank you. Perhaps we can work together and recreate such a valuable and culturally important treasure." Solas seemed sincere; Eric always thought it was a crapshoot whether he was feeding you shit or being genuine; he always seemed to make you feel like you hurt his feelings regardless of which way he did mean it.

"You do that, and I will buy you a barrel." Serrada was now without arrows and was down to daggers, which is always a messy business, no less when your opponent is essentially a mass of quivering balloon filled with excrement just waiting to be popped.

"Let's go finish this; I am as tired of this place as you are." She was already a dozen paces down the final stretch of what passed for roadwork that led to the keep.

The Herald led the Inquisition forces, who swept through the last of the Avvar outer defenses; most died before they knew they were under attack.

Eric was walking with Cassandra, following Serrada and Solas as they traveled the last hundred meters to the keep's outer wall.

"Wow, that was an expensive way to let the Heralds refill her quiver." Eric was trying to make conversation with Cassandra; it was not working. "Awfully polite the Avvar, I tell ya."

"I doubt that they would see it that way; it seems a costly way to be so kind; let's move quickly!" Cassandra did not even look at him as she moved up with the Herald; she was worried that it was all a trap.

"Herald, please let me take point, or Bull someone but you. There could be an entire company of archers just inside those walls!" Cassandra's voice was bordering on pleading now; she had been hoping for beseeching but missed.

Serrada acted as if she had not heard and just rolled on, cutting a rancid path through the herd of corpses outside the keep's outer wall.

Once inside the outer wall, she needed to keep the dead out, which meant closing the outer wall portcullis, but how?

She left Blackwall, Bull, and Paddy holding the outer entrance just inside the gate.

"These assholes don't seem to care much about their people," Eric observed the poor bastards inside, a half dozen archers, each being picked off one by one by either Serrada or getting fried by lightning from Solas's magic; Cassandra was waiting for a chance to advance.

"Fuck, what a waste." Eric understood fighting to the last man, but he believed it should mean something. The Avvar were trapped between the inner portcullis of a dual gate and the Inquisition, making the bailey between them a killing zone.

"We have to close this fucking gate before we get overwhelmed!" Eric looked all around; it was a primitive version of stuff he had toured in castles in Europe. They were too fucking heavy to lift without a counterweight, he looked for some sort of weight, something, but he could see nothing.

'There has to be something,' Eric could see a line or chain up across the courtyard between the inner and outer wall. 'of course, the other portcullis is the counterweight!'

"Hold the wall; I am going to close the portcullis!" Eric shouted at the guys, then turned and ran to where the others were engaging the last of the archers, who had finally gotten smart.

"Cassandra, follow me, watch what I do, don't run straight, watch me." Eric ran for the base of the skywalk that the Avvar archers were one.

"Where are you going? Get back here!" Serrada shouted after both of them, sounding much like the mother of toddlers.

He dodged left and right, the archer's arrows passing him on both sides. Cassandra was following; he could hear the words she used; he assumed they were some off-color comments either on him or what he was doing. He was always trying to be in a different spot than they expected; it was not perfect, he had several near misses, but Serrada kept the Avvar archer's heads down. The massive guy near the ramp's base decided to go all Tarzan on him; Eric just ran him through and ran past. The shock gave Cassandra the opening to take the brutes head entirely off his shoulders. The last two archers were so shocked they forgot Serrada, the last mistakes they ever made as an arrow passed through the head of one, the other found an arrow in her heart. She looked down at it and then fell back off over the railing. Eric did not even slow as he jumped over the bodies.

Once Eric and Cassandra reached the battlements above the arched entryway, it was easy to see how it worked. A simple hand-cranked drum wrapped in two chains wound in opposite directions. Winding up one chain would unwind the other. They had attached one chain to the inner gate; the other went to the outer gate. Using the drum, each portcullis offsets the weight of the other. If it were well balanced, a child could do it, it wasn't, but Cassandra and Eric were both sweating to lower the outer gate.

"Need a hand with that?" Bull asked, standing a few feet away, behind Serrada and the rest all around.

"No, I think we got it," Eric adds as the wheel was breaking loose, "Of course we do, you big … just help!" He shouted as the gears started complaining and slipping under strain.

Even with Bull's muscle and bulk, the lack of maintenance was showing; it finally took Cassandra, Eric, Bull, and Blackwall to force the system to open the inner portcullis and lock the corpses out of the bailey, making it safe to cross, at least from the undead.

"Let's finish this; I am really starting to hate this place." Serrada continued up the hill across the bailey to the keep.

Eric was exhausted and more than a little pissed off. He followed Serrada and Cassandra up the narrow stairs of the bailey toward the keep. He could see that Serrada's quiver was nearly empty again, and the Avvar archers had ruined their shafts against the stone walls and rubble around the Inquisition positions. So she could not find any shafts in good enough shape to use, regardless of the damage done to the points by being slammed into stone barriers.

Eric resolved to end this farce quickly; as they approached, he checked the AK and his pistols. He always carried his service HK M21, but right now, he was in a bad mood and cycled his grandfather's Colt 1911 and the AK just in case. The AK, like its brethren, was a great battlefield weapon, but it definitely had limitations. In movies, ricochets killed every third person, but Eric knew that they were not a joke either. A ricochet loses energy with every impact, but even at half its velocity, a bullet can kill you dead, and they were headed into a giant stone box.

Once in the inner hall, it was not as bad as Eric feared, but it could easily have been better. Serrada had been right; here was where most of the Avvar were hiding. There were at least two dozen archers, an equal number of other Avvar warriors of different kinds, and finally, one gigantic asshole. All crammed into what must have once been a grand hall maybe fifty or sixty feet long and thirty feet wide. All along its length, the floor was chocked with debris from what was likely the roof, which was now open to the sky; here and there, pillars had fallen to the floor. There looked to be a general path through the rubble up to the remains of the hall's grand staircase at the far end.

"Herald of Andraste, face me! I am the hand of Korth himself!" The beast across the broken hall shouted from the top of the first flight of stairs.

"Let me deal with this idiot." Eric's voice showed his exhaustion, as much with the situation as with combat.

"No, he is challenging me, and I need my people back, but I won't throw lives away to get them." Serrada prepared herself for a fight.

"Look, I get it, but I can end this far faster with less killing; please trust me." Eric was emphatic.

"How?" Serrada had many gifts, but one she was trying to develop was listening to her people.

"Name me as your champion … no name Cassandra as your champion; then Cass, you name me to take your place. Do it by saying he is unworthy of your efforts, and your squire will deal with him." Eric started to revive mostly to kill an asshole. When did she not immediately accept, he added, "Look, if he tells me to fuck off, we won't be worse off – right? But I am certain this will work."

"Fine, let's try it; it will give us a chance to move around anyway," Serrada whispered, then gave instructions to the others. Cassandra hated the whole idea of being name champion then giving the job to Eric, but Eric said it would embarrass the ass that a woman thought he was not worth her trouble. Still not happy, she agreed that it was worth a try.

"I accept your offer, but you must prove you are worthy of my time; you must defeat my Champion Lady Cassandra Pendaghast — before we meet in battle." She tried to make it sound like something this moron would buy, as haughty and condescending as possible; she channeled Vivienne. Still, she felt foolish saying it, but there it is.

Cassandra stood, then laughed, "I would accept the challenge myself, but you strike me as a child playing at being a warrior. I name my squire in my stead, a young man about your age, still very young. Perhaps if you can prevail, then I will consider soiling my blade with your blood."

The Hand of Korth stood at the top of the landing, shaking with rage; he was looking over at an older Avvar woman, a woman with flaming red hair. She nodded; her anger was evident both in her eyes and the color of her face.

"I accept your challenge, little women, I may keep you alive for my pleasure, but I will not soil my blade with a dog's blood. My man will kill yours; then we will shall battle!" The Hand of Korth shouted, the rest of the Avvar pounded swords on shields or made other sorts of noise.

Eric worked his way forward to get a footing on the other side of a tumbled-down column directly in front of the Avvar across the ruined hall. Then leaned nonchalantly against a large block of what once was part of an arch.

"Hey, listen, that sounds good to me, Handy. I can call you that, can't I? I mean, a guy like you spends a great deal of time playing with his hands, am I right?" Eric responded, cupping his fingers and thumb together in a repeated vulgar gesture, then began to examine his nails as if the Avvar only a dozen yards away were of no concern at all. "I love the horn look, it works for you, I mean you … It would look stupid on anyone else, but on you, well, it seems to bring out the inner nitwit."

Everyone could see that Eric had the man seething, "Kill him slowly, Omrik, I want to see him suffer."

From behind him, "Eric, is this wise?" Cassandra's voice was filled with concern; it touched him.

"I will be fine, Cass." He whispered back without looking.

"Hold on there, Handy, you seem like a sore loser," a ripple of angry murmurs rolled from the Avvar lines, "so here is my proposition. I fight your butt boy here, but you and all your warriors," Eric put that in air quotes, but with enough sarcasm to get the point across, "must swear before Korth or whomever that you will surrender when I kill him, and then you."

Handy belched out a laugh, a laugh so hardy that he broke wind, "You defeat him and me? Fine, all my warriors, swear before Korth you will surrender if this little man child defeats Omrik and I, you will swear yourselves to his service till released, or death takes you."

"Hold on there, champ; I have no need of that; I have enough help cleaning the stables; I don't need the competition. They can just swear to service of the Herald of Andraste till death .. blah, blah." He then leaned further back, putting one foot on the boulder, crossed his arms, and smiled at the Avvar prince.

He leaned a little further forward, "Go on… swear it, or are you afraid?" Until that moment, if he had been closer, he would have seen uncertainty in both Handy's and the red-headed woman's eyes, but the question of fear dispelled it in both.

Handy looked to the woman again, who again nodded, and those around her prepared for the oath before Korth.

In unison, the Avvar, archers, warriors all swore before Korth; they would serve the Herald if Omrik and Handy died at Eric's hands. When they were done, the room was silent; Eric had not moved and acted like he had heard none of it.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day! I got horses to brush and stables to clean!" Eric did not move but seemed focused on his nails. "Man, I need a manicure! My cuticles look terrible, right?"

He held his right hand high for everyone behind him to see.

"If you achieve this goal, I will do them myself!" Cassandra responded loud enough for the group to hear, which brought an uncomfortable bout of laughter.

"Kill him!" Handy shouted, and Omrik started toward Eric.

"Now I want you to know Omrik, this is nothing personal, if you surrender now, I won't kill you, but I suspect Handy is dead either way, so why don't …" Eric really was trying to save the man's life, but Omrik didn't seem to catch that so .…

Omrik had his shield up, he suspected the little man was a mage, he had the arrogance of one, and Omrik had been taught how to deal with mages, but you have to see them; he lowered and tilted his shield so he could clearly see his prey and charged….

'Well, this guy seems intent on dying; who am I to say no.' Shoving off of the stone with his right foot, Eric came to his full height, his right hand went to his holster and drew the cocked and locked Colt 45, in one swift motion practiced for hours and used in combat more often than he would admit, Eric drew the pistol fired. The big half-ounce lump of copper-jacketed hollow-point traveling just below the speed of sound left the barrel traveling a dozen paces to the charging man and passed through this forehead and punched a fist-size hole out of the back. The bullet carried with it much of the brain that had once housed Omrik, not that Omrik had used what he was given, but what was left was not enough to sustain the body it was born into.

The Avvar champion collapsed at Eric's feet, but Eric had already lost interest; he took up his shooting stance, both hands to support the pistol his grandfather had carried on Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal, and through the winters of the Korean war. The 45 spoke and said death in lead and smoke and ten inches of flame. The second round struck Handy dead center of mass, passing through his leather jerkin, almost missing his heart, but only almost. Handy stood stunned first by the death of Omrik, then by the destruction of his heart; he never heard the third shot as the bullet passed through his nose up and out the back of his head. His knees buckled, falling facedown, then slid to the bottom of the steps to land in a heap at the bottom as dead as the stone under him.

Eric stood ready lest the rest changed their minds, his ears were ringing from the noise, but he could hear well enough and see more; the Avvar archers watched the deaths and threw down their bows — undoubtedly, Andraste was greater than Korth. The other fighter's weapons, axes, and swords clattered to the ground. They sank to their knees, expecting death to come now.

Eric was still watching, in a crotch; behind him, he heard the sounds of movement when suddenly a figure was upon him from the side, arms around his neck, a warm human body pushing itself into him.

It was Cassandra, her arms thrown around his neck. "You brave, wonderful, stupid fool!" That was all she said.

"I did not see that coming!" Bull moved around the couple as they separated Avvar from their weapons.

"I did." Blackwall winked at Eric as he passed. Paddy laughed as well but climbed to a position with his AK at the ready.

"Lets to clean up." Eric added, "Cass keep an eye on the Heralds back; this ain't over."

Cassandra nodded and moved away to shadow Serrada as she checked and questioned the Avvar about the Inquisition soldiers.

The redhead was still standing by Handy's body, closer than anyone else; she was looking at the body, then Eric, then back to the body.

Eric walked toward her; he would give some sort of condolences and tell her he would have accepted Handy's surrender, something to make her feel better if he could.

She never gave him a chance; the next thing he knew, she was charging at him, dagger in hand. He grabbed for the gun on his hip, drew and lined up the sights on her chest, and time slowed … His finger would not do its job; it was frozen. Thirty feet, now twenty feet, she was coming so fast, but he just could not kill, not a woman. 'She was just doing her job; that traitorous son-of-a-bitch shot her. Motherfucking coward just shot her.'

The silver flash appeared from his right; he watched it pass between the redhead's collar bone and chin, then watched the flowing red hair behind the woman's head flying free of its moorings.

'I wonder how her hair could be cut from the front,' It was a thought that passed through when another blur caught his eye as a form again from the right drove itself into the redhead, the strange thing was the head, and the body went to different directions. 'That is fucking weird; I don't think that is supposed to do that.'

"Eric! Eric! Can you hear me?" Cassandra was in his face; she was standing where the redhead was coming from; that is when he realized his hands were empty now. His pistol back in its holster.

"What?" He stood up out of his shooting stance, "Yeah, I can hear you, you alright?" He looked around; everyone, including the Avvar, were staring at him. "What is everyone looking at?" His voice had an edge to it now; he did not like being the subject of such intense attention.

"You were gone, buddy, checked out or something…" Bull was standing off behind Cassandra; Serrada was watching as well; there was a note of concern.

"Where are the Inquisitions soldiers? Let's get them and get the fuck out of here!" He stood up, looking for Paddy; he helped Blackwall and the newly arriving Inquisition support troops round-up and process the Avvar prisoners.

It was then that he noticed the headless torso of the redhead, her face showed the care and worry of years, and the resemblance to Handy was striking.

"Fuck, that was his mom." Eric realized the truth and sank to the ground. "She fucking saw me smoke her kid, then wanted some payback." He looked into the clouding eyes, "I am sorry, lady, but I am pretty sure you raised him not to back down; I had no choice. I am sorry."

Slowly he returned to his feet. "Hey Herald, let's get your people and blow this shit hole; what do you say?"

The search was fruitful, the keep was filled with a great deal of loot stolen by Handy and his little band of troublemakers, the Inquisition troops were alive, though some were injured, Serrada was hailed as the hero as usual, and no one would have disagreed if they had been asked. She demanded they be rescued, and although Cassandra understood the reasons for their abandonment, she was thrilled to help save them.

Although everything was soaked, they managed to down a few trees and collect enough wood, try enough to burn the dead; it did not hurt that old Handy liked a warm fire at night and had a couple of barrels of lamp oil to throw into the mix. They did it with as much honor as they could. We are all the same in death; Serrada even said a few words in front of the Avvar. They seemed to acknowledge the respect with both surprise and appreciation.

They made it back to the main camp; the look on Harding's face as she saw the Avvar bound and walking just like she had seen the Carta and mercs were priceless.

"You did it, Herald, congratulations!" Harding's expression was as open and honest as could be, but she did offer a glance at Eric and Paddy, who took no approbations, just watched the prisoners.

"All in a day's work, right?" Serrada shook her hand, "we are headed back to Haven. Can you deal with these for me? I think this place could use some cleaning up."

"Oh, a big Avvar mage showed up; he said you hired him?" Harding was a little skeptical but had long since stopped being surprised by the Herald.

"Yeah, really nice guy." Serrada wondered if he had been severe, but it seemed all the Avvar kept their words; it was refreshing.

Hours later, Eric reaffirmed his dislike of horseback travel. It did beat walking but not by much.

He watched the others around the fire; some part wished he could join in. He also noticed Paddy was not there either. It was a fire that Solas's magic had needed to get started and keep burning. Their voices were drowned out, like everything around here by the rain.

He listened to the rain beating down on his tent; Eric was thinking and remembering all he had lost.

"May I come in?" Cassandra asked; she was standing outside his tent trying to appear like it was a bright sunny day, her voice as casual and conversational as she could force herself to make it.

"Sure, Cass, any time." He quickly scooted as far back in the little tent as he could get, "What can I do you for?" Eric responded, trying to shake the demons of his memory off.

"I beg your pardon?" A little indignation crept into her voice.

"Sorry, just a figure of speech," Eric chuckled to himself, 'I guess I should not tease a woman who is a better swordsman than I ever will be.'

"I just meant; how can I help you?" He corrected.

Cassandra considered the man; his voice carried a note of honesty, his face was open and hopeful. 'Perhaps, perhaps it is time I …' She held the encouraging thought in her heart before bending down.

Cassandra got into the tent, staying near the flap so everyone could see her; she could not abide rumors; she did not know where to start but waited a moment for inspiration when none came; she simply started.

"Who was she?" The question was out before she could allow herself to think better of it.

"Who?" Eric tried to make his reply question as light as possible, but the look on Cassandra's face said he had missed it. Taking a deep breath,

"Her name was Makayla…" Eric began by speaking of his second love, her death in a Blue on Blue attack, a lonely fight home with Makayla, and his vengeance. Then the loss of his first marriage to loneliness, his willing sacrifice of his church home, allowing her to marry again in the Temple. Of a beloved brother, of family and friends, his friendship with John, talking to Cass was easy, and he lost complete track of time as the night's hours passed.

"God, I talked; I am sorry, Cassandra." He was finally quiet; all the others long since off to explore the Fade on their own. He was not looking forward to that either; his mood did not improve much when she spoke, although his heart was lighter for the first time in many years.

She was looking into the dying embers of their campfire, being smothered by the unending rain.

"His name was Anthony; he was my brother…" Cassandra began and continued till dawn.

Regrets in the Night

The beauty of the moonlight off the peaks of the Frostbacks usually moved John as he stared at those impossible heights. With one exception, he had grown to love the view of those peaks more than anything else he had found since waking in the cells. He often wondered what forces had been called upon to push the unimaginable weight of unforgiving stone up into the clouds above Thedas. He expected never to know, which played to his deeply hidden poetic soul. He had come to contemplate those peaks during the many sleepless nights disturbed by the demons he had brought with him through a mirror. So vexing were those demons that he had come to rely on that view to soothe him back to sleep, but those same peaks failed him this night. He quietly listened to someone else struggle with her demons. It was the fourth sunset that Tessa would never see, the fourth night of Gliril tossing and turning, reliving her nightmare.

"Gliril, help me!" Tessa's voice was echoing off the stone of some unknown fortress.

Gliril could hear Tessa's voice calling her as she ran. "Tessa, where are you?" Gliril responded her throat already raw from screaming her friend's name.

Before her, a path stretching up, always up, into thin air. Up toward far away fractured floors and broken walls; always up, up into the void.

"Gliril, help me!" The voice seemed to come from all around, invisible, far away but clear. "Tell him what he wants to know!"

"Yes, tell me, little bitch, tell me all I want to know!" The deep resonant, a voice so immense if seemed to fill the void itself, a voice filled with evil, twisted, and mocking of Tessa's fear and pain, "Tell me where they come from, and perhaps I will return what is left of the little curr."

"Please, Gliril, tell him what he wants to know!" The fear in Tessa's voice tor at Gliril's heart, she raced, along the path, legs burning, exhausted, demanding rest and relief. The trail ended at an island of stone floating at the end of the impossible course; on the floating island in the distance, Gliril could see two figures. One she was sure was Tessa, the other a head taller but much broader which stood behind the girl with his arm clearly across Tessa's chest, the sickening light of this place glistening from the razor's edge of the dagger in his hand. As she approached the two, Gliril could see the terror in Tessa's eyes and the malignant malevolence in the eyes of her captor.

Finding the landing, Gliril moved cautiously toward the pair, "Let her go, I will tell you what I know, but you must let her go."

"What can you tell me that is worth this morsel?" The evil hatred in the soulless eyes of the dwarf, he simply drew the dagger across Tessa's throat.

"Help me!" Tessa cried as the dagger bit, her once pinned arms now freed, reaching toward Gliril in a helpless attempt to get to safety.

"NO!" Gliril launched herself toward the stricken girl, but both figures dissolved to a wave of blood, Gliril fought to keep her footing, but it was hopeless; the surge of blood and despair washed her over the edge of the island only to fall into the abyss.

John knelt close to Gliril; he knew too well the perils of waking a dreamer wrestling with a nightmare like this. He would wait till she awoke; if she were in danger of injuring herself, he would wake her regardless. Otherwise, he would let the nightmare play out. As he watched her sleep, he mourned; she was not the girl she once was. He had been helpless to stop the change, uncertain if he even should.

'It is her life, not mine; maybe this is something she genuinely wants … needs to do.' That thought had been bouncing around his mind each time he saw her drag herself back to her bed, exhausted with her training. Leliana was an extraordinary spymaster, but he was no novice himself. His people had been watching; he now knew that Flissa was one of hers, which was not a surprise, plus at least one or two more. He did not fault her; she was doing her job. What he hated was that Gliril had gotten caught up in it. No one admitted it, but he knew he had seen all the signs.

The training had been one thing, an ugly necessity perhaps, but the death of Tessa, while not Leliana's fault, what Gliril did after, in his mind, was. He would hold that against the spymaster for an exceptionally long time. The ugly scare that it would leave on this girl's soul, he knew those scars all too well.

No, she was not the same simple girl she had been when she woke the Herald weeks ago. She was training to be an assassin; he did not know the details, but she showed all the signs of those who were early in their training, watchful eyes still learning to disguise their evaluation of potential threats and targets, the practiced motions of a body moving from form to form as a way to move through space while remaining prepared to act. In time she would learn the casual grace, if she were gifted enough, she may approach that of her instructor, Sister Nightingale, but that was years away.

"No!" Gliril launched herself bolt upright, eyes searching the darkness.

"Where is she?" Gliril looked directly at John; she seemed to see him now.

"There is no one but us." John tried to be gentle with his words; he knew from experience that her emotions were still raw.

"She was just here!" Gliril's eyes were awash with tears, "She was just here…" Tears started flowing freely.

John moved closer, embracing her; she melted into his arms; finally, she was looking entirely into his eyes, "Why didn't I take her with me?"

He knew too well that there was no good answer, at least no answer that would stop the pain. The tears turned into sobs, body-wracking sobs; he just held her, held her as tightly as he could.