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.

19. Death and Renewal

To my readers, thank you for your patience. But, unfortunately, real life keeps getting in the way.

Thanks go out to:

CherryJamOnToast,

Shadeslayer113, and

Efion63,

Who encouraged and supported my meager efforts. Special thanks to those who have read and reviewed this story, especially Kora, Judy, and Kanta.

Also, if you find typos, please let me know. If I had seen them, I would have fixed them. Ty

There is coarse language.

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Death and Renewal

"Why don't dress uniforms ever fit!" John pulled on his collar before giving up, only to tug on the jacket's hem.

"Honestly, John, I don't think anyone enjoys wearing them." Serrada stifled a snicker while she absentmindedly pulled on her own collar.

She had been watching him adjust and readjust his uniform for most of an hour.

Although she relished watching the losing battle in the War of the Wrinkles, her mind quickly wandered. Her eyes roamed the tent like wayward butterflies; they always seemed to land on John and the part of his body she favored.

'His arse is so … muscular.' she blushed when she realized she was gawking.

"Andraste, please don't let him notice!" she murmured.

"What was that?" John's combat-damaged hearing had improved since coming to Thedas, but whispers still eluded him.

"Nothing, I was just thinking," She blushed a darker scarlet, but she also wore a half smile that he found electrifying, "of a place I wish to explore."

Standing before the polished shield adorning the rear tent pole, he frowned when he noticed the buttons were askew. He glanced over his shoulder, Serrada half standing and half leaning, just inside the tent.

His heart always stopped when he looked at her. Whether she was close enough to hold or a mile away, seeing her always stopped his heart or caused it to pound, and sometimes both.

He looked at his reflection; it was a man much older than he felt inside.

'You old fool,' He pulled again at the coat.

'She is young enough to be your daughter,' John glanced back at the shield. 'What could she see in an old goat like you?'

The old goat in the mirror had no retort; worse, his look said he agreed.

John and his reflection paused their debate as he considered Serrada instead.

The Herald was leaning back against the tent pole, arms folded under her breasts, which cradled and framed them. She had her left knee bent; her foot braced on a line hook. The pose reminded him of a centerfold.

'Do they still have centerfolds?' He asked this reflection, who only shrugged, he couldn't remember the last one he had seen, but Serrada would have given the best a run for their money.

Her auburn hair was made scarlet by the sunlight. It did not help his heart rate; the light also displayed her curves at their best.

Her casual pose seemed as languid as a sleeping cat and tense as a bowstring.

John could not help wondering how she managed both simultaneously.

Her answer filled his mind with possibilities and innuendo, but he wondered if that was what she intended.

As he turned back to his mirror, John saw the old man wearing a soft smile and shook his head.

'You old goat, you're a fool,' but the old goat smiled back this time.

He had watched her the entire time he fussed with his jacket, glad she could not see the uncomfortable swelling within his trousers. Thinking of her 'exploring' did not make the trousers any more comfortable.

"Maybe, but I still think it's the damned coat." Then, smoothing the jacket flap and fixing the buttons, he stopped when he realized how that sounded.

"I don't mean that. Josie and the seamstresses worked their asses off for us … we …," John paused for a moment, taking a breath. "I … don't want to sound ungrateful."

The sincerity in his voice touched Serrada; she knew he was in pain, the pain of losing people who believed in you worked, and fought for you, finally giving their lives for you.

She knew this was not John's first memorial, not even his first in Thedas, remembering the girl in Haven. But she also knew how they affected her; they cut like a constantly honed knife, slicing deeper with each stroke.

However, this service would be different.

For the first time, it would include Newcomers among those on the pyre.

John's thoughts followed a similar trail. He thought about what the admiral once told him. 'Son, if funerals get easier, it is time to hang it up.' So far, they hadn't.

"What will I say to their families," he thought, then froze, realizing he probably would never have to say anything.

She moved behind him; the rolling imperfections in the surface of the highly polished tower shield could not spoil her beautiful smile.

She wanted to comfort him. Perhaps her smile was inappropriate, given the circumstances, but her happiness at his recovery would permit nothing else.

She pushed her hands through the crook of his elbows, reaching up to his chest; she hugged him, pressing herself into his back while pulling him into her body. Finally, she laid her head on his shoulders, drinking in his scent.

This moment would have been beyond her hopes just days before, she tried not to think of those dark days, but sometimes she could not stop.

"John!" Serrada bolted upright, her head swam, and her vision blurred; her head swam as she lay back down.

Her head ached as her eyes opened again, expecting to see him, but she only found Mother Giselle.

Still, she slowly searched for her last companion, the one with warm arms and a soft voice — but he was not with her.

"Gently now, Herald, you are injured," Giselle softly soothed, her hands tenderly helping Serrada back to a seated position. "The mages have done much, but you are not healed."

The Quartet members quarreled, arguing around the same mess, like some twisted dance of anger and recrimination, solving nothing but hurting each other and the surviving Inquisition in the maelstrom.

Serrada lay in her tent, save for the priest; she was alone. Although she was comforted by Giselle's presence, it confused her and unsettled her because she was sure John had been with her only a moment before.

She had little time to consider his absence; events quickly overtook them all.

The Quartet's bickering had exposed fissures she had not imagined. Haven was lost, and hundreds had died, all in one devastating blow. She knew the Inquisition stood at the cliff's edge.

"Hush now, you need to rest; my healers have done all they can for you." Gisselle looked concerned, but somehow her eyes showed a different desire than her words expressed.

'She wants something from me, but what?' Serrada tried to keep her expression neutral, her Wicked Grace face, as her father called it, hoping it worked with the priest.

"They have been at it for hours," Serrada's voice sounded like a druffalo bellowing directly in her ear. Her hands pressed at her temples, trying to keep her skull intact.

"They have that luxury, thanks to you. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting threatens the Inquisition as much as Corypheus ever could." Gisselle's voice was firm, but Serrada could see how weary she was, yet the priest continued to care for her.

'Her faith gives her strength. I wish I had,' Serrada slowly moved up to swing her legs over the cot to touch her boots to the ground.

"Well, yelling won't help; all that gets us is another headache," Serrada tried to stand but waited a few moments. "And I already have one, thank you."

"They know that," Gisselle softly chuckled before handing Serrada a cup of tea, "Drink this; it will help." Serrada took the tea gladly.

"The situation is complicated … your situation is complicated." Gisselle touched Serrada's shoulder as if the statement needed more emphasis.

"Our leaders struggle because of what we all witnessed." Gisselle was looking past Serrada now. "We saw our defender stand and fall." The priest paused, breathing slowly, her hand on her stomach.

"And now we have seen her return." Gisselle's eyes locked with Serrada's, "The more the enemy seems beyond us, the more miraculous your efforts appear."

Gisselle stood looking down at Serrada; Gisselle did not seem to know what to do with her hands. "And the more our trials seem ordained. And that, my Herald, is hard to accept, no?"

Another breath, slowly drawn, "What we have been called to endure? What we must come to accept? To believe?"

"But what of his claims?" Serrada countered, still uncertain what to believe. "He said he found nothing but corruption and dusty dead halls, nothing golden and certainly no proof of the Maker."

"The chant tells us that ancient Tevintor magisters forced their way into the Golden City, and as punishment, they were cast down, corrupted by their sin, to become darkspawn." Gisselle was lost in thought, "Perhaps this is a story he tells himself to live with his guilt, or perhaps his sin blinded him to what was around him. How are we to know?"

"Well, believe me," Serrada stretched her bandaged arm, "Whatever else he is, he is physical, that is for certain."

"Speaking of belief, what do you believe?" Gisselle asked, her gaze searching Serrada's eyes.

'There it is, the question I have been asking myself since I awoke with Gliril in my cabin.' Serrada wondered if her doubts were etched on her face like they were on her soul.

"Perhaps …. Perhaps I was meant for this, but it didn't save anyone in Haven. I want to … I want to believe that Andraste was with me, but I feel so alone, and doubt is everywhere." Then, finally, Serrada stood slowly and walked to the tent opening, watching the latest round of arguments.

"Faith is made stronger by facing doubts. Untested, it is nothing." Gisselle stood beside her charge and watched as the Quartet moved off to sulk. "As for being alone? Well, that is a choice you make. One here has faced fire and ice, not for the Inquisition, Andraste, or the Maker, but for you."

Gisselle's remark hung in the air like one's breath on an ice-cold morning. "As for the Inquisition …"

Gisselle hummed, walking out into the circle of firelight.

"Shadows fall, and hope has fled …" she began, her voice pitched low, but the song grew, as did the spirit of the Inquisition.

Mother Gisselle had performed yet another miracle. But, unfortunately, it was a miracle for the Inquisition alone; only later did she realize that the hymn had sealed her fate.

At the moment, She just wanted a glimpse of the man. The man across the campfire, just beyond the kneeling and singing Inquisition.

They sang, but was it for the woman Serrada or The Herald? To encourage her to be what they needed, or just what they wanted? All of them sang — all but him. He only smiled.

John had survived. He had awoken in the camp, splints and bandages covering most of him. Yes, he was terribly wounded, but he had survived, and now all he had to do was heal.

Many of his people were wounded. However, the Newcomers' heroism was the camp's talk, which made her happy.

Eric had not told John about their casualties; he was worried it might set his commander's recovery back; Serrada wholeheartedly agreed.

She knew it was awful, but John's injuries prevented her from discussing her 'duel' with Corypheus. Instead, she focused on the Inquisition's future and what might be done for the dead and dying.

The Inquisition saw her reticence as a sign of her commitment to the Inquisition, but Corypheus, that terrible shadow, filled her with trepidation. Haven was lost, so many died, and more would likely follow. There was nowhere to go and no safe harbor.

Or so it seemed. It was then that Solas came to her.

He provided a guiding star, a bright spot in the gloom.

The wandering elf mage had claimed that a derelict fortress existed north of Haven, on the border of Orlais and Ferelden, high in the mountains.

He gave her just enough information to guide her, but he didn't explain how he gained the knowledge.

'Something is wrong with his story,' her intuition ringing bells loud enough to be heard in Ostwick. Regardless, she ignored the cacophony; she knew the Inquisition needed this lifeline.

"But is it occupied?" She asked the mage as they ate breakfast. "Even fortresses in ruins are rarely completely abandoned."

"It is in need of repair, Herald, and is remote," Solas replied, his eyes never leaving his plate.

"With the civil war in Orlais and the aftermath of the blight in Ferelden?" Solas always had a reasonable answer; even so, it rang hollow.

"I believe it is difficult to supply and thus too expensive to occupy for either power, but that makes it perfect for our purposes; our taking it will not endanger either and will keep us safe until we are ready to move."

In the end, it did not matter how he knew of it. Haven was destroyed, but at least they would not remain homeless.

Now, Serrada was leading them in a blind search for a new home, ragged remnants of the Inquisition trailing along behind her.

More than once, she had considered asking Solas for more information about the fortress, especially how he had discovered it. However, she suspected he would sidestep the question and claim to have seen it in his wanderings of the Fade.

She had no time to contemplate her lingering doubts; besides, she needed the elf mage. She felt she owed Solas the benefit of her uncertainty, just as Cassandra had given it to her. Indeed, to trust him, even with her growing doubts. Although Solas never gave her cause to doubt his loyalty or his honesty, something unsettled her, causing a disquiet that spawned shadows in the back of her mind, shadows that refused to be swept away.

Solas's motivations joined so many other troubles. The dead and dying, losing Haven, a lack of resources that Haven gave, and the legitimacy of the Temple, even in ruins, provided. Finally, the slow march through the snow, the cold sapping strength and hope, it was as if the shadows grew deeper all around her, threatening to swallow her up.

The only light in her darkness was talking with John.

Honestly, she was more than delighted John had survived; she remembered a wave of pure joy had washed over her as she glimpsed him across the camp that night after escaping Haven.

Serrada could hear her mother's judgemental voice.

"Serrada, how can you consider this disgraceful liaison or Maker forbid — an alliance?" Lady Trevelyan had a way of making the words 'bread and butter' into a slur. "He has no family, property, or even a worthless title? How can you let your … emotions … run away with you like this? Certainly, bind him to your service, make him a lover as long as he is useful, but nothing more."

Serrada could almost see her mother's face, a mask of scorn. However, that did not make her mother wholly in the wrong. After all, the woman's role in her children's lives was to ensure their futures through suitable matches.

Her mother would say she was being scandalous, but Serrada found she cared for the man, regardless of the worldly sense of it. She had tried to repress her feelings, but they would not be buried.

She knew full well the seeming futility of it.

They were strangers; he was a mystery; he had no title, wealth, family, or roots in Thedas. Worse, he would likely desire to return to Earth and his family. All reasonable objections to the match, but none of that mattered to Serrada's heart. As mad as it sounded, she was struck by the dawning realization that she was falling in love with him and did not give a piss for the consequences.

She needed that light, his light, as she felt terribly alone, surrounded by shadows.

The only cloud in her sky was whether he returned her affections or would he see her love as the infatuation of a young woman who would quickly dwindle. She dared not consider that possibility. She was sure it would crush her if he saw her as a child.

Carrying on sad tasks required for the memorial services scoured her soul; the last goodbyes to those had taken their toll.

"Andraste, please, let him care at least a little," she fervently prayed.

They burned their dead, packed the camp, and moved on.

Early one morning, not long after they started the journey to their new home, the joyful chats ended and threatened never to return. He had been tired the day before while her duties had occupied her, so she had let him rest.

Duty had taught Serrada to be a light sleeper.

She was awakened early by the shuffling of a frantic Gliril rushing from John's tent. Her nearly silent footfalls followed the elf's urgent whispers with the night guard as she ran away.

All alerted Serrada that something was very wrong. She dressed quickly and then bolted out into the frosty morning air.

Just as she opened her tent, she saw José, Adan, and Mother Gisselle, rushing amid a cloud of quickly freezing breath, all still in their nightclothes, running out of their tents to converge at John's.

She crossed the short distance in a heartbeat, but Gisselle emerged and blocked her way.

"You should not go in; he is not decent," Giselle sputtered; she was a nimble woman, somehow blocking every attempt Serrada made to enter.

"I have seen him without a stitch, Mother; what more is there to see?" Serrada tried to tuck under the woman, but she was caught by the belt and pulled back.

"Herald, he has developed a high fever," Giselle's whispers carried on while holding Serrada both with her gaze and firm grip. "You will do him no good and possibly great harm; he does not need to see you upset."

With that statement, Serrada felt the cold freezing her heart; the cold she felt was not the chill wind of the Frostbacks.

In an instant, she stopped struggling to get past the priest.

"What ails him?" Serrada asked; the fear she felt was written on her face.

"As I said," Giselle took her arm and pulled the Herald back to her tent. "He has developed a high fever; you were both wrapped in rags. They were the best he could do, but they were filthy…."

Giselle's voice trailed to a near whisper, her eyes filled with empathy and concern. "Go to your cot; our best healers are attending to him."

The next day, things were no better; if anything, they were worse.

"He has an infection," an exhausted José explained a short while later while gulping tea and buttered bread. "As I told Eric, Adan, Giselle, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, Gliril, two cooks, and a horse."

"Stop! What are you talking about?" Serrada was becoming frustrated with the Newcomer healer. Finally, she took a deep breath, calming her temper and fears. "What is wrong with Commander Gray? What can we do?"

"At least the horse did not interrupt me," José responded. "Our bodies must adapt to the microbial life of Thedas; that takes time."

"What is a microbial?" Serrada was also trying to eat her breakfast but had lost her appetite.

José's eyes narrowed. "Everyone asks that."

He continues, "They are tiny creatures, too small to see with the eye; they live all around us, in us, and even on us. Most of the time, our bodies overcome it; they live their lives, we live ours, but sometimes they get where they shouldn't."

José stopped for a moment, waiting for Serrada to comment. He must have expected she would, but she only nodded.

"We have not built up immunity yet." Then, looking to see if Serrada understood, the crease on her brow showed him he needed to explain.

"We get immunity by being exposed to bacteria and viruses and survive, but with all the filth in the rags, it was just too much too fast." José seemed to enjoy being able to explain something of his genuine passion for the art and discovery of medicine, even if it was at the expense of one of his companions.

"You going to finish that?" José nodded toward the mostly full plate; Serrada pushed it toward him, using it as a segue to her next question.

"But why didn't I get sick? I was just as injured." Serrada could feel her eyes swimming, but her voice was solid.

"Infections that you would not even notice might kill us." Jose took another deep breath, whether from exhaustion or more reasonable apprehension. "Knowing John, he probably gave you his potions, and with your natural immunity …."

'He might have killed himself.' But the realization struck her like lightning. 'Did he know what he was doing?'

If her face reflected her pain, José did not notice as he continued.

"I have been treating them as much as I can. I am working with Giselle's healers and Adan's potion people…." The Newcomer healer sopped up the last of the gravy with a dry piece of yesterday's baking.

Serrada heard the word 'them,' but the thought was swallowed up by the gaping maw of the idea some minor irritant of infection might kill them. Thedas was dangerous enough, what with ordinary beasts like Dragons, giant spiders, packs of wolves, and Maker knows what, but something you couldn't see? How do you defend against something you cannot even see?

"I am giving John a course of antibiotics, which seems to have slowed the progression. Adan and Giselle are helping a shit load, but it is up to him now." Downing the last of his buttered bread and tea, José pushed back from the table, then stood and walked to the mess tent flap.

"He must want to live; he has to fight. If he does, he might get through it. If he doesn't, he won't; it is as simple as that." José stood and seemed to survey the tents; Serrada could see he appeared much older than his years.

"I must go check on Travis, he is not improving, and I am worried. The operation went okay, given everything, but still…." José passed out of the tent like a spirit; Serrada did not even acknowledge his leaving.

John's badly broken leg was riddled with corruption; it was treated with all their skill, but by nightfall, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Now he suffered through fitful dreams. He was rolling and thrashing in his cot as much as he slept.

Serrada worried and prayed.

She was worried he was dying or in danger in the Fade, or both.

She worried that her efforts to shield the lost barracks had done more harm than good, preventing him from learning to defend himself.

The mood in the camp was dark. Everyone was doing all they could, with José's concoctions, Adan's poultices, Mother Giselle's healers, and Patty's constant prayers, but it seemed all to no avail.

Early on, Serrada had insisted his tent be put beside her own; now, she visited him daily. Gliril moved between her two charges, sleeping on the ground in John's while seeing to the Herald, then back to John's sickbed. Gliril tended him, but so did Serrada as much as she could, even knowing it raised eyebrows.

With all this, other shadows were growing in her mind, particularly her memories of the duel and her survival.

Her last lucid memory after the duel with Corypheus was John crumpled behind a boulder. Deep snow stained red with his blood, yet he pushed her to leave, begged her to go on without him. He demanded that she live, to carry on.

They were her memories, but the question that she could not answer was, were they even real? Everyone on Thedas knew the Fade could trick one's mind and even corrupt memories.

John's absence and the natural cloudiness of waking had made her unsure of herself. Could her memories be trusted? She still couldn't recall anything about the Conclave, and now Haven? What she could see in her mind's eye were vague images, unfocused, without context, but she was sure it was John who rescued her, took care of her, and led her to safety.

But perhaps they were all a hallucination, more dreaming than reality.

There is an old Orlesian adage about the Great Game 'No matter how dark the night, it may become darker.' After two sunrises since John fell ill, this adage was proven true.

It was the fourth day out from the devastation of Haven, the second day since John fell ill.

Serrada was leading the way along the trail. Walking alone gives you time to think.

Her memories of what was being called 'The Battle of Haven' rolled over and over in her mind. The icy cold, the waves of Venatori soldiers, Red Templars, and a sprinkling of rebellious mages. Then, ultimately, the appearance of Corypheus and his lieutenants. Finally, Serrada grappled with her reflections on the final one-sided duel to stall the dark spawn creature.

Snatches of images, even a despair demon? Was John there? Was her memory of him one last torment from the demon or just her imagination? Or perhaps her memories were the deepest desires of her heart that the demon was using against her? Hadn't that been what the Sloth demon used against Leliana and the Hero in the Ferelden circle tower, their desires, their fears?

She went over and over the events until she was more drained from the mental exertion than the physical efforts of scouting trails.

That night Serrada rolled back and forth in her blankets until she was tightly cocooned, but she was still cold.

"Andraste's tits!" The curse slipped past her lips before she could not stifle it. Serrada looked around the deserted village. Of course, it was the now-destroyed Haven.

All was the silence of the grave. Inquisition pennants gently waved in a breeze that did not touch Serrada, for which she was grateful because she stood shivering in the frigid air.

She knew she would find herself here. Her dreams would bring her back; after all, it was the location of her greatest failure. Serrada started walking toward the gate but soon ran to where the trebuchet once stood.

The place she fought an abomination and its archdemon.

The dragon was there, just as it was that day, but instead of facing the dragon and Corypheus, she was behind the mound of decaying dragon flesh.

This time she moved around the creature to find … herself … well, not truly herself, but her fade self, facing Corypheus. She saw a memory of Serrada caught in time.

She arrived just as Corypheus threw the Fade Serrada through the air to slam against the timbers of the trebuchet. The Dreaming Serrada could not stop herself from wincing. Her bruised ribs regularly reminded her of their displeasure and how it happened.

"The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling." The darkspawn monstrosity spoke as he had days before in the waking Haven; she watched herself reach for the discarded sword at her feet.

Fade Serrada turned and faced the twisted creature. The Dreaming Serrada felt the fear again, the gnawing at the pit of her stomach; she tried to be brave, to live up to her bold words of defiance. Still, she remembered how terrified she was of Corypheus and his archdemon.

"So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation — and God — it requires."

"I will not suffer even an unknowing rival; you must die." Corypheus's voice was a blend of oily contempt, seasoned with dried decay and frosted with a generous dollop of whipped venom.

The Fade Serrada said something in reply that Dreaming Serrada could not hear, nor could she recall what it was, only her kicking the release and running.

Fade Serrada was running, and Dreaming Serrada could remember running, running just for the sake of running, then the icy maw opened at her feet. Then, leaping into the frozen gloom, landing with the crushing pain in her chest and gasping for air, the desperate crawl, and finally stumbling through the dimly lit caverns. Then, find some rest, a place to rest … and finally, the despair demon. She surrendered to death. No, not surrender; she remembered the desire to embrace death and its promised rest, only rest.

Then John…

She bolted up in her blankets, frantically searching for John, but she was alone.

She was fuzzy from sleep, but now she was sure of her memories as they all flooded back!

John was in the cave; he had rescued her from being food for a demon. He kept her alive, dressed her wounds, gave her the last of his healing potions, kept her from succumbing in her sleep, and guided her through a blinding snowstorm.

With all that, even in the end, he would have sacrificed himself to buy her a chance at survival.

Thank the Maker that the Inquisition search party had found her, and she led them to him.

Now fully awake, she remembered it all clearly. Still, in the depths of the night, she felt relief and her exhaustion then turned to the bed and slept the sleep of the righteous.

Like a new convert, at first light, she set about telling all who would listen to the facts.

But the truth was like pyre smoke in the wind.

And like a new convert, she experienced the crushing disappointment of unbelief.

Serrada sat staring at her untouched mug in the makeshift pub.

Flissa flitted among the tables doing her best to make everyone comfortable. She was as simple as a child, but one of the gentlest creatures Serrada had known.

The Herald glanced at the bar mistress, dancing from patron to patron.

Smiling to herself, Serrada was glad she had saved Flissa, even as she stretched the scars that came with that rescue.

Chiming behind her, Serrada heard Flissa's infectious laughter. 'Yeah, it was worth it.'

"Why so glum?" Dorian was his usual chipper self; nothing seemed dim the sun in his world.

She smiled despite herself as they all sat and drank what little they had, with Sera consuming more than most, even more than usual for her; Serrada filed that away, too.

"No, one'll listen to her story." Sera's eyes were bright even though she had consumed as much ale as Bull. "Who would? It sounds much more fun the other way, her saving everyone … hey you going to drink that?"

Serrada pushed the mug to the elf; Sera exchanged it for the empty one.

"Your story makes more sense," Bull's deep voice rolled around the small mug. "I mean, how many dozen guys can you carry, anyway?"

He meant the comment to lighten the mood. But unfortunately, he failed, at least for Serrada. He didn't seem to notice.

Seeing she was still serious, "The problem is, truth don't mean shit when people need to believe something else."

"Oh yeah, it makes sense," Sera's eyes never left Serrada's. "I mean, you were fagged when we got separated. How you were on your feet was beyond me. But the truth don't keep the scaries away, does it?"

"The man must love you, darling," Vivienne took a sip of wine.

'Where in the Maker did she get wine?' Serrada was unsure if she wanted to know; the more she learned of Madam De Fer, the more frightening the woman became.

"Of course, darling, his valor cannot be questioned, but the truth does not satisfy the needs of the peasants," Sera's eyes narrowed; Vivienne did not seem to notice. "As much as it pains me, I must agree with little Sera. Let the common folk believe what they must."

The genuine shock was that Sera made no retort; indeed, she remained silent.

None of this reassured Serrada or assuaged her guilt at robbing John of his much-deserved glory.

Not that people could not believe. It was that no one wanted to.

Much easier to see her efforts as modesty than the painful truth of her fragility.

The surviving Inquisition soldiers, trades, and camp followers swore to the Maker that Lady Serrada Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste, had saved them all — including a wayward John Gray.

The campfire gossip regaled how The Herald had found John; she had miraculously healed him; she led him up to the mountain pass. But, of course, all lies were more potent than an archdemon; no matter how many times she thought she had killed the lie, it seemed to spring back to life bigger and bolder.

The sixth morning after they started their journey to a new home, she had just heard the latest version of her rescue of a hundred injured Inquisition soldiers and John Gray, all being juggled on her back. The more ridiculous the story, the more it was believed.

With that, she took to her bed in despair and frustration.

"Herald," Giselle had found her sulking in her tent while Commander Gray lay nearby, mumbling in his fitful dreams, "Lady Trevelyan?"

Serrada did not answer, even when the tall woman with the soothing voice came and sat by her cot.

"I wonder from time to time if Andraste was shocked by Maferath's betrayal. Or perhaps if Maferath had spoken to her about his jealousy … whether history might have been different," Giselle spoke softly.

"Alas, we shall never know." Giselle paused, waiting for some response, and when none came, she carried on. "However, through their tragedy, Andraste and Maferath gave us touchstones to guide us. They allowed themselves to be drawn apart by praising her success, leaving her beloved husband cold in her shadow."

Serrada felt the hand of the Holy Mother resting on her hip as the words were whispered in the chill air.

"Those close to you know the truth; let the rest believe what they must to face the day." Giselle patted Serrada's hip, and then the hand was gone.

"Lady Trevelyan, Andraste's Herald, they don't need you to be the woman who did all those miraculous things; they need you to be the woman who could have done them." The priest's whispered words hung in the air.

SMACK! The crack of the hand across Serrada's bottom echoed through the camp.

The Herald of Andraste tried to flip in her covers but got caught up in the blankets; she lost her balance, and the cot toppled over, blankets, pillows, and Herald tumbling over in a lump onto the floor. Once she extricated her head from the wool envelope, Serrada glared up at the smiling priest.

Despite her instincts, Giselle had become fond of the young Herald. The vulnerable young woman peered up at her like a homesick initiate who had overslept—hair a riotous mess, eyes bloodshot and puffy, a bit of mucus dripping from her nose.

"Now quit sulking. Go to John Gray; show everyone that you respect him." Giselle walked toward the flap letting her words hang in the air; the fold seemed to open of its own accord, then pausing, the priest turned. "Then the Inquisition will as well."

The Herald was alone once more, half sitting half lying on the ground, with bedding tangled about her, trying to regain her dignity.

Serrada could hear two sets of feet scurrying away, the heavier gate of the priest and the almost imperceptible footfalls of another.

Serrada flushed in anger, but only for a moment, then Serrada smiled and chuckled to herself as she crawled loose of her bedding, knowing that Giselle was right; she had been pouting.

"That went well," Giselle wrung her right hand, clearly feeling the consequences of the blow. "I wish you had told me she was in armor under that blanket."

Gliril pulled the priest down the line of tents, ignoring the glances and disdainful looks from those who watched them pass.

She tugged the priest anxiously, trying to put as many paces as possible between them and her mistress's tent.

Since Haven, Serrada's darkening mood had increasingly worried the elf girl. Finally, desperate, she had gone to the Revered Mother for support. Giselle had become increasingly concerned with the Herald's mood and was grateful for the suggestion of a cozy chat. They formed a simple conspiracy.

Dragging Giselle behind her, Gliril reached a reasonable distance; and pulled her between the tents across from the Herald's pennant. She pulled the tall priest down to a crouch behind the empty tent.

Gliril peaked anxiously over the edge; she felt the priest moving up next to her. Glancing left, then right, and back left again, no one could be seen; only then did she feel safe in not being overheard.

"As for her armor, I never thought you would strike my lady!" Gliril's murmured response revealed her lack of remorse. Gliril did not turn to answer her fellow conspirator; her eyes were focused on her mistress's tent. At first, there was no movement, and she thought they had failed when, finally, a small smile crept across her lips. Then, glancing back at the priest, she frantically motioned to the ridiculous red and white hat.

Giselle hesitated, then reluctantly removed her headdress, the sign of her rank in the Chantry. Her reluctance came from the fact that it also held secrets, but it would also give her presence away.

It concealed the shredded right ear and scars along the older woman's face—the unmistakable remains of darkspawn claws and the lingering damage they caused. The unveiling did not cause Gliril's face to flicker; she had seen worse.

The elf girl turned back to the actual object of her concern, her beloved mistress; there was movement in the tent.

"But it did seem to work," Gliril had difficulty keeping her excitement in check, and relief filled her voice.

Both human and elf women furtively watched as Serrada, still combing her hair, stepped out into the sunlight and headed to the tent next to hers. The Herald stood outside John's much smaller tent, hands on hips, seeming to consider her tent and then his and back to hers again. Finally, she tapped on the pole and entered.

"You did well." Cassandra's deep but unexpected voice caused Gliril and Giselle to jump in surprise. Giselle felt foolish, as foolish as she had been when she was a novice, and snuck a treat from the cook's daily baking. She had spent a fortnight scrubbing pots; however, the cookie was divine, thus worth the washing.

Cassandra was trying to look stern. A difficult feat with Eric just behind her, snickering and tying his shirt, and given that the Seeker's blouse had several loose ties; combined with their flushed glow and mussed hair. However, given the Seeker's infamous temper, the elf thought it wise not to notice anything.

"I am glad you shook her out of her funk," Cassandra turned to go. "Just don't strike our Herald again." She smiled and left, Eric following those swaying hips like a puppy.

Giselle and Gliril exhaled; they released a respectable cloud of held breath into the frigid morning air.

"Maker!" Serrada threw the tangle of blankets from her body. Then, forcing herself to her feet.

As much as she resented it, she knew Giselle was right. John knew what happened, and so did she, and she would hold it in her heart.

The stubborn set of her jaw would have brought a smile to her father's face and a sigh of surrender from her mother, for they knew the look all too well.

She would not let John fall behind again.

She struggled up from the heap on the ground, gathered what dignity she retained, and then walked out of her tent.

Giselle was nowhere to be seen. However, Serrada suspected the priest was watching her. It would do no good to look; that only makes the situation more embarrassing. Besides, she had to see John.

She walked the few steps to John's tent, standing in front of it for a moment.

'His tent is small,' she had not noticed previously. In camps like the Inquisition's, tent size represented stature; it was to be expected that the leadership would have the most spacious tents, and whether valid or not, the Herald of Andraste would rank among them. However, John's tent was much smaller than any of the Quartet and some of the Inquisition officers.

'No wonder everyone thinks as they do; it is the tent of a servant, or worse, a pet.'

She knocked and entered. John was alone, being allowed to sleep and recuperate. She checked his forehead; it seemed cooler, but still, his color was not good.

"There is nothing more I can do," she jumped at the familiar voice behind her.

"Andraste, you startled me!" Serrada, both daggers gleaming in the dim light, they had leapt into her hands almost of their own accord.

"Pardon me, Herald," José's hands were palms up and open toward the dagger-wielding woman. His face showed the respect he felt, for he had seen her fight, he did not wish to be her newest unwilling sparring partner.

"It is alright," Serrada responded, realizing it was the healer; she turned back to John while sheathing her daggers, "what were you saying?"

"I have done all I can; for either John or Travis. I am running out of antibiotics. If I had more, I could treat them both…." the Newcomer healer sounded hopeless.

"Running out? How much do you have left?" Serrada turned to the man standing by the tent flap. She could hear the coolness in her voice; it was a voice that came naturally now. It was the voice of someone used to dealing out life and, more often, death.

"I have one more course, but I will give it to Travis. I don't know if it will help him either …." Jose never finished the comment when Serrada took his arm in her strong fingers and pulled him out of the tent.

"Come with me…." She hurried down the rows of tents, José working hard to keep pace with the auburn-haired force of nature. People around them smiled or looked away, wondering what the Newcomer healer had done to get himself in trouble.

He followed the Herald to the command tent; she was unsure if the people she wanted would be there but suspected it; it was usually where she could find Cassandra, and where Cassandra was, so would Eric be. She could hear the healer behind her speaking in a language she did not recognize, but although the words were not clear, his intent was.

Without knocking, she threw open the tent's flap and entered, and of course, the Quartet was there. Eric was behind Cassandra, as usual.

'Perhaps we should call it the Quintet,' Serrada would have laughed if she was in the mood. 'At least I don't have to send for him.'

"We need to talk" Serrada walked in and took up her usual position across the table from the group, but her fists on her hips.

"What troubles you, Lady Trevelyan?" Josephine's voice showed she was in full diplomat mode.

"Healer Gutierrez tells me that there is little more that he can do for Commander Gray or Corporal Martin," Serrada could hear the healer clear his throat.

"That is not exactly what I said…." José spoke, then took a deep breath. "As you know, John is resting, and I am hopeful he will overcome the infection in time. As for Travis, we took several casualties from those fucking crystals; most were easily removed and healed, but …."

"But not Travis," Eric had stepped around the table, folded his arms, and took a mock casual pose, his back to the Quartet.

"The crystals went deep. I thought I got it all, but some must have been in the bone…." José just trailed off. Everyone knew José, like all healers, hated losing people, but Travis and John made the situation worse because these were his friends.

"So? Exactly what does it mean?" Eric's patience was running thin, but he worried about losing both men.

"This morning, I examined Travis; the red streaks had returned, and I thought I saw crystals under his nails and in his eyes," José continued while looking at no one in particular, "I don't know what that means."

"I do," Serrada answered, but she knew the Quartet had read her Red Cliff report. "Whatever is in the red lyrium is consuming him."

"I only have one Z-Pak left," José continued as if Serrada had said nothing. John had instructed José to prepare for anything in Iraq, and he grabbed a handful of Z-Paks, never thinking he would use them — now José wished he had taken more.

"Eric, it worked on Travis. If I use the last course on Travis, I might save him," José knew the Zithromax had slowed the infection, but deep in his heart, it would likely not stop the progression. The source of the 'infection' was most likely a sliver of crystal buried in Travis's femur, and he had no hope of removing it.

"I should have amputated it the first night," José spoke softly, primarily to himself.

"He did not want to be cut, to stop being him" Cole stood beside Serrada; she couldn't remember his entering, but she rarely did. "He wanted me to tell you."

"Has he regained consciousness?" Eric asked, ignoring the intrusion.

"No, he is under observation constantly," José knew where this was going; he wished he could think of something else.

"I am hearing that the antibiotics will help John and not Travis." Eric's voice was cold; he knew both John and Travis well and considered both his friends. His face was stern and did not betray his thoughts as seconds passed. "Give the drugs to John; do what you can for Travis."

The command hung in the air in silence. José seemed to shake, trying to control his emotions, but his face showed the struggle. Finally, he mastered himself then began in a low controlled voice, just above a whisper.

"Eric, John is improving; he could recover without the Z-Pak." José's voice was climbing in volume till it was near shouting. Eric let it pass. "Travis will die without it!"

"Healer, have you read my report on what I saw in Red Cliff?" Serrada's voice was low and soft, she poured in as much compassion as possible, but she did not wait for the answer.

"If red lyrium takes hold, it grows, consuming the body, bone, flesh, everything. Nothing is spared." Serrada fixed him with her gaze. "I saw bodies consumed, living people, eaten away, leaving only red lyrium. They die in agony, watching their bodies being consumed. I watched the final stages; it was horrible. Is that what you want for Travis?"

"No, of course not," José turned on her, his anger plain. "I want to save them both, damn you!"

"But will you? Isn't it more probable that you will condemn both to death?" Cassandra spoke now, giving voice to all their thoughts. "Are you certain that you can save young Travis with this potion? Will Commander Gray survive without it? Can you be certain of either?"

"No!" José shouted, turning on Cassandra in his rage, but then something broke.

"No," José whispered and looked defeated; his shoulders drooped, and he looked years older than his age. Then his inner anger flared; he was angry with the situation and with those whom he answered.

"If I give the antibiotic to John, he will recover, I am certain of that, but Travis will die. I am certain of that too. If I give it to Travis, he might survive, but I can't be certain, and I don't know if John will recover. So no, I am not certain." José wanted all the facts to be out on the table.

Cole was standing next to Serrada; he startled her, given he was across the room a moment before.

"His mind is going. Soon the red will be all that remains. It hungers; it sings. I don't like its song," Cole was almost whimpering, suddenly close beside Serrada. "He does not want to go with the song; I will help him." Then he was gone.

"Doctor, give the antibiotics to John. Master Chief, that is an order," Eric's firm tone revealed his distaste at giving the command that condemned Travis to death but also the necessity of it, even without José's admission. "Travis would want it, and you know it. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," José saluted and turned to leave, "forgive me, sir, but what bastards we have become." With that, he was gone.

In the end, it was decided before José could follow the order. He found Travis dead on his cot.

"I was wiping his brow; he was in such pain," Antia was weeping, tears streaming as she held her lover's scarlet-tinged hand.

"A boy came in…" She looked vacant, sad, but not broken. "He spoke with Travis; he told me Travis loved me very much but had to go. That he would wait for me across the veil." A soft sob escaped her lips.

José had seen loss before, but although Antia wept softly, she seemed at peace with it.

"The boy went off to find Kaja …." Then the girl seemed confused, "what was I saying?"

José moved past the girl, shaking his head; she was clearly in shock.

He checked Travis; Travis was gone. That was merciful, at least, but what struck José was the look on the man's face.

José had treated the dying; all their faces reflected the struggle for life, but not Travis's. José had known the man for years; Travis had always been good for a joke or a story but was haunted by his experiences. He might laugh, but the humor seldom reached his eyes.

His expression, in death, was almost of relief. He looked serene, even beautiful like he was filled with an inner light, a light that the pulsing red filth could not sully.

The doctor looked away from his lost patient, his friend, to the woman who continued to weep, holding the hand of her dead love.

"Antia, we have to go," José gently took the grieving woman by the shoulders, "I promise we will take care of him."

She nodded and then gently folded Travis's hands across his chest. José drew up a sheet, taking one last look at the handsome face. They walked to the tent flap, and Antia paused for a moment, looking back, then wordlessly turned and left the tent.

José did the same; no matter how often he encountered death, he always felt that he had failed, but this time, it seemed worse.

'Why didn't I grab a couple more Z-Paks?' He shook his head once more, then turned to report to Eric.

Vivienne and Dorian worked together to freeze the bodies of Travis and Nathan; with the cold of the Frostback Mountains, it was trivial.

All that was left was for John to heal. Of course, an uncomfortable conversation between Serrada and John would come after, but now he had to heal first.

She could not dwell on the possible outcomes of that conversation. She had other things that required her attention.

Serrada paced tent. She was trying to think of something besides John.

It was essential to keep active.

First, she had already practiced the bow even though her shoulder still hurt from its injuries in Haven.

Second, dagger practice with Gliril, who had bested her several times.

Finally, Sera had beaten her three hands of Wicked Grace and split two chess games with Bull, who was impressed that she beat him like a drum.

Her stomach's deep rumbling growl reminded her it was time for lunch and would likely be ram again.

"Maybe just a sandwich," she stopped by John's tent and kissed his slumbering forehead. Then started for the tent opening, pausing just a moment to look back. He was sleeping so peacefully now; she was as glad she had made her decision as she was sure he would be angry that she had made it. But, of course, he would be angry, as cross as she would be in his place.

Then she heard the screaming and the whooshing sound of a swift fire, armor rattling with the singing of drawn swords as fire bells rang.

Serrada brought her daggers to bear and rushed to see where the attack was coming from, only to find Dorian smiling and waving his arms around in the air as Solas and Viv were dousing a burning tent with ice and snow. In Mother Giselle's gentle arms, a shivering Rachelle stood watching sullenly.

Sera was nowhere to be seen.

"It is all right," Dorian shouted above the din, "False alarm, my Templar friends; put up your swords…."

"Maker, what now?" Serrada sheathed her daggers and marched toward the disturbance.

"At ease, Templars, return to your posts!" Cullen was there before her, with Cassandra following a pace or two behind.

"What is the meaning of this?" Cassandra barked before Cullen could ask the same question. She did so loud enough that it hurt Serrada's ears.

"Hush, you will wake John," Serrada barked back, not even thinking how it sounded, then blushed.

"Commander Gray," her correction did not help remove the smirks from those around, but not Rachelle's. On the contrary, Rachelle seemed more despondent.

"It was an accident. Rachelle had a nightmare, poor thing," Vivienne firmly stated while dousing the remaining flames of what was the senior mage's communal tent.

Serrada knew from experience when Vivienne said poor thing, it meant the exact opposite. She was trying to signal that she considered Rachelle a threat.

"That was the third in a week, Madam de Fur," Cassandra's arms were crossed over her breasts; Serrada noticed that Eric was not with her for once, making Serrada wonder where he was now.

"I have suggested several times that we place a permanent dispel around the tents we inhabit" Solas was picking through the remains, trying to determine something; what it might be was not clear to anyone but him.

"We would be helpless if we were attacked," Viv responded immediately with a coolness that belied the fire in her eyes.

"Besides, with her strength, I doubt even all three of us could create a powerful enough dampening spell," Dorian's voice was dripping with both awe and a little fear.

"Make me tranquil," whispered Rachelle; these were the first words Serrada had heard from the woman in days.

"I am sorry honey, what did you say?" shocked, Serrada could not believe her ears.

"Please make me tranquil; I can't stand being without her," Rachelle responded and started weeping into Mother Giselle's breasts, the older woman stroking the younger woman's hair while rocking her.

"Let's get you something to eat, and a cup of tea, dear," Giselle led a sobbing Rachelle away to the priest's tent; Cullen nodded to a group of Templars who were not in armor. They followed discreetly.

Serrada watched them go, and as if on cue, everyone realized they needed to be somewhere else, all but Serrada, Cassandra, and the remaining mages.

"All right, what happened?" Her fists were planted firmly on her hips. The Herald was not happy, and that was evident.

"The girl was sleeping; she was in the fade. I could not see clearly, but I am sure it was the slopes above Haven, that last battle. I tried to lend her aid, but she had a barrier that thwarted me," Solas said in a tone that made it clear that he was both frustrated and impressed.

"The girl is a menace," Vivienne had been concerned about Rachelle since the battle. However, that young Rachelle had saved the exhausted and prostrate Vivienne's life in Haven did not seem to influence the Court Enchanter's opinion. Rachelle's timely rescue, if anything, set that opinion in stone. "We should grant her request and make her tranquil immediately; I can perform the ritual myself…."

"Your jealousy is showing, my dear," Dorian responded, his back was up, and he would go toe to toe with Vivienne if it meant protecting Rachelle. He had become fond of the girl and that she was more talented than he was just a side benefit. "She requires more tutoring, not more bullying. You seem much more skilled at the latter than the former."

"Oh, Maker, will you two please stop waving your staffs all over the place?" Serrada was coming to the end of her limited supply of patience.

"Cassandra, go check on Rachelle and Gisselle," Serrada had already taken a step away from those beside the smoldering ruins. "I am going to talk to Sera; Solas, please keep these two from killing each other."

Serrada shouted over her shoulder, headed for Flissa's canteen. "Or at least take it outside the camp, so nothing else catches on fire."

Only Serrada's back was treated to Cassandra's shocked look, Solas's smirk, Dorian's chuckle, or Vivienne's extended tongue waving her reply.

Serrada had known that there were problems between Sera and Rachelle, but she never imagined it was this bad. Nor imagined that the young mage would request such a drastic solution.

People moved to either side quickly as the Herald stomped down the muddy lane that served as the main road, jokingly called The Heralds Road, that ran the length of the camps. They had spent two days there already, allowing the animals and the wounded to rest before beginning the journey again tomorrow. Assuming things were settled by then.

Serrada reached the large tent that served as Flissa's temporary tavern, walking in without even looking, nearly running into Bull on his way out.

"Whoooww, Boss, where you goin' in such a hurry? " The deep rumbling voice of the Qunari filled the tent.

Serrada looked up at him and wondered if he was trying to warn someone of her entrance, probably several someones, given how packed the tent was and the sounds of rapid movement inside.

"Excuse me, Bull. I am looking for Sera. Have you seen her?" Serrada waited a few moments until the scurrying sounds died down, thus giving everyone a chance to get decent.

"Oh, yeah, under the third table on the left," Bull responded, then turned to let her pass, smiling; both knew what they were doing.

"Thank you," Serrada stepped by him, entering the shadows of the tent.

The tent was surprisingly warm; among the inventions the Newcomers brought was an enclosed portable stove; it heated better than any open hearth but gave little light. The flaps were up to allow in daylight.

Serrada's eyes took moments to adjust, finding Inquisition members were taking their ease in the comfortable surroundings of Flissa's mobile inn.

Greetings were offered as bodies moved, allowing the Herald to cross through the crowd toward the table Bull had mentioned. The surrounding faces were haggard, but they were also becoming hardened and determined, much like herself. Still, everyone has a limit.

'I have to find that fortress soon, or we are lost,' She thought as she searched, finally finding the right table; it was covered with empty mugs, some lying on their sides, and a deck of ale-soaked cards scattered across what little open space there was.

Serrada bent low, where she noticed a foot, no shoe or stockings, just a naked foot sticking out under one bench. The foot was attached to a shapely calf, up to an equally muscular thigh, and then higher. Serrada blushed; Sera was nude and drunk under the table.

"Flissa! Bring me some warmed blankets!" Serrada did not even look over her shoulder, knowing everyone in the room must know the situation.

Serrada ignored the rustling behind her and pulled the benches away from the prostrate woman. She smelled of stale ale and vomit, a lovely combination.

Serrada looked around, finding the discarded clothing lying in the mud.

"We told her we would not do her washin' anymore if her things were soaked in puke." The comment came from a woman Serrada did not know but recognized from the laundry. She was sitting with a group at a table across the tent. "So, she took them off, just stripped to her skin, afor she started drinkin'."

"Here you go, Herald" Flissa had two thick woolen blankets.

"Hold them," Serrada grabbed hold of the exposed ankle and pulled. The ankle's owner started to awaken but only just, then kicked at the offender, who disturbed her slumber.

"Hey, who do you think you are?" Sera's slurred speech and clumsy movements showed she was still drunk.

"Your boss," Serrada caught the free ankle in her other hand and pulled Sera out from under the table. She dragged the struggling nude elf through the mud of the tavern, and only Maker knows what else, and out the door onto the seemingly bottomless muck of The Herald's Road. The smell of that mud made it evident that it had a good deal of urine and manure from assorted animals of different kinds.

"What are you doin'!" Sera was finally awake and struggled as Serrada dragged her toward the stables. Flissa and a gathering crowd followed in her wake.

Dropping Sera's legs next to a trough, Serrada broke through the thin ice. Then took Sera up by the hair and dunked her head into the near-freezing water.

"I will not let your fears destroy that girl!" Serrada hissed and down went Sera under the water. Serrada held her there, then pulled the sputtering elf back to the surface.

"What in the shite!" Back down again, Serrada held Sera by the back of her neck, two sets of knees in the mud. The Herald steered the naked elf, repeatedly driving her under the water while defending against the flailing arms and sputtered curses.

Sera might be drunk, and might be naked, might be covered in mud, and might have freezing water dripping down her hair and shoulders, but she was not helpless.

The punch she sent toward Serrada's head would have been extremely painful if it had connected. Fortunately, it didn't; the right wrist was captured in mid-flight by the iron grip of Gliril, who pulled the arm back and up, pinning it. Fortunately, before she could react, Charter had the left wrist in her grasp, both elves pulling the arms back as Serrada drove Sera back under the water.

"Get some soap!" Charter shouted, and in two heartbeats, the stable boy brought out some tac soap used on the draft animals and horses. Made to kill ticks and fleas and clean the animals, it was much harsher than any woman might typically use.

"Thank you," Serrada sniffed the soap and wrinkled her nose. "Perfect."

Together they lifted Sera, dropped her into the water, and began scrubbing. Soon all four women, three elves, and the Herald of Andraste were soaked to the skin, but Sera was clean, perhaps cleaner than she had been since joining the Inquisition. Her skin was rubbed red, as were the hands of the women bathing her. They finally allowed her to stand.

"Flissa!" Serrada called, and before the name had left her lips, the warm blankets were wrapped around the shivering Sera, allowing her a belated modicum of privacy as she stood surrounded by the small group of women trying to screen Sera from prying eyes. But it was far too late for modesty.

"Where are her shoes?" Serrada asked, looking around as if they might magically appear.

"Never mind that," Blackwall heaved the wrapped girl onto his shoulder and started toward Sera's usual tent, Serrada following behind.

"Where did you come from?" Serrada asked, trying not to look too flustered as she chased after the warden, his long legs easily outpacing hers in a steady march, leaving Serrada to jog behind.

"It was my turn to collect her; Bull stopped by and said she was in her cups, as usual, so I came to collect her," His deep voice rumbling back toward Serrada, "I went to Flissa's and saw the show down the way, so I figured Sera was somewhere in it."

They continued up the hill to the small tents that the recruits used. Blackwall seemed to know which was which and finally opened a flap, then dropped the now snoozing Sera on her cot.

"You have been so caught up in the Newcomers and feeling sorry for yourself over Haven. You have not been paying attention to your other duties," For all the heat in his voice, Blackwall was gentle with Sera, ensuring she was covered with another blanket and a pillow under her head.

"Bull, Krem, Charter, Gliril, me, and others have been trying to take the slack, but we can't fix this." Blackwall turned on Serrada with a fierceness she had not expected. "If you don't fix this, we will lose Sera and Rachelle. No one else can do it. And before you say anything about being sorry, don't. Just fix it."

With that, he was gone, leaving Serrada alone with Sera and her thoughts. No one disturbed them as she watched over the young elf.

"What happened to you, Sera? What happened that you are so frightened of Rachelle that you would let her …." Serrada whispered as she stroked Sera's poorly cut hair.

"What are you on about?" Sera asked, her voice level and fully awake. She opened her eyes, fixing Serrada with her gaze. "What is wrong with Rachelle other than being … what she is?"

Serrada heard the catch in the elf's voice. There was hope there.

"She had a nightmare and lit her tent on fire," Serrada started, then looked away. "Evidently, not for the first time, either."

Sera did not look surprised but seemed to wait for the next toll of the bell.

"When all the excitement was over, she asked," Serrada glanced at Sera, and the elf's eyes captured her. "No, she begged, to be made tranquil."

"WHAT!" Sera leapt up from the cot, the blankets falling everywhere, exposing her naked breasts, and Serrada could not help but blush. "You aren't going to let her; you can't!"

"It is her choice Sera if she wants it," Serrada was playing a hunch. "There is nothing I can do…."

"You can't! She is the most powerful mage since Andraste, Dorian told me, and Solas said the same, and Vivienne is just jealous as fuck…." Sera was frantically looking about for her clothes.

"Which is exactly why we should make her tranquil. I mean, she is a mage, right? They might all burst out all demon-y if they aren't controlled or tranquil," Serrada was watching the elf desperately search for something to wear.

"I must find her. I have to stop her!" A naked Sera nearly ran from the tent, except Serrada grabbed her arm.

"Why do you care? I thought you were done with her. She said she could not live without you, but you seem fine if you have a full barrel of ale to fuck!" Serrada released Sera but not fast enough to avoid the flat-handed slap that nearly dislocated her jaw.

"You bitch!" Sera raised her other hand to strike; Serrada did not move to defend herself. Finally, Sera stopped and fell to the cot, pulling her legs up to hide behind her knees and cry.

"What happened, Sera?" Serrada put her arm around the girl, pulling her close, and Sera's arms came around her, adding salty tears to the water stains from the bath.

"I told you I was from Denerim; I don't know anything about my parents, but I remember kids, mostly not much older than me. The older ones looked after us, and there was one, maybe fifteen or sixteen winters, who looked after all of us young ones. I was too young to know what was going on, but she looked after me, and I called her mama; she would always smile." Sera's eyes showed she was playing memories over in her mind. Memories of a happier time.

"Then the blight came, and Denerim was attacked when everyone thought it would be Red Cliff." Her voice was choked with emotion. "We tried to get out, but there was nowhere to go."

"We hid in the warehouse district, but there was a fight outside, and we were trapped. The boys in front fought as best they could, but," Sera's voice caught, sounding as small as the elf must have been, "then this leader or something came up, an emissary, I think they called it, and it…."

The Battle of Denerim was well chronicled. Serrada had read many versions, most romances involving various members of the Hero's followers, but until now, Serrada had met no one who had lived it on the ground. It was all she could do not to burst into tears, almost feeling Sera's pain.

"It did some magic, and mama stepped in front of me. She protected me with her body; she didn't even have time to scream." Sera sobbed while Serrada pulled the girl to her. She was holding tight as if her arms would shield her from the memories.

"I was left alone, with bodies all around; mama just dropped in a heap. It just looked at me with such evil." Sera was seeing it all again, shivering in Serrada's arms before she could carry on. "Then its head just slid off its body, and I saw a woman dance past it, never stopping. I guess you could say I met the Hero of Ferelden, but she did not meet me."

Sera seemed to laugh, but it was a joyless laugh.

"She and the others kept going; after all, I was covered in blood, lying among the bodies. Why would she think I was alive? Why would she come to check on an elf girl?" Sera's voice showed she wished the Hero had checked on her. "She had to go kill the archdemon, right?"

Serrada pulled the weeping girl closer, holding her tight, keeping silent till the sobs quieted.

"Sera, honey, Rachelle needs you." Serrada whispered, "I know you are afraid, and I understand why, but you must control that fear; I need mages. I can't do this without them. I am afraid too, but I must do this. If you can't master this fear, I …."

Sera looked up, her bloodshot eyes showing she understood. "You can't trust me if I go to pieces like this."

"You love Rachelle; Sera, everyone knows that. So if you can't master this fear for her? How can I be sure you will master it for me?" Serrada kept her voice low and even. "Besides, she loves you back, and she is still Rachelle. She is just a mage now. She always was, you know that, right? She didn't use her gift to save us, and I was there, remember? She used it to save you. Dorian, Solas, and Viv told me what they saw shouldn't be possible, and it should have killed her. She would have willingly died … for you."

Sera sniffled and then raised her head.

"That has Vivie's knickers in a twist; Rachelle showed her up," The pride in Sera's voice was thick.

"Probably, she volunteered to do the tranquility ritual on Rachelle …." Serrada added, trying to make it sound matter of fact; she had no intentions of allowing it, but Sera did not need to know that.

"Maker's balls, she will! I will slit her throat before I let her do that to my Rachelle!" Sera was again up on her feet, naked as the day she was born. The cold air outside the tent stopped her; she returned to the bed, snatched up the blankets, wrapped herself as best she could, and marched out of the tent without another word.

Serrada straightened up the tent, packed up Sera's things in the small bag, odds and ends of various sorts, fascinating things, bits of shell, a chip of stone, and put them into the bag she slung over her shoulder.

She absentmindedly hummed a hymn as she walked down the row of tents. Toward the place, the once smoldering tent stood; in its place was a new tent with a small crowd outside. Solas, Dorian, Vivienne, and others stood looking like they had no other place to be and no place they wanted to be.

"I would not go in there, Herald," Dorian smirked, reaching down to pick up the discarded blankets outside the tent's entrance. "By the sounds of it, it might be a bit racy …."

The sounds flowing through the canvas were definitely not for children's ears.

"You did good, boss," Bull added; how such a big man could creep along silently always surprised Serrada.

"Yes, you did," Blackwall chimed in.

"Well, now that there might be enough at Flissas's for the rest of us," Dorian lifted himself on his toes. "Anyone fancies a drink?"

A woman in the tent just reached her crescendo and wanted everyone in camp to know it.

"I'll buy; let's go!" Serrada added a little too quickly while blushing and started briskly toward Flissa's; even Blackwall had to hurry to keep up.

"I think we will drop these off at the laundry and see how Sera's clothes are coming along," Dorian added, Serrada leading the group quickly away from the tent, "not that she will need them soon."

Now, days later, days of worry that felt like years, she held him in her arms. Those arms were a band of muscle and bone, pulling his back tightly to her breast, her cheek resting on the finely spun wool of his brand-new but uncooperative dress coat.

'He looks good in the dark red.' She thought as she enjoyed the feel on her cheek and his body's warmth.

John was correct; Josephine had worked her usual miracles for this event. Serrada had feared John would be resented, what with the new uniforms and John's new tent.

The response was the opposite.

While most praised her dual with Corypheus, the Newcomers were honored for the last defense of Haven. Everyone knew that retreat was only possible with the Newcomer's valiant last stand.

"The Maker sent them" was on many lips, and their sacrifice was respected, so although today was poignant, Serrada was proud of how the Newcomers were honored for their loss.

All this raced through her thoughts as she held him, enjoying John's scent.

Finally, he broke the hug. He liked it a little too much and feared it would show.

'Not the time for that,' He chuckled to himself with only a slight blush; then, pausing, he stifled a sigh. 'I wonder if there will ever be time.'

John turned; then, hands on her shoulders held her at arm's length. He could not help but wonder how she made the formal uniform look professional while simultaneously sensual. He looked closely at her.

Her bruises had faded; the combination of José's skills as a surgeon, Mother Giselle's healers, and Adan's potions had made both of their fresh scars almost invisible … at least the ones on the outside.

"I just hate all of … this." John waved his hands about them, the final preparations for the latest round of funerals. He had seen far too many in the last few days, but this … this one was different.

He turned back to the burnished shield. It was utterly ceremonial from some noble or another; why Josephine bothered to pack it was beyond him. It was impressive, as such things go, but the Orlesian Lion made it hard to see if his collar was straight or if all the bloody buttons were done.

He didn't want to think of what must be done today. He could not meet her eyes; nor the eyes of his men. Two who had followed him to Iraq would never leave Thedas because he led them here. Their families would have no grave to visit, no headstone to decorate, and he wondered if, with all the secrecy, anyone at home would ever know what happened to them, even the cover story.

"It is good that they don't have aerial recon…." He could imagine how the dotted line of smoldering funeral pyres would point straight from Haven to wherever the fuck Serrada was leading them.

"We should think about some air-born forces ourselves since they have a dragon. I will have to get with the nerds and see if they have any ideas." John said all this before, several times, along with building a navy, and factories for ammunition, chemicals for powder and primers, tin and copper mines for brass, all proposed over and over.

"It was not your fault, John" Serrada listened to him go through the list ― she knew he was distracting himself. She did the same, she did not have to remember the faces and the names of those who died for the Herald, but he had no choice but to remember since they were also his friends.

"They knew what they were doing when they volunteered," Serrada recalled the Johns people were volunteers like her own soldiers.

"No, they didn't!" John slammed his fist into the shield; it rang like a gong. Loud enough that Serrada jumped, everyone outside the tent stopped to check on the Herald, who waved her hand to shoo them away.

"No, they didn't." John turned, and although his voice was hushed. "They volunteered to fight for their country, Serrada, their country, not Thedas."

He sighed sincerely, "Yes, they volunteered with the Inquisition, but really they had no choice, did they? I don't even know if they had girlfriends back … on Earth."

"From what you have told me, refusing to pass through the portal, they would be just as dead." She cut him off while trying to be soothing.

She thought she understood his feelings better than he realized. She thought back a few months to the beginning of her journey. One night on the way back from the Hinterlands, Mother Giselle appeared in the dark hours of her watch and sat close.

For several minutes, both stared into the flames without a word until suddenly, Giselle broke the silence.

"Something troubles you, Herald." Giselle's attention never left the flames.

"I don't think I can be anything like Andraste," Serrada's whispered reply showed her feelings. "She was far stronger than I. I feel horrible for every soldier lost."

"I once was told there is an archive of Andraste's writings, and in those sacred tombs is a letter in which she expresses her remorse for the lives sacrificed. Along with it is a handwritten list of names thought to be written in Andraste's hand." Giselle returned the whisper, "It is a very long list."

"The Chantry has always portrayed Andraste as stern, seemingly uncaring for those who died in her service." But Giselle continued, "I find it comforting to think she valued the sacrifice of those who died in her name."

They had talked into the night about sacrifice and that each man or woman of the Inquisition had motivations for being there, ultimately inspiring them to volunteer.

Now she stood in a tent, watching John prepare for a memorial for his men. She wanted more than anything to hold him, comfort him and let him know she understood.

"I know." John put his hands up to stop her response. "It is just what it is. Just another thing we must accept." John made one more adjustment, checking his coat cuffs. "Let's get this done."

They walked through the latest encampment. With every step John took, Serrada was with him. Every face, regardless of rank or race, noticed them pass, and all saw them walk side by side.

There were few comments; of those few, most were greetings to the Herald, who only gestured in acknowledgment. There were some expressions of condolences to John, usually by young women.

Finally, they reached the pyres—three today. John had fought the idea once he had been informed of their losses. He had hoped that something might be done to revive Nathan, if not Travis, with some magic, but the horror on the faces of the mages was enough to answer his question with finality.

"Commander, such things are forbidden. Things might be done if we were there at the moment of death." Vivienne had tried to correct his misunderstanding. "But once the soul has left the body and begun its journey to the Maker, there is nothing to do but grieve and give them peace."

Side by side, they walked to the large pyre. So many of the Inquisition's wounded had found the exertions of the trip out of Haven too much, and they died the first or second night. The first pyre was so large that they had to fell dozens of trees. The same the next night, it seemed like they moved, fell trees, and burned their friends' bodies. The stench of burning flesh was heavy around them. They had done it so often that it now seemed routine, or it had been until now.

The hymns were sung, and Mother Giselle spoke. Funerals had become so routine that they were emotionally exhausted and could only mourn so much.

Ultimately, the services for Theda's natives were complete; all that remained was the flame.

It was finally time.

John stood at attention and waited.

He could not bring himself to watch the preparations. But cowardly as it was, he had justification. When he was put to bed after the first camp, he was ordered to bed by the new head of Inquisition medical staff, José, that he should stay in bed for at least three days, possibly seven. He had tried to argue and learned that there are other spells than fireball.

Once, he had tried to sneak out and found that Gliril and Charter were adept at hunting and capturing without injury, finding himself bound to his cot for the next day. The humiliation of public bondage, then having Gliril carefully take care of his personal needs in full view of the camp, was enough to keep him abed.

Now he stood waiting for his fallen men, standing at attention in his new uniform. He wished it was his navy whites, but they were a world away in an empty farmhouse in Missouri.

The honor guard came forward just as they had for the funeral of a young girl in Haven. The camp was silent, save for the sounds of wind in the trees and animals living their lives. Birds were calling in the snow-covered trees.

The sound of boots stepping in perfect synchronization, step upon step, John's eyes forward as Eric led one and LJ led the other. Thirteen of his fellow soldiers had entered the portal in Iraq; only eleven could now return.

With John beside Serrada, that meant only ten to carry their brothers; Cullen had found four to take them to their rest, and Gliril and Krem had insisted on making up the complement. So now, thirty-two boots stepped as one—step after step.

It seemed an eternity before the bodies came into view. The improvised litters bore no caskets; they appeared to be unknown to Thedas, and had no time to make them. But there were two bodies wrapped in white linen.

Sam led the procession; she wore contrived garb to fit her temporary role, but it was fitting. The Inquisition members said nothing; apparently, the all-white outfit was only for the Divine; her position would have been a shock only a few days ago, yet another surprise.

They had not chaplain Mother Giselle had offered, but it was uncomfortable for her, given that they were not of the Maker's faith. That was when John and his men had another surprise.

"I would be honored if you would allow me," Samantha offered, through an unusual blush.

"You?" John responded, shocked and a little incredulous. "I thought you were an atheist."

"Well, that, John Gray, is what you get for doing your thinking." Her voice and eyes had more than a bit of fire. "I am English, I do not wear my faith on my sleeve, and it is sometimes better to allow others to believe what they will. Particularly in academia, but I studied and am ordained in the Church of England."

"Brilliant, a vicar in knickers!" Rachelle added from the side of the group.

The comment brought a sorely needed laugh from everyone.

"I don't wear knickers." Sam's only retort; although she was blushing deeper than before, she was smiling with those giving hoots and pointed laughter.

Sam led the procession; clutched in her hands was a well-worn copy of the King James.

As they moved past, John glimpsed color on the white linen; at first, he thought it was a trick of the eye amongst the deep rust color of the uniforms.

What was lying folded on each man's chest?

He was shocked. Neatly folded on the crossed arms of each body was a familiar blue and white pattern, a very familiar one. He glanced at Serrada, she wore a small smile, and his eyes moved to the others of the Quartet. Yet another Josephine miracle. Just the first of several surprises.

The bodies were placed on their pyre, and the pallbearers unfolded each flag and placed it over them.

John stepped forward; as an officer in charge, it was his duty to ensure that flag was properly positioned. It was almost second nature.

He placed his hand on the unmoving chest of each man and prayed; he had been doing a lot more praying since Iraq.

Returning to his place beside the Herald, he noticed the unoccupied seats. Initially, he thought the seats were to represent the absent family. However, moments later, he learned differently when LJ and Eric escorted two young women to their places of honor.

Both wore simple clothing, but John was sure it was their best. He had seen them before but never really noticed them or the budding relationship between the young girls and his men.

Sam's sermon covered the Soldier's Psalm 91 and closed with the 23. She did so with compassion and emotion that was organic; she was a believer.

John moved to stand at attention before the biers; he acknowledged the young women. John could not help but wonder which one was for which of his boys. He made yet another mental note to ask.

Eric and LJ took their places at the head of each bier, while Mamiko and Rodeo took the opposite. Each took the corners of the flags and raised them. John thought they would begin the folding ceremony but didn't; they paused.

Music swelled behind them; at first, it was both familiar and alien. Like seeing your boss in shirts and a bikini top mowing her lawn. Finally, his astonished mind processed to sound his ears were hearing, not quite right, a little off but still recognizable; it was not a recording! The shiver went down John's back, another reminder of how things were so different and what was lost.

The folding ceremony began with the last doleful echoes of Taps dying on the winds.

Slow and silent, few people know that all thirteen folds have meaning. As he always did, John silently repeated as Mamiko and Rodeo turned and folded and made the triangles. When complete, Eric and LJ tucked the edges in and carried the folded triangles of blue with white stars toward John.

Eric smoothly stepped with the folded flag. Taking the flag, John ran his hand over it, checking its folds and scrutinizing it, his hand gliding over each surface in practiced efficiency.

At that moment, John realized he did not know which one of these girls would receive the flag. Fortunately, Eric anticipated him, nodding to the right. John stepped to the woman on the right; she was trying not to weep and failing. He knelt, restraining tears himself, angry he did not know her name nor that of the sister in loss who sat next to her. He would change that; they were part of their family now.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud Navy," Until that moment, John was on automatic pilot; he glanced, realizing he had forgotten where he was. "The Herald of Andraste, and all of Thedas, it is my privilege to present this flag, the flag of our nation; let it be a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to our nation, the Navy, and a grateful Inquisition."

Salutes were given, and insignia pinned to the shrouds, completing a tradition of the Seals. Josie's last surprise was the two dozen medals, each finely crafted in only hours. Of course, Josie would create insignia. Eric and LJ must have described them, but each carried the symbol of the Inquisition. The medals decorate the bodies, gifts from the living to honor the dead.

At attention, they stood as the torches lit the pyres.

John knew his duty; he thanked all the guests and ensured the flag-clutching young women were taken care of; LJ and Eric saw them back to a new tent, now in the center of their camp. They would want for nothing. One by one, the attendees trickled away, duties small and large; even his people had their responsibilities.

John stayed and watched the fires burn. It takes a great deal of wood to burn a human body, more than most people realize. There will be residue, and more than ashes will be left. Tomorrow, when all the embers are cool, there will be those who will come and gather what is left, then turn those stubborn parts into powder. He supposed an urn might be found; Josie was a miracle worker, but even if he could gather up all their ashes, what good would it do?

Hours later, Serrada thought he had brooded enough and found him.

His eyes never left the dying flames.

"Nathan and Travis had girlfriends; did you know that?" John could sense she was there, even though she was behind him, just out of sight.

"Leliana told me" She realized how that sounded only after the words were out of her mouth.

John laughed, but it was a joyless laugh. "Everyone knew but me. Fuck, what kind of leader, let alone friend, does that make me?"

"That you wanted to know speaks to the leader you are." Serrada stepped up beside him, slipping her arm into his. "After the Carta shite, your men were protecting their girls."

"I guess that makes sense." He understood that many people on Thedas would love to get even one of his people in a dangerous situation.

They sat together in silence; the others were finding their beds. The moons chased each other, and they watched the flames.

John finally spoke.

"José said infection killed Travis. The boy fought it hard, but it just was too much." John's voice carried the sadness, his face masked.

John had heard rumors about Nathan's death before becoming ill, but Travis seemed to improve. José had removed the red lyrium crystals; it had been a complicated surgery given the conditions and that the crystals had been deeply embedded, but José thought he got it all. However, a couple of days later, Travis took a turn for the worse, then three days later, the boy was dead.

Of course, given his illness, John had missed all of this.

A day after John was up and around, Eric and José came into his tent.

"Excuse us, boss, but can we come in?" But, of course, the tipoff was that Eric had asked to enter, which meant something was up.

"Sure, Eric, come in." Eric and José checked around the tent before coming in. John felt his back itch; something was wrong. "Okay, guys, out with it."

José finally took a deep breath and gave him the grim report. The news about Nathan's death was no surprise; John had been there in Haven and had seen Nathan get hit and go down, but Travis's death was a shock.

"I am sorry, John," José's voice was empty; John knew him well enough to see he was beating himself for his failure and knew he had to pull him out of the tailspin.

"José, not your fault," John could clearly remember the red-tinged bodies of the Red Templars he had fought at Therinfal, and on the mountain pass, when he saw Travis's frozen body, he knew. "It must be that lyrium; it must have infected him."

"John, I agree, but how is it possible?" Serrada responded, "Lyrium, even red lyrium, is a mineral?"

John took her silent entry in stride, but José and Eric jumped when they heard her voice behind them. John could not help but smile.

Cocking his head to one side, John was not convinced. "Really? Varric tells me it can change people into red lyrium, and it sings. So, are you convinced it is not alive somehow? I am not."

He let that hang in the air.

Red lyrium explained Travis's death, but John did not need to discuss Nathan; Eric had said it was a Golden BB.

The arrow just came down, clearing his ceramic back plate, only to pass through a seam in his Inquisition armor. Just the right angle, with the right tip and momentum, straight through his spine and left lung—a one-in-a-million shot from a now-dead Red Templar archer.

John had lost men in the past and probably in the future.

Now at the pyre, they watched it burn low.

"I failed them," John only now shifted from his stance, and for the first time, he turned to her and looked at his hands. He took a moment, then looked up. "I can't get them home."

Serrada felt frozen; she did not move to save for a nod. She realized she had been holding her breath and then slowly released it.

"When we lose people, we do everything we can to bring them home." John could not hold her eyes, thinking of those he had escorted.

"We bring our people home, sometimes in a box, sure. We cover the casket with a flag, then give it to their families." John took a breath, watching the last of the flames. "If possible, every casualty is brought home, and someone escorts. It is an honor. I have pulled escort duty more than I want to count; Eric, LJ, Patty, and most of us have done it. We make sure they get home."

"I can't do that here … now." As if to underscore the comment, a loud pop from the embers caused a cloud of sparks to climb, only to be swallowed by the frigid night air.

"I will not get them home, will I?" John never looked up, just stared at the remaining embers in the rapidly diminishing light. She wanted more than anything to tell him yes. She had to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him, saying he would see his little farm and holding his daughter again. She was sure he would not want to hear the truth.

"I don't know, John, but after this mess is all over, I promise I will do all I can to get you," the word stuck in her throat as if they were a spine fish, "home."

"Thanks," He responded as one of the remaining logs shifted and fell to pieces. "But it is time for me to stop acting like a child."

"Come on, enough feeling sorry for myself," John's voice sounded more robust, more resolute as he looked up at the stars. "We have work to do, and dawn will come soon enough."

Then taking her arm, he walked her back down the muddy road toward their tents.

They did not speak on their return. Dawn was only a few short hours away; John saw Serrada to her tent. He gave the Inquisition salute to her guards, causing Gliril to smile though he did not notice. Then turned to his tent.

The morning broke early, and the Inquisition was breaking camp. Eric and LJ were on their way to John's tent. They had already packed the tents, and their equipment, wagons, and draft animals were loaded; they were ready to move out. The only thing left was to pack John.

They didn't talk about the night before, and neither wanted to think about the gruesome work that Mother Giselle's helpers busy down at the pyres, pounding the stubborn brittle baked bones into powder to be scattered in the ashes. They both just walked.

They turned the corner to find a surprise. John's tent was gone. Only a blank spot remained. Serrada's guards were breaking her tent down, Gliril finishing the packing and directing the guards in their work.

"What?" Eric started, "Where?" LJ continued, mirroring the same look as Eric.

"Having breakfast, of course," Gliril twittered at their confusion; her happiness at her two most beloved people were seemingly both on the mend and, better yet, together, was almost more than she could endure.

"Don't just stand there," she pointed at Eric, "Pick up that trunk and put it on the wagon, and you," nodding to LJ, "take this bag carpet and lash it tight; I don't want to have it come loose."

Neither man moved till Gliril's eyes flashed, "Come on now, hop it!"

They did, both smirking at each other and wondering where the scared little elf girl called Rabbit went.

Not long after, the Inquisition was moving again.

John had the strangest sensation that they were holding still, and the world was turning under them. Foolish, of course, but they had been working so many days, it felt that way, and for several of those days, he had been unconscious.

Soon after, he found himself alone, at the head of the column, with Serrada. The Herald's companions had learned that perhaps the two most lethal members of the Inquisition were leading the refuges, and Maker help anyone who got in their way. Thus, it was permissible to hang back, especially when they wanted to talk.

"We are not who we were when we left Earth," John added, thinking of his people, those who died like Danny, now Travis and Nathan, and who knows, perhaps more might join them.

But also those who had formed attachments. Rachelle would die before leaving Sera; the same was true of Eric with Cassandra. There were rumors of others as well. But of all his companions, Paddy was the only single-mindedly desperate to get home, somehow, whatever it took.

The person he could not answer for was the one person he should have been sure of — John Gray.

"John, I know you want to go back to your family," Serrada tried to sound self-assured about her comments, but she was confident she had failed. "When this is all over, I will help you…."

"Serrada," John's voice was quiet, so quiet she barely heard it even with the silence of the snow and still air around them. "I don't have a family anymore; my wife left me for another man. She took my child, who did not even recognize me standing a few feet in front of her. I doubt she even remembers me …."

His poorly hidden pain was clear to see; it went deep and was fresh. She wrestled with her conscience. She had seen his freehold home, the changes that had been made, the woman sleeping there, arm outstretched for a husband lost because of her sins, and now across the Fade. She saw a daughter who kept a photo, the twin of the faded one John cherished, of a lost father who watched over her.

No, he was not forgotten. No matter how painful, she owed the man she had come to love her complete honesty, regardless of how much that honesty cost her.

"John … I … there is something you need to know …" She began stumbling on her word; she knew she had one chance to tell him, to unburden her soul. But she was so focused that Solas's arrival went unnoticed.

The three reached the top of the ridge, and she did not notice that John had stopped; then, she saw his face, and he was looking ahead at something.

She realized her moment of honesty was lost. She knew she would never again have the will to let him go.

So, she looked to see what had captured John's attention.

Across the valley was a dilapidated fortress; it needed repair in several places but was still decorated with faded pennants of Orlais or Ferelden slowly flapping in the wind. It was not as bad as Fort Connor had been, but not as good a condition as Red Cliff castle, but it would certainly need work.

"Skyhold," Solas said, a hint of pride in his voice that was just another piece in a puzzle that Serrada could not see.

"Sure, it's big enough," John said suddenly beside her, "but look at the location."

Solas and Serrada just looked at each other, shrugged, and followed a chuckling John down the slope to their new home.