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.

24. Clearing the Dirth

This chapter takes some liberties with the Inquisition canon.

Thanks too:

CherryJamOnToast,

Shadeslayer113, and

Efion63.

Who initially encouraged and supported my meager efforts.

Special thanks to those who have read and reviewed this story, especially Kora, Judy, and Kanta.

Warning: There is coarse language, and sexual situations.

Warning: This is a longer chapter. So much happening in the Dirth.

PLEASE COMMENT; it helps me know if you are enjoying the story.

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Clearing the Dirth

"Keeper, I don't understand. The humans destroyed Arlatha, then enslaved us. Andraste asked us to aid her in her war to overthrow our shared enslavers for our sacrifice; they gave us the Dales, and then they destroyed all because we kept our ways. How can they think we would choose their Maker? How could they be so foolish?"

"Practice lethallan, practice. The shem have a great deal of experience in being foolish." Keeper Ashwan of the Lavellan Clan

---

"You were useless," Mariah's emphatic words blended into dismissiveness. "Always off playing soldier, never at home being my husband, certainly not a father."

Venom laced words before she kissed the faceless man that had replaced John in her heart; the scene was so explicit John could almost touch it.

"A father? Ha! Don't make me laugh; I am glad you're finally gone." Sarah hugged the faceless figure. Somehow, John knew his daughter loved this anonymous man much more than she ever loved him. "This is my father, you might be the sperm donor, but you were never my father."

John was barely breathing; his lungs would not work; it was as if cold dead fingers had reached through his armor, gripping his heart, slowly crushing it. Some tiny part of his mind told him that none of this was real, that it was not true, but the rest of him, the doubt within him, knew that it was all true and all genuine.

Pop Pop Pop

Supersonic rounds broke the quiet of the Dirth. The familiar sound shattered the illusion of Mariah and Sarah that entrapped John; they were there one instant and gone the next, leaving John shaken and confused, too stunned to understand what had happened.

The demon turned its attention to Eric, the man who had just assaulted it.

John's head was swimming, trying to understand. He looked around the ravaged fort searching for his wife and daughter; they had just been with him ripping his heart out in large dripping chunks; the next, he was back in this filthy feted trench surrounded by rotting corpses and a flying zombie looming over him screaming curses at him through a shattered throat.

His vision cleared, and he saw that Eric had made his way up along the far end of the trench to get a clear shot at the demon who held John in its ethereal clutches.

The demon-possessed corpse floated above a pile of moldering remains. God willing, it was the last of the mass graves, which the mages and templars had identified as the nexus of the curse that supplied the raw material for the plague of undead in this outpost.

The demon sent its decomposing soldiers to harass both armies and generally be a pain in the ass throughout the Dirth. John did not think the monster cared which side was which, just as it did not care which side the corpse they inhabited might have served in life if its previous owner had served either side or just got caught up in the melee.

Whatever dreams and hopes its erstwhile host might have had, the demon inhabiting the once beautiful mage girl, the demon's only remaining desire was to kill as many living beings as possible, especially Eric and John.

Why the demon was acting as it did was a mystery. Thedas never seemed to run short on puzzles or convoluted motivations, and mysteries abounded; what was in short supply was compassion.

John had pondered what kind of demon it was. But only briefly, since he had no idea, it did not matter in the end. He had seen a handful of different demon types but had been told there were dozens he had never seen. This one looked like any rotting corpse that abounded about the battlefield. Most demons inhabited corpses, but others, like the pride demon, seemed to have their bodies and did not seem to need to possess one.

The only clue he had was the clothing: mage robes.

It was a woman's corpse floating in front of John; she had not been dead long, perhaps a few days. The heat of the Dirth had started decay, of course, but the demon must be holding it together as liquefaction of the body's fats and soft tissues had not begun.

Oddly, John felt a strong pang of regret at having to do further damage to her corpse, as it seemed a desecration and abuse of someone who had already lost so much. He knew she was already dead and what might have remained of the person she was before possession was gone. Regardless, he could not shake the guilt.

Taking careful aim, he fired two rounds from his PPQ, the .45 caliber bullets travelling at just under the speed of sound, smashed into the side of the once lovely face. Just above the upper jaw and ahead of what had been the dead girl's right ear. On contact with the skull, the hollow point bullets expanded from just under half an inch to three-quarters of an inch; like a tiny snowplow, it pushed the bone and decaying brain up ahead until it again encountered the far interior skull. The bullets exploded the bone, erupting through the far side like a grotesque geyser of dislodged brains and scalp, forming a fountain of material which dissipated on the breeze.

The demon was vanquished.

It was at moments like these that part of John wondered how this freshly brutalized corpse was somehow deader than the girl had previously been, yet another mystery why doing further damage to a corpse would kill the undead creature regardless of how it always seemed to work.

Solas was just as exhausted as the rest; he hung himself on his staff but still managed to throw his remaining energy into the barrier until it fell. Now wholly spent, the mage crumpled to his knees.

Eric took that moment to light a wine bottle filled with oil, like a primitive Molotov cocktail, and he used his remaining strength to lob it into the pit, which immediately burst into flame. His throw was so weak it was with the grace of God, the Maker, or both that he didn't immolate himself.

John fell back against the inner wall of the redoubt, its roughhewn timbers with exposed nail heads biting into the leather of the vulnerable joints of his armor. He didn't notice. His breathing came in ragged gasps, heart pounding in his ears, trying to forget the images of Mariah and Sarah that had passed through his mind. Yes, he knew they were illusions, but they felt so real, and it was hard to move beyond the feelings of self-doubt that screamed in his mind.

"I am falling back," Serrada's voice cut through John's numbed mind. The sound cut through the haze of the false images as the morning sun burned away the fog. He could not remember moving.

Eric's voice behind him became distant as he raced heedlessly to the sound of metal on metal, the acrid tang of magic ozone burning his nose.

Twists and turns of rough hewn lumber stockades and passages constantly blocked him, a maze seemingly intended to herd him to some unknown end.

Finally, he found his way, guided by the sounds of shouting, some familiar but others not. Shrill commands and frantic replies, with each twist and turn, the sounds of battle growing louder, mixed in with screams of pain.

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra's voice sounded desperate, alarm suffusing the title, just as John rounded the last turn and entered the area where a half dozen burning tents were scattered on a garbage strewn open space. Long years of front-line combat caused some part of his mind to evaluate and decide that this must have been the officer's area camp. A place far back from the dangers of battle where the dead and dying might lie while fat commanders plot their latest hopeless stratagem. Whoever had once commanded here, they were now gone.

Across the open space, Cassandra was desperately defending against two swordsmen, while Rachelle held a high location, raining lightning down on the Inquisition's enemies. Sera was using daggers to defend herself from the swordsman. Her quiver was empty, her bow cut in two; Cole was back to back with her, his daggers stained to the elbows with bright red blood, exhausted.

Just then, John saw a blurred figure launch across the space to stand over a body he had not noticed.

Serrada lay curled on her side, whisps of smoke drifting up from charged armor. Some dagger wielding figure appeared over her, raising a serpentine blade ready to strike down on the helpless woman.

Heedless of the danger, John launched himself at the man. Never thinking about his rifle, pistol, or his combat knife, but only with his bare hands.

A dozen feet at most, covered in a heartbeat, fists balled in furry, he threw himself with all his strength, catching the mage mid-waist with bone crushing impact, launching them both over and away from the prostrate Inquisitor.

The mage tried to cast a spell, desperate to kill the new assailant, but managed only to wrap them both in electricity, enraging John beyond reason.

John drove the man onto his back on his knees; he straddled the monster.

Punches rained down on the stunned mage, John's left hand holding the ruffled blouse, lifting his target as his right fist came across, breaking teeth and jaw. Again and again, the rage driven blows landed.

"Enough, you bastards, enough! Leave her alone!" Raising hands over his head, fingers interlaced, his joined fists came down with all his strength, delivering a crushing blow that drove the forehead into the dead man's skull. "Leave us alone!"

He felt the hand on his shoulder before he heard her voice. Like an acrobat, he leapt from his knees to his feet, landing in a combat crouch, body tensed to strike, his blood dripping hand grasping the hilt of his kbar combat knife, all waiting to meet the new threat. Standing one foot on either side of the corpse of the mage.

His eyes were blurred with rage and blood lust, his consciousness far away, all instinct and combat hardened soldier.

Serrada recognized herself in him not so long ago and held herself still; the others did the same; it would not have mattered they were too far away to intervene. She held firm.

"It's over, John," Serrada's voice was soft and tender but cracking. Her gentle words reached into the black abyss where he floundered, pulling him into the light. "John, I am alright; I just had the wind knocked out of me. He is dead, John; he can't hurt me anymore. Come back to me, please."

John still standing over the corpse of the mage, whose head was now an unrecognizable mass of tissue. Blood and gore cover both the corpse and John. For only the third time since his first tour, John felt his stomach rebel. Before he further desecrated the body, he stepped back a few paces away, turned, and then fell to his knees again to vomit.

Serrada moved up behind him slowly, then kneeling beside him, she stroked his back as he emptied himself in the dirt.

Everyone left them alone.

Solas, Eric, templars, and mages had all filed into the space until it seemed stuffed.

"Fist Teams!" Eric shouted, "Set up a perimeter fifty paces out."

"Templars go with them and support, no one in or out without permission, understood?" Cassandra added, with a chorus of shouted 'Yes, Sir!' and salutes.

Until today, whenever she heard the term Fist Teams, or worse, Inquisitor's Fist, it made her shudder. To her, they were all, including herself, serving the Inquisition. But Cullen and Cassandra had tried to persuade her that to quash this self proclaimed title would dampen their morale; an elite status that was something to be earned, it came with an emblem of a closed fist surrounded with green beams of light crowned with the Inquisitions symbol. She still fought against it, but John finally quelled her fears. It seemed to work, for to this point, not a single member of those teams had been taken alive, nor had they failed in battle.

This time, she did not even notice the orders, the shouts — nothing. All this activity went on around the silent couple.

John and Serrada just sat for a few minutes or perhaps hours.

Toward evening, both Cassandra and Eric approached them. Earlier, Sera had brought John a flask of water to rinse his mouth and clean his hands; other than that, they had been left alone, but it was getting late, and the packs of wolves would be moving. Everyone needed to get around a bonfire soon.

"Thanks, Sera." John looked sheepishly back at the young elf woman; she just smiled, though her eyes showed she looked a little worried.

"Thank you, Sera, that was kind." Serrada slowly rubbed John's back up and down as they sat nearby.

Sera moved a short distance away and watched. It was odd, but the grass seemed to compress beside her, and her hand tilted as if to hold something.

When Cassandra approached, Eric looked like he had been drained and needed to sleep. Serrada assumed he had had a long conversation with Cassandra; she could easily understand why the man looked knackered.

"From what Eric has told me of his … visions … I suspect you faced a powerful despair demon, and if the mage it possessed was an illusionist?" Cassandra's voice was filled with respect for her lover and the Inquisitors. "It is the Maker's own will that either of you survived. Such a creature is seldom resisted and never defeated by only two; a detachment of Templars would be sent, and not all would return. Try not to let the visions or their aftermath trouble you."

"Easier said than done, of course, but I agree," Solas stood a little off, listening.

"Besides, that ghoul Gordo needed a right good thumpin' anyways," Sera took a swig from her flask and handed it to John.

"You sure gave him one!" With a mischievous smile, "Hey, try this; it will taste better than puke anyway."

John returned the smile weakly but took a swig, nearly choking in the process; gagging and coughing continued after swallowing. "Holy fuck! No! No, it doesn't; that is awful! Where did you get that?"

"Bull, of course!" Rachelle responded, appearing from thin air where she had been sitting. Meanwhile, Sera took another mouthful before putting the stopper in and stowing the flask.

Everyone was agape, but some had hands grasping hilts; Rachelle had startled everyone but Sera.

"Sorry, I forgot I was practicing invisibility." Rachelle's fingers entwined with Sera, seemingly oblivious to the fright she had given everyone, or it might have seemed save for the blush.

"I admit it took a little getting used to, but no, I kind a like it," Sera responded, shaking from head to toe as she swallowed.

"It does a great job of getting blood out of her armor, too," Rachelle added while caressing Sera's cheek, "But the aftertaste is awful. So, no kisses for you till after dinner."

"On that uncomfortable note, let's get back to camp; I am … starving," Eric said with a broad smile; he took Cassandra's shield hand. Kissed it, then gently tugged her along toward camp and tents.

A blushing Cassandra followed without a word. Serrada wondered at that more than The Right Hand followed so meekly that she could blush.

It was a long, quiet walk back to the Dalish camp. No one wanted to break the silence, and it remained undisturbed, safe for the occasional thunk of armor or weapon, a cough or someone clearing their throat.

All were exhausted veterans of a bloodied army, all surrounded by the horrors of war and abounding evidence of its waste and cruelty.

There would be time enough for talking … but not now.

The group reached the little river's edge. It was icy cold, running down from melt waters in the mountains above. They hesitated momentarily, then plunged in, wanting the cleansing waters to wash away the dust, blood, gore, and cool exhausted muscles. Later, some would seek wine to wash away the memories; others, like John and Serrada, would seek privacy to mend their wounds in each other's arms.

The Inquisition tents surrounded the aravels, providing a buffer between the elves and the bulk of the Orlesian combatants' fortifications. They were using their own bodies to protect the trapped elves, which did not go unnoticed.

Keeper Hawen met them on the far shore.

"Mirthadra, come; fires are burning, warm furs await you honored ones, warm yourselves, hot meals are prepared, come and be welcome." Keeper Hawen led a small contingent of elven women bearing everything he spoke of. But behind them stood a line of hunters and others who seemed less welcoming.

"Looks like we have a way to go to win them over," John whispered to Serrada, but his voice carried along the water's surface to other ears. "We need to get those supplies soon before we wear out our welcome."

Rodeo was the one who heard.

One of those who brought blankets and food was Emalien. Rodeo froze the moment he saw her. Realizing his reaction, he glanced around and thanked God that no one had noticed, not even Solas, which made him relax just a little.

Nicholas 'Rodeo' Robinson was the youngest of five brothers. He had been painfully shy even as a child. Preferring to stay silent around girls. His older brothers had been boisterous and loud as boys, rushing here and there, always first in line for everything. His mother recognized his shyness for what it was, the tender, the thoughtful heart of an old soul.

Even as a child, he was mindful of the things he did. He never killed unless necessary; even then, he wondered if his actions were just and humane, even compassionate. His father and brothers did not understand him, but his mother did; unfortunately, her early death from breast cancer meant his familial isolation deepened, forming a pattern for his life.

He had never been what one would call a ladies' man, but his rugged good looks and quiet demeanor attracted his share of interested Texas ranch girls. That attraction was enhanced by the large championship buckle earned in high school on the backs of broncos. Some girls found the buckle irresistible, meaning he had ridden a good deal more than most young men his age, but those flings never led to anything more serious or lasting. He always remembered his mother's words; someday, he would meet the right girl and know it the moment he did.

He was a junior in Agronomy at Texas A&M when, like millions of others, he woke to two things, the naked body of yet another girl in his bed and the common room TV showing the collapse of the first tower on 9/11. He was in the Navy recruiter's office at 10 AM. He clearly remembered the sounds of crashing metal and concrete, but mostly the terrified screams of those caught in the disaster on the TV the day he took the oath; he couldn't remember the girl's name.

Now, a world away, he found himself tongue tied as Emalien handed him a blanket; their eyes met, and suddenly, he was sure his mouth was filled with a bag full of sand. He mumbled a 'thank you', nearly dropping the blanket. She blushed, then moved on, his eyes following her. When he looked up again, the eyes of several of the hunters were glued on him, and they were not friendly at all.

They all sat down around the fires; several couples were together quietly talking, John and Serrada, Eric and Cassandra, and, of course, Rachelle and Sera. It had been an intense day, clearing both redoubts and finding so many dead or dying.

There had been a few bright spots; they had found a badly wounded officer lying among the dead in the redoubt held by Empress Celene's forces. The woman had insisted she was dead already and tried to push her ring into Serrada's hand to give to her lover, the commander of the Empresses forces across the river.

Something about the exchange enraged José, who pushed Serrada aside, dumping the Inquisitor on her ass with a humph. A surprised Inquisitor only smiled as José moved in to stop the bleeding.

"Like hell you're dying; you stay with me," was all he said as he started cleaning and packing her wounds and binding them. "You will give it to her yourself; now stop talking and let me work."

José had poured half their healing potions into the woman before anyone could stop him. José was determined; finally, she stabilized, and Rodeo helped José carry the chevalier back to the camp to rest and be looked after by the Dalish.

Everyone could tell that a private demon drove him to ensure this woman returned home to her loved ones, no matter the cost.

José was one of those medics that all his companions had known or seen at one time or another, the ones that would fight the devil barehanded to ensure they went home. José did not always win that fight, but they all knew he would never give up on them. No one knew what demons drove him, whether it was losing the boys on the withdrawal from Haven or some other event. He would not talk about it.

Rodeo had been proud to help him carry the woman; it seemed so fitting, even noble. To bring a fellow soldier home to someone who loved her.

"Would you like some stew? It is not much, but it is filling," the soft voice of an elven girl caused Rodeo to jump in surprise. Rodeo found Emalien kneeling beside him, an earthenware bowl filled to the brim with a thick brown stew which smelled of venison and potatoes. It was then that his belly growled. Emalien quietly laughed, and Rodeo blushed, taking the bowl.

"Thank you kindly, miss." He was glad of the darkness, his blushing cheeks; he could not see clearly but thought her pink cheeks would have matched his. "It smells really good…"

He did not know what to say afterwards, and Emalien shifted to leave when he finally found his voice taking her by the wrist.

"Will you stay and eat with me?" He blurted, almost spilling the stew, gesturing to the spot beside him. "I would dearly like some company."

She looked from her wrist and his hand, gently but firmly holding her there beside him; she could hear the murmured comments of the hunters and the soft hiss of blades being drawn. She gently used her free hand to pull his hand away from her wrist. For the first time, she felt his warm skin against hers. His hands were strong; she could feel it in his grip. She knew he could have kept his fingers tightly wrapped around her wrist if he had wanted to, but his grasp was always light, ever so sensitive … she blushed and then blushed darker, wondering if he noted the pink of her cheeks.

"Alright, let me go get something," she attempted to leave, but Rodeo was sure she would be thwarted by the other elves; he could also hear the whispers of voices and blades. Rodeo knew he should be quiet to let the moment pass, but he was balanced on a cliff's edge and knew there would be no second chance if he did not leap.

"There is plenty here; we can share," Rodeo eagerly handed her the spoon, then fumbled for his field kit, scooped out half of the stew into his mess plate, and ripped the bread in half, handing her a share. She took it carefully, glancing at the Keeper before she did. The Keeper only nodded; Rodeo had no idea what that meant but was sure it meant something. That was confirmed by the shocked looks of the other Dalish women and the looks of hatred from the hunters.

Regardless, Emalien sat down, taking the bowl and her share.

"Thank you …" Was all she said, then waited, her eyes fixed on his.

"Nicholas, my name is Nicholas," Rodeo took a bite to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Why do they call you Rodeo?" Emalien asked as she took a bit of bread and scooped some gravy.

"I was a cowboy, and Rodeo is … was … a sport to show your skills as a cowboy. I was a good bronco rider; a bronco is a horse that doesn't want to be broken to saddle," The look of confusion was all he needed to stop him from going further. "It doesn't matter."

Rodeo scooped his gravy, getting some on his chin, which Emalien wiped off with a finger. Causing him to freeze, she licked the finger clean before returning to her meal.

"Ummm, anyway, so my mother named me Nicholas because Christmas was her favorite holiday," Rodeo went on, trying to think different thoughts than those bouncing around the inside his skull with this beautiful elf woman sitting beside him. He was unsure about the face tattoos, but he had been around the world enough to know that beauty was very subjective, and he decided he would like her tattoos. What concerned him was even in just the firelight; it was obvious that her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.

"She called me Nicky," He fumbled through his hands, shaking a little and uneasy that this girl could make him more nervous than any Taliban or even demons had.

"My name is Emalien, but my mother called me Em, as does my ..." Emalien's voice caught in her throat. "As … did … my brother."

"Your brother?" Rodeo ate the stew, letting her tell her story in her own way.

"My brother … Valorin," Emalien continued, although the name caught in her throat, crushed by a repressed sob.

Nicholas's instinct was to wrap her in his arms, but he knew it was the wrong moment. The look on her face made Rodeo think it must have hurt to say it. He kept silent.

"He and I survived an attack by bandits, but mother and father were lost, and I have tried to raise him," She started picking at the stew now. "I did my best, the whole clan did, but he was always so angry and eager to do all he could, always eager to be more."

Rodeo noticed the silence as more than one set of ears listened, not all humans.

"When the Keeper chose another to be First, Valorin was so … upset." She paused momentarily, looking up to the stars, as a single tear escaped her eye and slid down her lovely cheek. Without thinking, Rodeo wiped it away with his thumb, his fingers caressing her cheek. Her eyes met his again, and her voice steadied.

"He ran away to find something to make us powerful again," her anger made the words come like a hiss through her clenched teeth. "Hunters were sent out, but they were attacked and barely returned. They repeatedly went until it was just too dangerous to send more."

She started weeping again; Rodeo grabbed the bowl before she dropped the precious food. Letting her cry awhile and then compose herself, her beautiful eyes were even puffier and redder than before.

"Now no one will search, and I don't know what has happened to him," Not sure what to do, Rodeo attempted to give her back the bowl Emalien didn't take it, but only stared into the fire.

Minutes passed in silence as he slowly inched toward her, but she did not move away but leaned into him.

"I will go look for him," Rodeo was looking in the fire himself. He wondered if she was manipulating him into this but decided he didn't care if she was. "On one condition."

"I can't ask you to risk your life," she was openly shocked at the suggestion, "Besides, why would you do that for an elf?" She searched his face for several moments, then spoke softly.

"I have nothing to pay you, however … I can … I could … if you want …" Her voice faltered, shaking fingers untied the top tie of her blouse.

As if struck by lightning, Rodeo suddenly realized his comment about a condition was open to interpretation, and given how elves were treated on Thedas, she had drawn the worst possible conclusion.

"No! I didn't mean that; I mean it is not because I would not … no. I just want you to eat your stew, that is all," He was trying to see if there was a hole to crawl into and pull the dirt after him.

Emalien sat beside him, absolutely stunned.

"That is all you … all you wish?" Her voice was barely a whisper, then a strange look and a flash of anger crossed her face, her eyes narrowed. "Why? Why would you do this, then? Am I too ugly for you, shem? You think yourself too good for me?"

Rodeo was equally shocked by her reaction and its implications.

"No, no, no!" Throwing his hands up, fingers wide, even in the inky darkness, he knew everyone was looking at them now. "No, you're beautiful! It is because I can! Because it is the right thing to do, and because your eyes are too incredible to be constantly bloodshot, and you need to know what happened to your brother, that's all." He handed her the bowl and spoon with a soft, gentle smile. Truth be told, Rodeo was holding his breath.

Emalien watched him for more than a few breaths, and then the hard look softened as she took the bowl and began to eat. He watched her eat every morsel while finishing his own. Finally, both were sated, and she moved to her knees to stand.

"I have to help wash up; do you mean what you said?" A flood of doubt washed over her, leaving fear behind.

"Every word. I have to check with the Inquisitor, but I am sure she will allow me," Rodeo responded as he wiped out his kit, but before he could react, Emalien snatched up his things and took them along with the utensils and was gone.

"That was smooth, good going, lover boy," Sera whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear. Her comment was followed by the resounding smack of a palm on flesh, and from the sound of her squeak, it was most likely her bottom.

"Hush Sera, that was so sweet and very romantic," Rachelle responded, "Would you go searching for me?"

"If you are going to go wandering off, I will have to tie you to a bed," Sera's response ended with the sounds of kissing, nothing unusual there.

"You have permission, Rodeo," Serrada's voice came out of the darkness. Rodeo started to wonder if the whole camp heard their whispered conversation. "We have more than enough forces to approach Gaspard's commander tomorrow, so you are free to search, but take someone with you; it is too dangerous to attempt alone."

"I will accompany him," Solas responded. "Last evening, I overheard the Keeper and some hunters discussing this very matter; they thought he had gone toward the ruins of a temple. I suggest that is where we might start the search."

"Finding her brother could not hurt our relationship with this clan," Cassandra added, again, lost in the darkness or glare of the bonfire. "Besides, she does have lovely eyes…"

Rodeo lay down in his bedroll, and to the laughter of his friends, he buried his head in his spare blanket.

"She does have a right nice bottom as well," Sera said, followed by a louder smack. "Ouch!"

Rodeo willed himself to sleep as he was teased until, mercifully, Serrada and John told everyone enough just as he slipped into the darkness.

---

The diner was packed as usual, and Rodeo was nervous. He was not used to being nervous.

He glanced around him while sitting at their traditional table. The green Formica was worn with years of use, and the chrome ribbon edging the table was starting to come loose. The table had seen some use; it would have looked modern in the 1950s version of the same dinner. In fact, it might have been one of the original tables when the place opened in '53; it sure looked like the tables in the black and white photo on the wall. It was one of many in the background as three brightly smiling people posed, two men and a woman between them, the original owners, all dead, of course.

Then, suddenly, he felt a bit of nausea. The butterflies in his stomach were big enough to ride.

The booth where he sat was set for three, his place and the two empty spots across the table. He could not clearly remember who he was supposed to meet; he knew this meeting was crucial, but he could not remember why.

Suddenly, he saw her walking toward him as he remembered her before her illness.

She wore her midnight black hair in a long braid down her back, with the chemo … well, he had forgotten how long her hair had been. He could not forget how bright her equally black eyes were, contrasting with her sun darkened skin, a soft brown reflecting her Hispanic heritage.

"Mom?" Rodeo leapt up from the bench, rushed across the distance, and lifted her as easily as he might a child. 'Was she always so small?'

"Hi, Nicky," She embraced him, pulling him tight; he could feel her warm body pressed against him, and he remembered how she smelled; he buried his head in her neck like he did as a boy.

"How?" He was filled with questions.

"Don't ask about miracles; it spoils them now; where is this girl?" Rosalie asked, glancing about the place, trying to find someone she had never met. "Now, put me down this instant; what will she think?"

He would have held her for eternity but always did what his mother said. He was a good boy, as if on cue as her feet touched the floor.

"Right here, Mrs. Robinson," A voice behind, a voice that sent a shiver down Nicholas's spine, a good shiver.

"Stop that right now, girl. Call me Rosalie, or Rosie, although mom works too," Rosalie hugged the auburn-haired elf woman who was as thin as she but an inch or two taller. "I certainly hope it is mom. Now let me look at you…"

Rosalie held the girl at arm's length and looked at her up and down. Somehow, Rodeo knew what his mother was thinking.

Emalien wore her hair shoulder length in a cute cut that complemented her face; auburn hair matched her coloring perfectly, as did the tattoos. Not really her thing, but it was not for her to decide; that was Nicky's. The t-shirt was white and perfectly clean with a big red 'I' and a giant-sized heart below, and under that was a deer's head with the most impractically ornate set of antlers she had ever seen curling up and around the heart they framed. The t-shirt was all tucked neatly into hip-hugger jeans that were very tight but also very complementary, with nice boots peeking out the cuffs to complete the outfit.

Rosalie was smiling; she was impressed by what she saw. The girl looked fit and strong, not a princess, but not a dyke either. She did notice the prominent swells that held the t-shirt out a nice distance and the very shapely taper to the waist that Rosie was somewhat jealous of, but after so many babies, one can't expect to keep your 23" waist. Although she would have liked her old waist to visit occasionally. Below the waist was a lovely swell of hips, meaning a new generation would be more easily brought into the world.

Rosalie's eyes were drawn back to the extraordinary antlered deer head emblem.

"It is called a Halla, Rosie; my people use them to pull our aravels … an aravel is a kind of moving house, for lack of a better word," Emalien explained, all looking politely at her future mother-in-law. "My people are nomads, so we must be … flexible."

"Nomads, you say? My family came from Basque stock; when they came to America, they were sheepherders and moved with the flock …"

That is how the conversation started.

Rodeo just watched and listened, but how could he process all this?

The two women, one of whom was a decade dead, the other he had only met a few days ago and on a completely different planet, chatted away as if they had known each other forever, and it was just like any other day.

It was a bit overwhelming, but Thedas had taught him nothing, if not to roll with things.

Eventually, the waitress arrived. She would have given you the stink-eye if you had called her a server. Rodeo always called her Velma; he had no idea why and doubted that was her real name. He did not think he had ever heard her real name, but she just looked like a Velma.

Rosie ordered a burger and fries, while she gave suggestions along with Em in ordering, and she finally decided to have Nicky's favorite of a burger with Swiss and an order of onion rings.

"Nothing changes, does it? That was your favorite since you were 4." Rosie smiled and chuckled, although it was a sad smile. Even Nick had forgotten, as long repressed memories came flooding back, of sharing his burger with his mom on the rare occasions that it was just the two of them. With her loss and his growing isolation from his father and brothers, it had been too hard to remember moments like these.

"Hey, it got quiet here," Rosie smiled at her youngest, her eyes trying to take and keep every glance and commit it to memory. "Why don't you pick out some music? You know what I like."

Holding hands, Emalien followed close behind as he found the antique jukebox. Then, he realized he had no coins until he looked in his pocket. Inside were heavily worn quarters from the US mint, but also freshly minted silver coins bearing the mark of the Inquisition. He put the quarters into the slot and pocketed the Inquisition coins.

He chose some slow ones and fast ones, some Lynyrd Skynyrd, which was his mom's favorite, and some Loreena McKennitt, who was a singer one of his girlfriends had introduced him to, he kept Loreena in his playlist; long after the girlfriend. He had no idea what to pick for Emalian, but he hoped she would like some of them.

He could not help but laugh at the look of astonishment when the music started playing. But that quickly passed, as Emalian attributed it all to some sort of magic.

Nicky was chatting away at the table with his mother and Em. They finished their meals and were at that stage where you just talked, trying to make the moment last as long as possible. Finally, a slow song came on while their drinks were refilled and the dishes cleared.

"Hey Nicky, take the girl out and dance," Rosie said, her voice soft and gentle, like when he was a shy child told to play with some strange child on the playground. "You are a great dancer, if I recall correctly."

Rosie smiled, and so did Nicky, remembering the bruised toes she had endured while teaching him so he would be ready for his first junior high dance.

Not wanting to disobey his mother, he stood just as the slow, subdued notes of Skynyrd's 'I Need You' started to play. He drew Em out onto the dance floor. She blushed and tried to follow, so he just held her, hand on her waist, the other holding her hand, and they moved back and forth to the soft beat; she laid her head on his shoulder and listened to the beat of his heart.

He was bathed in the scent of flowers and herbs that infused her hair.

To him, they danced for days, and he would happily continue forever, but eventually, the song ended, and he took Em back to the table. When he got there, another song he did not recall selecting began. It was the song he remembered his mother had always sung to him when they were alone. He would not have picked it because it always made him ache.

"Will you dance with your old mother one last time?" Rosie looked up; her eyes held a hint of sadness and happiness. The slow guitar riff of 'Simple Man' started.

Nick held out his hand, and she took it; then, they moved to the dance floor and started a slow waltz she had taught him long ago and far away. She hummed the song as they danced; he remembered her singing and humming even in her last days with all the tubes.

"This was the song I chose for my wedding," Rosie tried hard to smile, but there was sadness. "I had hoped to dance to it at your wedding, but I think this must do. Nicky, you have been a bit of a man slut, leaving a basket of broken hearts. Don't do that with this one; promise me that."

"I promise, mama," he said nothing more because the lump in his throat would not let him. Rosie moved close to her son, laying her head on his shoulder; he took in the scent of her hair, just as he had with Em. He had forgotten that she always smelled of cinnamon and vanilla; the last months of her life had been of antiseptic and sickness. Now, the memory flooded and filled him.

While they danced, his eyes were closed, but finally, she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes.

"It is getting late; morning comes soon. You listen to me; if she is the one, then take care of her and she will take care of you. Otherwise, let her down gently," Rosie was trying to keep from choking up.

"Where are you going, mama? What are you saying?" He had just found her, and now she was going again. "You can't go, you just got here!"

"Don't worry, Nicky, I will see you again, I promise," She patted his muscular, solid chest, suddenly clothed in fresh dress uniforms, one moment white US Navy, rich umber Inquisition the next, both covered in ribbons and medals. "Just promise me I won't see you too soon, not for a long time. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, mama, I promise," Nicky stopped talking and gave her one last hug and a kiss on the forehead. "I promise, mama." She kissed his cheek, then she kicked him, she kicked him hard.

---

"Wake up, sleepy head," Sera laughed as she thrust her foot into Rodeo's bedroll, blindly kicking through the tent flap. The last thing she wanted to see was a naked man. "Hurry up, or you won't get any breakfast. Solas is already clearing up and is ready to go."

'A dream,' Rodeo thought, rolling over on his side, away from Sera's insistent foot. 'Of course, it was a dream.' He has still not quite gotten used to how real dreams could be on Thedas; on Earth, he would have forgotten his dream shortly after he woke. This was usually for the best, given what he had seen and done.

This dream was very hazy, but the significant details were there, and he was embarrassed at thinking about some of the things he had been considering.

He had intended to skip breakfast, but when he got ready to shoulder his pack, he found it had a small bag attached with dried fruit, twice baked bread, and a skin of watered spice wine.

Solas caught the scent of the spices, then smiled softly, "She seems to like you very much, young human."

His grin became a subtle smile when he saw Rodeo's confusion.

"She is giving you what is a socially acceptable indication that she is interested in you; she baked the bread herself, and the fruit is from her own plate." Solas took the wine and sniffed it. "The wine will make the water drinkable; the spices are intended to fortify you and give you … stamina."

Rodeo blushed, which caused Solas to laugh and genuinely smile. Rodeo ignored his companion, shouldered the pack, and hoisted and checked his rifle. Double checking his load out, he charged his rifle and pistol, then looked at Solas.

"Ready to go?" Rodeo asked; his work face was in place, as unreadable as any Orlesian mask; he then put the M4 sling over his head and shoulder and cinched it up; without looking at Solas, he turned and started in the direction he was told the boy had gone. "Let's go find Valorin."

The wizard simply smiled, shook his head, and turned to follow.

The trail was long cold, and trampled flat. Rodeo was born and raised in Texas; tracking was in his blood from his father, who was full blooded Querechos or as close as one counted in modern America. He grew up in northwest Texas, but the family roamed the state looking for work but never forgot their home in the Texas panhandle. He taught his sons everything he knew about the wild, animals and their ways, the land, and how to respect it. All the boys listened, but Rodeo was his best student.

It was mid-morning when Rodeo spotted the scattered remains of a campfire; in his brief stay with the Dalish, he had noticed how they made them, laying out stones, placing the wood, and brush so as not to attract attention. The things a people did, who had spent centuries trying not to be noticed.

The fire was days old, but not a week, and was too small for a group. That meant a single individual. He found a small nearby cave with signs it was slept in, one too small even for a full-sized elf adult and too narrow for the wolves to enter. Perfect for a young elven boy not fully grown.

Solas watched silently; he was impressed. He could have used magic to aid, but he held back, wanting to learn; he was always hungry to learn from others. Always eager to improve, always hungry.

"He spent one night, maybe two, but I am pretty sure one night since the ashes don't seem enough for two nights; let's keep moving," Rodeo scanned the horizon, seeing the tips of ruins peaking up the distant hills. Glancing back over his shoulder toward the whisps of campfire smoke. "He seems to be making for those ruins, straight for them. Any guess why?"

Solas shrugged, "Could be any number of possibilities. Perhaps the information he needs is there? More probable, he is searching for some clue to whatever riddle he wishes to unravel."

Rodeo didn't even glance at the mage. He had expected such a reply; Solas's answers were like steam. They filled the room and made it difficult to see, but when it was condensed, it came to little and more often — nothing.

Climbing down, he brought his M4 to the ready position and used the optic to search the horizon, again mentally kicking himself for not getting his binocs before leaving. 'Well, it is not like this is what we expected when we left Skyhold.'

"Not like anything is ever what you think in this place." He snickered softly to himself, drawing Solas's attention.

"Do you see something?" Solas scanned the distance, hand shielding his eyes from the early morning sun.

"Looks clear, but it is too quiet. We best make tracks to make those ruins by afternoon." Scanning the horizon, whisps of smoke all around them. Whether from burning buildings or campfires, he could not be sure. "Head on a swivel, Solas, something feels off."

Solas had no idea what a swivel was, but he had learned it meant to be on his guard, which was unnecessary; he always assumed that going to the latrine could be a possible ambush.

They ate as they walked, traveling bread and some fruit, saving most for the evening and the next day. The wine was very refreshing. After a few sips, he felt like he could run for days.

"I can see how this would give you … stamina," Rodeo grinned at Solas.

"It is a common drink for newlywed couples," Solas added and, much to Rodeo's surprise, wore a sardonic grin. Solas's remark caused Rodeo to stumble slightly on a non-existent rock.

"Holy shit, are you serious?" Rodeo glanced at his companion with a look of surprise; he had thought it was a joke, the kind of ribbing men give each other where women are concerned. Mainly to help them pluck up the nerve to chat up the women.

"Certainly, her giving you that wine must have raised some eyebrows. I suspect you may have offended some of her would be suitors." At this point, Solas had returned to his usual taciturn self. "You would do well to remember that."

For several minutes, they walked on in silence; Rodeo was caught up in his thoughts until they heard voices up ahead. Fortunate for the duo, those sounds echoed off rocks, masking the speakers from the Inquisition party with yet another outcropping of stone.

"Nothing in here either!" A voice grumbled, "There ain't nothing worth having at all."

"Keep your voice down, you fool. We are in the middle of a war zone; you want to get hung for looting?" A second voice, higher pitched and more tense, responded.

"Both armies are hiding under their beds, afraid of their own shadows," The first voice responded. "Andraste's sticky knickers. We have not seen a single undead all day, and they are still hiding."

Rodeo and Solas moved to the outcropping for cover; Rodeo scaled the stones quietly, and Solas followed, covering their retreat.

"I heard tell of a Dalish camp just across the river, where there's a camp there's women. A little knife ear nooky would do me a bit o'good right now." This was a new voice, low and filled with menace, whereas the others were opportunistic looters; Rodeo felt this man's evil.

"That does sound good; I could use a little comfort as the nights is chilly," The first speaker again, ending with a dry chuckle.

His back plastered flat against the rock and obscured by a piece of brush desperately clinging to life in a skiff of soil in a crack of the rocks, Rodeo paused for a moment, considering that scrawny plant hanging onto life in perhaps a palm full of dirt probably carried by the wind up into the crevice of these rocks. The tenacity of it, hopelessly isolated but still there, clinging to life where any reasonable mind would think anything could survive.

"I say we go back to camp, get the rest and pay them a visit. What do you say?" The deeply hungry voice sounded eager, too eager.

"Orlaidin said there was some new tents 'tween the river and them knife-ear's camp," A new voice added, "I don't reckon on fighting some new soldiers if'n I don't 'ave to."

"New forces? Don't be daft; there ain't no new forces! Our lot controls the only way in and out; we 'ave the Red's help too," The first voice added, then continued. "Havred has a point; let's get some fresh meat at the Dalish camp. We have the numbers; let's go get some."

Rodeo felt rather offended by their comments, a level of offence that he felt needed answering.

He could just see the owners of the voices; they seemed to have agreed on the idea of attacking the Dalish as they all left the rubble of what had once been a larger home about thirty meters away across a small path. The path led to a dirt road that led up and out past the temple's ruins toward the smoking ruins of a small village about a mile away.

He counted seven in total, all wearing mismatched armor of what he now knew were both sides of the civil war. Each having defaced the markings of their former army.

'Deserters,' he thought to himself; he had heard they had taken a name for themselves, but he just considered them deserters and didn't care from which army.

The men were walking back up the road, oblivious to their danger; their armor looked to be studded leather, some protection for the front, but nothing more than clothing from the back. They were accustomed to marching in rows, which offered some protection as each man could help guard his comrades on either side, but from Rodeo's position, they were simply sitting ducks.

He fired, the suppressed M4 barked, and in a heartbeat, a burst of greet-tips raced forward. Each bullet weighed about the same as two pennies and sped at twice the speed of sound. Most of the group was hit long before the rifle bark reached their ears. Rodeo was a marksman, even qualified for sniper school; he knew how to use his weapon like an artist uses a paintbrush.

All the would be rapists were hit before they even knew they were under attack. Bullets ripped through the back leather without losing speed, then started tumbling, supersonic in air; they blasted the denser environs of the body, causing shockwaves exploding open wide channels through the internal organs. The lucky ones received rounds to the heart or spine, and the less fortunate took rounds to their lungs, kidneys, or liver. Without modern medical intervention in the golden hour, all were just as deadly; the agony of the process was different.

All seven went down as Rodeo scanned the horizon, searching for possible targets coming to their aid. None appeared. With the rocks bouncing the reports of his rifle, it would be difficult for anyone to tell what direction the shots had come, and the sound would die off quickly so that any ears, save elven. Within half a mile, even their ears would hear nothing more than distant thunder.

Solas went to move, but Rodeo held him, motioning to stay low and wait. Both could see some men struggling, fighting to move or find cover, perhaps reaching for potions. Then minutes passed, then more, until all motion finally stopped. They waited a few more minutes till Rodeo was sure that the men were dead.

Nothing was said between Rodeo and Solas. Nothing needed to be said.

Rodeo knew that John would likely understand, Eric sure would, but he was unsure if the Inquisitor would.

"Keep an eye peeled, Solas; stay behind me; I will check the bodies," Rodeo whispered as if the rocks might hear. Solas nodded, and Rodeo moved forward, his M4 on the unmoving men.

As he had expected, all were dead. Bullets had ripped through most of their centers of mass, killing them almost instantly. A couple had not been so lucky; that was clear from the movement and drying foam from their mouths, noses, and backs. Lung hits, which meant they bleed to death internally until they drowned in their own blood. He checked for anything that might give intelligence, papers, insignia, anything he could think of. They had letters to and from family, and he took those. He would see if they could be returned; he was not heartless. Whatever brought these men to their end, they deserved that at least.

"We must consider them possible objects of demon possession, but we have no wood to burn them," Solas glanced around, looking for what might be at hand. "We might dismember them or behead them."

Rodeo did not like that idea at all. He had already killed them; he was not interested in desecration.

They moved them to the side of the road and hid them in the underbrush.

"We will leave them for now and take a chance." He looked up, checking the sun; it was getting to midafternoon. "We will have to leave them but burn them tomorrow. Let's finish what we started."

Rodeo scanned the area; his 4x rifle optic brought the distant temple ruins into sharp focus. Growing up in Texas, he knew that the dry air would fool the eye, but still, he thought them close by.

From where they stood, the only shelter was the small clump of buildings the looters had come out of.

"Let's check the buildings; maybe he camped in one of them." Rodeo started back toward the still smouldering homes, less than a quarter mile away.

It was all melancholy; he could imagine people living in these little homes, brightly painted walls, and children playing in the small road that ran through the hamlet's center. That was all gone now; whether the owners would ever return was an open question, and given the number of partially decayed bodies that he saw, Rodeo had some questions as to whether any of the original owners were alive to object to his curiosity.

The search took less time than it might; most were gutted and burned to empty, unstable shells. However, when they found a clue, Solas recognized it as Dalish markings in charcoal on one of the few unscorched walls. They seemed to be some sort of writing as if someone was trying to work out an incantation. It was fresh, only a few days old, and was on a wall near a small campfire like the first they had found.

"I suspect our young vagabond camped here and was trying to decipher something he did not understand," Solas sat for a few minutes, then suddenly stood. "Mythal help him; I hope I am wrong, foolish child. I think I know what he is planning. Come, we have no time to lose."

With that, Solas took the lead. He did not spend time looking for tracks but headed directly for the ruins.

Rodeo had to take quicker steps to keep up with the elf, with his eyes constantly scanning, wishing he could slow the elf, but that seemed pointless now. His only choice was to try and keep up and be ready for an ambush.

The area was cleared and had once been well tended fields and gardens, now weed-choked and rubble strewn. One structure was left some hundred yards from the ruins, the temple ruins showing themselves in stark relief from the broad river beyond.

Rodeo thought it must have been a substantial home, certainly more prominent than the cottages they had seen previously. It was burned, of course; it seemed every building had been put to the torch by one side or the other. Coal black scorch marks rose from consumed window casements to mar the exterior walls to the collapsed roof.

Still, it was the only remaining structure they had not searched and the only place where shelter might be between the rocks and the ruins.

Peering through an empty window, Rodeo saw the burnt and broken body atop a mound of earth surrounded by a knife still glinting in the sun, some partially burned papers among toppled candles burned to wicks, and a book.

Rodeo signalled Solas away from the window, then moved away from the wall himself, using a pile of rubble to stay out of sight of the window. Moving around the back of the two remaining walls, Rodeo found the best place to advance on the wall to give him the best view of the hidden area at the junction of the two walls.

Rodeo pied the corner, a series of side steps with feet sliding sideways, never leaving the ground, legs not once crossing, reducing the chance of tripping, always crab stepping as he rounded the corner, offering the smallest target he could while keeping his rifle at the ready, Solas watched all this while covering their rear. Once sure the interior was indeed clear, they entered through a large opening along one side of the house. Rodeo scanned the scene; strange markings covered the ground, the walls had them, and even the soil had them scratched deep.

Solas only looked down upon the body, and the knife was now etched and stained with blood.

"Foolish child, playing with forces beyond his understanding," Standing over the boy's body, Solas was looking down upon the charred remains in more ways than just his vantage point.

Rodeo knelt by the corpse, taking his bedroll out; he lifted what was left and carefully laid him on the blanket and wrapped the corpse, tying it neatly so it would not be exposed or escape its shroud.

"Of course, it was foolish, Solas; it was also brave. That is what it means to be a child, taking foolish but brave risks and sometimes paying the price," Rodeo thought back to the maimed children he had seen in Afghanistan, all from leftover Russian munitions, some injured by booby-trapped toys. Children caught up in a war they could not understand. "It is the adult's job to try and keep them safe, but … sometimes we fail; that is not the child's fault or even the adults. We are all just doing the best we can."

Rodeo lifted the bundle as carefully as he could, taking a few steps down the mound before stopping and looking up at Solas, still standing high above, looking down on Rodeo and the dead.

"Haven't you ever made a mistake, Solas? One that cost you, or worse, cost someone else?" Rodeo looked at the tall, proud elf mage; Solas found Rodeo's knowing eyes unnerving. They proved that the young human had seen much more than his words and humor implied. "No? Wow, then you are either one fucking lucky son of a bitch, or a deluded liar."

Without a backward glance, Rodeo turned and started for the Dalish camp. The elf mage took several moments to consider what the young soldier had said before following behind.

Neither spoke to the other on the long trek back to the clan encampment. Nearing the river, Rodeo's arms began to fail him, but even though Solas offered to carry the body, Rodeo politely refused; he had offered to bring Valorin home and would fulfil his promise.

The river crossing was the most challenging and dangerous, but Rodeo and Solas managed and were soaked for their trouble. Soaked to the skin, except for the body of Valorin, Rodeo managed to keep that safe and dry. Although the boy would not have noticed, it seemed like something he had to do out of respect.

The Dalish lookouts were well hidden but signaled the camp, and a crowd came out to greet them. Emalien rushed forward to Rodeo, but he pulled the body away, stopping her from opening the blanket.

"Emalien, please, you don't want to do that," Rodeo's voice was soft and gentle but firm. "It is not how you want to remember him, believe me. Remember him as the brave young man who gave his life trying to improve things for you and his clan."

Two other women came forward, wrapping arms around Emalien, now weeping uncontrollably. The rest of the clan followed the clutch of morning women, thus leaving Rodeo still holding the boy. He, Keeper Hawen and Solas remained fifty paces outside the camp.

"You have done my clan a great service, particularly for Emalien; she will have better memories of her foolish brother. Now tell me the truth, young hunter, what did you find?" Rodeo was not able to answer before Solas.

"The youth was trying to use blood magic, Keeper; he seems to have had good intentions, but he sought to use a ritual that ought not to have been attempted." Solas's clinical, cold answer only brought a nod from the Keeper, whose eyes never left Rodeo's.

"I thought as much; he was always more eager than he was able, far too gifted, tremendous potential but not enough patience … no matter how hard Emalien tried to inspire it." Keeper Hawen slightly moved, and four elven hunters appeared with a litter. Rodeo laid the body carefully on it.

"Rodeo, I invite you to stay with me. When you have rested, I have something else to discuss with you," Keeper Hawen looked at the young human soldier carefully, then nodded to Solas, who returned the nod, and the Dalish went off to honor their dead. Leaving Rodeo and Solas alone.

"You did very well; they will respect the Inquisition much more now," Solas remarked, then turned toward the Inquisition camp. Rodeo did not follow but watched the Dalish Keeper and the wandering mage go their separate ways. Leaving him in the middle between two worlds, yet again.

He did not have much time to consider his place in this world; there was still the matter of the bodies, and he would not leave them for the wolves. They were bastards but still didn't deserve that.

Glancing up to the sky, 'Maybe enough time to get some firewood together…' He started toward the store of wood.

Ultimately, Varric, Lysette, and others offered to help him. The work was hard, but together they gathered the bodies of the Freemen and others they found all laid on the pyre, friend and foe, human and elf, all together. Without a Sister to read something, Lysette led them in prayer; even Varric was quiet.

They returned to the Inquisition outpost late in the night. Across the river, the Dalish camp was in mourning, burgess carried across the waters.

Torn as to what to do, he asked John, who asked Serrada; both thought it best if Rodeo went as he had been invited, and it might otherwise give offence. He felt odd, like he was intruding, but he was warmly welcomed by the Keeper, and the rest followed his lead. At the campfire, the Keeper sat Rodeo on his left, and the First sat at his feet on his right. That seemed to cause another ripple of murmurs, but nothing was said to him. Rodeo listened to the songs; he knew laments when he heard them and chanted to Falon'Din; he finally sleep found him but not his mother and the Diner.

---

It was a small feast to celebrate the clearing of at least most of the undead and their source, with the defeat of Gordean and his crew. The Keeper had just finished the evening lesson, and the conversation had slowly drifted away; the clan sat around the fire. Tomorrow, more combat would come as the rifts the hunters had found would be closed, and then, the fortresses would be relieved and secured, but today was a time to celebrate small victories and nurse the wounded.

The food had long been finished, its dishes cleared away, and the clan had been generous with their guest, sharing venison and rabbit as well as baked fish and a vegetable potage; though simple, a bit bland, it was filling, and the point of the evening had come for questions and answers.

The fire crackled, and the young had gone to bed; their minders saw them off, the Keeper blessing each in turn, leaving the older young who had no lover to tempt them to bed or no very young to demand their attention or sap them of sleep. Several of the older hunters, not yet married off, sat around the Keeper, who seemed amused at the thought he either needed protection or minding.

For a while, the Keeper told stories, some well-known even to the humans, some not so well known, and they got occasional looks from the hunters. Seeing he was potentially in dangerous waters, Solas sometimes added minor details or corrections with comments like…

"I heard it slightly differently from a clan up north," or perhaps "Keeper, might I tell the tale of Gathwannan and Armamal?" Serrada was unsure if either the Keeper or Solas were making them up, but sometimes the young would hear a gasp, and the Keeper would smile and wave him on, and stories long hidden would be revealed.

But as the twin moons chased each other through the sky, even the stories failed, and silence took its rightful place.

As the group sat listening to night sounds. The tension was palpable, like the quiet before the storm, static electricity jumping from human to elf, back to humans again; even the dwarves were not spared, given Varric's furtive glances. Only Sera and Rachelle seemed to allow the flow to go unnoticed.

Rachelle had survived the joining with the spirit they all called Wisdom. Together, Rachelle and Wisdom now answered to Rachelle, each voice adding its own spice, but with each passing hour, the duality seemed to blend and recede to the point that days on, it was hard to even remember a time before they joined.

Initially, the visceral upset of Cassandra, and by extension, the Templars, had been apparent. Still, Serrada had assured Cassandra that if Rachelle became a problem, the Inquisitor would deal with it personally. Rachelle herself had stood before the Seeker and promised to submit to any judgement Serrada made, a pronouncement that was met with considerable resistance from Sera.

"Listen, Inky, you even think about hurting my Rach; Creepipenis or no, I will, I will…" Sera's voice faded to a whisper, her threats becoming tears, but under those tears was a determination that let Serrada know that Sera meant every word. Serrada snatched the elf girl into her arms, holding her till she stopped struggling finally; Sera wrapped her arms around Serrada. Over Sera's quivering shoulder, Serrada looked at Rachelle standing next to Cassandra; she was still recovering from her ordeal but held each other's gaze as Serrada held a weeping Sera. Both Cassandra and Rachelle remained silent, but Serrada noticed Cassandra place an arm around Rachelle in what, for Cassandra, was a motherly hug.

"Sera, I will never raise a finger against her unless and until I have no other choice," Serrada watched as Rachelle nodded, accepting the truth of it and the finality of it as well. Cassandra squeezed Rachelle a little more.

"Then I am satisfied," Cassandra added, her voice sounding like she had to keep control through sheer willpower.

Now, another day gone, they all sat around a pile of burning logs, listening to the night noises.

"Man, I wish I had some marshmallows or some hotdogs, damn I miss a nice hot brat with some sauerkraut and a good tangy coarse ground brown mustard, at Busch Stadium on the third base line, with a twenty-dollar beer," Eric was smiling at John, thinking about the last leave they had just a couple days before Mariah would be giving birth to Sarah and everything was grand.

John returned the smile, and the others looked on smiling, though they had no idea what they were talking about except maybe the concept of beer.

Eric suddenly sat up bold upright, causing everyone to reach for weapons and look about.

"Hey, that is not a bad idea; maybe we should start some baseball teams?" Eric clearly animated at the prospect.

John seemed a little less motivated; he had no idea how to make a decent baseball, "isn't there a rubber ball in the center?"

"It is a great idea. I like it, but the logistics might be tough; let's think about it. You're right, though; these kids here could use something," John added. "Wait, do you remember those kids in Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, I think I know what you mean; that might work," Eric had that look, the one that told John that they were tracking and sometimes made John very worried. "Leave it to me, boss."

John continued to smile, but his shoulder blades itched when Eric said, "Leave it to me, boss!" Something extraordinary or terrible would happen, and sometimes, it was difficult to decide which.

John sat silently as Eric got up from the fire and spoke to one of the older women, who looked at him quizzically. Then, he smiled and called another young woman to them and yet another. Soon, all were smiling, then glancing back to John; Eric's broad smile and double thumbs up made his shoulders itch.

Tomorrow, they would clear the siege of Fort Revasan. John could hardly wait; he thought it would be much less dangerous.

"Inquisitor, I might ask a moment of your time before we find our beds," The Keeper was always polite, and John watched the two move a little way off and whisper. Both looked at Rodeo, the Keeper gesturing, then Serrada nodding; John watched closely. Both finally looked back at him. Serrada nodded, and the Keeper moved off to order the night watch. Serrada came to him.

"John, the Keeper has asked a boon, and it involves Rodeo," Serrada knelt close to John and whispered what was needed; John's eyes widened, and he glanced at Rodeo, whose eyes were glued on a young elf girl. John just nodded, Serrada smiled, and so did Keeper Hawen. John's shoulder blades were on fire.

---

Serrada led the Inquisition forces up the long, narrow path toward Fort Revasan.

Fort Revasan was well placed, perched on the top of a solid stone plateau. High enough above the surrounding plain to give the fortification a full panoramic view of the surrounding countryside but not so high that forces, particularly cavalry, could not sally forth and assault besiegers or send troops to intercept forces on the valley floor.

It was worse than any of Gaspard's deserters turned Inquisition recruits had reported. The last they knew, food was short, and water was contaminated. Sickness and injury were the order of the day. Most had left in desperation; they did not want to die in a trap. Serrada was not sure she could blame them, but to then follow the murderous leadership of the 'Freemen of the Dales'?

She could not stifle a derisive snort, 'off the spit and into the coals as Papa always said.'

Their dubious leadership choices aside, they had been free with their information. The fort was besieged entirely; all the sally points were blocked by debris from either the Celine loyalists or, more likely, the endless supply of undead. The only entrance or exit left was the main gate.

Two hundred paces of a narrow, low causeway spanned a great ravine a hundred feet deep. The causeway was at most ten paces wide, and either side had a low railing fit to keep carts tumbling over the side but was not high enough to block the view down the bridge or conceal attackers.

The throng of undead and demons packing in before the gates obscured most of these details.

'Maker, are there no end of undead or demons?' Serrada sighed; her arms were aching, her blades notched, her quiver nearly empty; she checked, just four left.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she could see the rest of the team; Rachelle was kneeling, trying to catch her breath, and beside her was Sera, who had her arm around her love, looking about, watching for any dangers, daggers in hand, her quiver empty. Rachelle's lips moved like Sera's, but Serrada could not hear their conversation. The rest of the group looked spent as well.

"Do you wish to withdraw?" Cassandra whispered while wiping her sword of the acidic blood and adjusting her damaged shield.

Serrada looked to the woman who had become her Right Hand. Sweat was running down Cass's face, sheeting from her forehead and dripping from her nose. A new cut over her right eyebrow was given to her by a Rage Demon; she had charged alone, ramming it full on with shield and sword, all to cover a fallen Inquisition soldier. It would add to the tapestry on the Seeker's noble face. Cass nodded, then looked along the bridge over the ravine and the horde of monsters before them.

With a deep breath, Serrada joined her in gazing down the path. It was filled from railing to railing with demons and undead, at least a hundred, maybe more. It would be a beastly fight, mostly hand to hand, just to get to the gate, with little promise of getting through once the gate was won.

The path was clogged with broken crates and improvised barriers thrown up and then abandoned as the Orlesian forces retrenched back toward the fort's gates.

She now realized her mistake in dividing her forces; she had sent Lysette and her teams to clear a fort closer to the river and guard her flank so that demons might be contained at the rift there until she could close it.

She had left some of the raw recruits to clear debris along the river and begin preparations to repair the damaged bridge to commence operations on the far bank. She now had only a dozen to help her clear ten times as many undead and demons. If she pulled back, the number of enemies could double or triple, what with a rift so close that was very possible. If she went forward, she could be overwhelmed, and everything lost.

Her stomach roiled; acid burned her throat; she wanted nothing more than to vomit. To run screaming from this terror back to her bed far away, to hug Smiles until the nightmare either found her or the sun burned the shadows away.

Just then, Serrada glanced at John, looking at her as sweat dripped down her nose. He was more composed, not sweating, not even a hint of his efforts. Sometimes, that Earth physique really got on her nerves, and this was one of them. Then a smirk crossed her face, thinking of how much she wanted to explore his physique and some physics to see if his stamina was limited to battle; somehow, she was sure it was not.

John was fiddling with his weapon, then he counted the black metal boxes on his chest by tapping them, and then he signalled her with two fingers; looking back, Eric signalled a three and a thumbs up, then John gave Serrada a thumbs up, and moved to ready himself to spring forward, eyes on the monsters ahead of all of them, while placing his weapon on a crate to steady it.

Serrada glanced at Cassandra, who moved a little more undercover to give John a clear line of fire and covered her ears.

Serrada nodded, John hit the fun switch, and the Battle of Revasan's Gate began.

---

Rodeo was crossing another pile of rubble, trying to be as quiet as he knew how. Traveling light was difficult in some ways; he had left much of his gear behind, keeping only his sidearm and M4. Traveling light was nothing new; he had done several scouting missions deep behind enemy lines. But this was not a combat mission; this was a recon, something he was very good at, once upon a time, and his favorite assignments.

Sliding silently down between some boulders, he carefully checked for snakes. Killing men was part of the job but not a pleasure. No sane person enjoys killing, even animals, but this was not even a hunting mission, well, not in the ordinary fill-your-belly sense.

This was not a mission to locate the enemy, nor was this a recon to gather intel of any kind. No, none of those.

This was a Snipe hunt and not his first, either.

He was only five or six when his brothers convinced him that they would take him on his first ever 'big boy' hunt, and they would hunt the elusive and very dangerous Snipe. The Snipe needed to be taken alive; they were endangered, and it would make them a fortune.

Of course, there was no such thing, but young Nicky didn't know that, and their mother was away nursing their grandmother.

So, the boys set him up under the front porch with a potato sack, appropriately decked out in overalls and boots, his face smeared with dad's green and black hunting camo paint.

He lay in the nasty spider web-filled crawl space under their house, waiting along the Snipes trail; he was sure it was there; the trail was fresh.

He had been so proud to bring the wriggling bag back into the house where his brothers all sat watching television. Father was less than pleased when he heard the story, even less so when the hissing opossum was released back into the wild some distance from the house.

None of the boys, including Nicholas, could sit easy the next day. When Mother found out, Dad got an ear full, too.

So here he was, crawling through brambles and over rocks, searching for what he was sure was a Snipe.

When Keeper Hawen had first approached him, he had thought it a joke or hazing thing, but Keeper and even Solas had told him that it was true. Some magical golden fleeced halla would appear in times of great need to lead The People to safety.

Rodeo must have appeared incredulous because Hawen only smiled and told Rodeo to ask anyone. Which, of course, he did; everyone in the clan, as well as Solas, relayed much the same story.

Ithiren, the clan's halla shepherd, repeated the legend of Hanal'ghilan, the Pathfinder, but had to be coaxed into the clan's fold. It could not be forced or captured; it had to be convinced that the clan was worthy.

"Sounds just like a god, give you something to help you but make it a pain in the ass to get," Rodeo had murmured under his breath, forgetting for a moment the acuity of elven ears relatively close by. His comment drew snickers from some and sharp gasps from others, with a few rather nasty looks. However, the looks of hate were far fewer than they had been.

"Sorry, Keeper, I did not mean any disrespect; it is just an observation," Rodeo hoped his apology was not making the situation worse.

"No apology needed, young man; I have often thought much the same myself." Hawen pointed toward the empty plane. "Several people had seen the Path Finder, and only the day before your clan arrived, I saw Hanal'ghilan in that direction …" Pointed toward yet another set of ruins miles away.

Staring across the rock strewn plain, he finally asked the question that had bothered him since setting eyes on the Dirth.

"Keeper, why is your clan so close to the human settlements? You had to know there was a civil war," Rodeo tried his best to make the question as palatable as possible, but it was difficult.

"I can understand your confusion, being a stranger to us, but we can only do so much through our wanderings. If given our desires, we would never set eyes on humans again," He did not look at Rodeo, allowing the boy to realized how much injustice must have been done to warrant such a response.

"But there are things that we require that must trade for, other things that can only be acquired from the shemlen," Hawen used the term without malice. Humans were quick, always quick to judge, and too often quick to condemn. "We must, from time to time, take a risk. We did not know how many traps and snags were laid; it is all foolish. This area was prosperous and peaceful not a season ago. Now, it is a wasteland; worse, the fools laid traps for each other and traps to trap those sent to maintain the traps! It is all madness."

Turning to face Rodeo directly, Keeper Hawen took the measure of the human soldier. He was tall and strong, stronger than Hawen had imagined one could be. More formidable, faster, and agile than many of his hunters and still so young. Hawen wondered about many things and harbored more suspicions. He could not help wondering if this young human was holding desires toward Emalien; such a liaison would cause innumerable difficulties, not the least of them being the disgrace that would befall Emalien when this shem grew tired of her pleasures and cast her aside as so many before him had done.

Still, there was something about this human, and there were the old tales of true love between shem and one of the people; some were more enduring than many matches made by the clan's elders.

However, the boys' intentions would have to be tested. Which made the labor Hawen now considered even more vital. If the boy completed this labor, the clan would greatly benefit; if he failed, it would be no worse off. However, if he succeeded, and he yet asked for Emalien? It would be difficult for any clan hunter to question his worthiness, for clearly, he would be worthy as no other would be.

He sighed when surveying the surrounding landscape. He tried to imagine what it was like before the fall when the elven gods were worshipped, and the people lived in peace. He could not see it now, with all the shem and elven ruins littering the landscape.

Hawen's critical eye scanned the clan's camp; the condition of the aravels was such that they were in desperate need and far more dependent on the Inquisition than he would have ever expected and certainly would have wanted. But things were what they were. If it was a big if, this young shem could do what his hunters had not been able to do? Well, then, perhaps the match was ordained.

"Bring back Hanal'ghilan, the shemlen…" Hawen glanced at Rodeo, who showed no reaction to the insult but simply listened. "The humans call it a Golden Halla, for its pelt is of yellow gold, unlike the white of others; we call it Hanal'ghilan."

Hawen took a deep breath, then tried to explain.

"We believe the Hanal'ghilan is our only hope of surviving this disaster," Hawen finished, then turned to face his young searcher. "Don't try to capture the Hanal'ghilan or use force; it must trust you to follow you."

He was a mile or so away from the camp when, just at the edge of his hearing, he thought he heard M4s at full auto. It took all his strength to not turn back.

He was alone now; Solas had stayed behind to help break the fort's siege. Besides, this was his task and his alone. He looked back toward the sound of combat, then forced himself to focus on his mission.

"They will be fine," Rodeo told himself. "The Boss has a reinforced platoon behind him now, more soldiers than we ever had in any firefight. Rachelle and Solas are geared up; they will be fine."

He turned back toward some ruins and the direction that the Keeper had given him.

"Don't try to force it? How in hell am I supposed to do that?" Rodeo had no idea, but it didn't matter for the moment. First, to find the bloody beast.

Better yet, the distant ruins were not of some settlement, deserted fort, or temple; no, that would be too easy. The rubble walls surrounded a graveyard with elf statues and symbols he recognized as elven; of course, he could not read them. Back on Earth, any cemetery was spooky, but on Thedas, it was downright Dawn of the Dead; the occupants could be at your throat like a bad movie.

Nick resolved to go around and not disturb the rest of those inside.

Luckily, he found he didn't have to. Just as he was skirting the fence, he saw a flash of yellow-white bolting from cover, heading across a low patch of close-cropped grass; then, it bounded over a pile of rocks and was gone.

"Fuck that must be it, son of a bitch; I spooked it," He moved as quickly as he could from cover to cover to some high rocks to peer over the edge and see if he could catch a glimpse of the retreating beast. The gold-tinged hind end flashed a good two hundred meters off, but at least headed in the right direction. Nick suddenly felt thrilled.

"Maybe this will be easier than I thought; all I have to do is herd it," He was buoyantly hopeful. He moved to follow, with plans to gently guide the animal to the camp, then grab some supplies and head up to where he had heard the battle raging.

He learned a valuable lesson about chickens and eggs.

---

Citadelle du Corbeau was pacified. Serrada stood in little more than her small clothes; the ancient defenses of the citadel had scorched her armor. She was lucky; had the full power of the searing beam made complete contact, the Inquisitor might have been turned into a human torch. As it was, John's quick thinking and agile reflexes had turned instant death into a glancing exposure, but it had its own cost as the beam had scorched the left side of John Gray's exposed head.

As it was, even in her small clothes, Serrada held the attention of the commanding office.

"My men informed me that the citadel's defenses are deactivated; I cannot thank you enough," Commander Jehan addressed her as an equal. "You have rescued my command, and I am certain Empress Celene will reward you."

"Commander Jehan, it was my honor to assist," Serrada began. "I have something to tell you; we were clearing the Eastern ramparts when we discovered an injured Chevalier…"

"Fabienne's ring!" Snatching the jewel from Serrada's hand. The pain that flowed over the commander's face proved this was far more personal than it would have been for just any soldier. "She is gone then, I had hoped, I had prayed …"

Serrada smiled gently and surprised the commander with a hug; the elaborate Orlesian mask she wore obscured Jehan's surprise but not the astonishment in her voice.

"Inquisitor?" Jehan responded breathlessly due to Serrada's tight grip.

"Fabienne lives," Serrada held the shocked woman at arm's length as tears flowed from under Jehan's mask.

"What?" Jehan asked, surprised and with some suspicion in her voice. "How?"

Serrada's broad smile was filled with the joy of bringing good news for a change.

"She was seriously injured and insisted I take the ring, but my medic would not allow her to die," She glanced at John, briefly wondering if he would resent her use of the possessive, but in actuality, he seemed proud. She did not even realize she did not use the traditional term, healer, but now used the term medic from the Newcomers.

---

Two nights later, Rodeo was shivering with his back buried in the cleft of some rocks. A fire happily burning between him and the night. His bones ached, his stomach was empty, he hurt, and he wanted desperately to sleep, but there had been wolves close by, and he wanted to keep the fire going.

"One more day, and I am going back, out of food, and I am exhausted," he nodded emphatically, just as he had the night before. This time, his head bumped into the cave wall, causing him to explore new profanities he had been learning since coming to Thedas.

The events were always the same. He went over them each and every night.

The bloody halla was always a dozen yards away all the time, but that was fine as long as it was headed in the right direction. Which it always seemed to want to do.

Whether he found it along the rocks, riverbank, or upland in the forest, it would always bound toward the Dalish camp, stopping occasionally to see if he was still following, then inevitably get within a few hundred meters and spring away back into the wilderness.

Today, however, was the first time he had the peculiar feeling it was waiting for him, guiding him toward … something.

This time, just before dusk, they got close to the camp; the children and some of the adults, including Inquisition troops, were playing some sort of game. It seemed loud, with lots of laughter and cheering. The golden halla was maybe fifty yards from them and twice that distance ahead of Rodeo when he lost sight of the halla. Rodeo moved forward a little more; the kids caught sight of him, waved, and then pointed at him. He waved back, but they just pointed. He sighed and looked behind himself, and there it was, twenty yards behind him. It looked at Rodeo, then bounded away toward the graveyard where it all started.

For a moment, he looked longingly back at the camp; the air carried the scent of stew, and his stomach growled, for he had eaten the last of his provisions early the day before, and he was burning lots of calories chasing the halla. Then, turning back, he started his search again.

He had not seen it again all that day; he crisscrossed the Dirth without even a sign of it.

Halla were plentiful otherwise, as were the wolves. He caught sight of a large pack chasing a herd of halla. The halla was surer-footed and faster, but a pack of wolves can bring down even much larger animals by running in relays, driving their prey toward freshly rested wolves, and allowing their spent pack mates to rest until needed. The poor prey animal had no such respite. Finally, it would become exhausted, and the end would come. Wolves are not like large cats; large cats cannot afford to be injured; being more delicate than wolves, they kill quickly or not at all.

Wolves are different; they tend to rend their prey, often ripping it limb from limb. Stouter and generally more robust than any cat, they can wrestle their prey. Of course, they would prefer a quick kill. Still, with a nimble animal like a deer or, on Thedas, a halla, wolves often must grab hold of something, whether hoof and tail, then anything they can hold, throat, mane, pulling or tearing until the animal eventually succumbs.

It is all too often a grisly death.

The hunting howl of wolves woke Rodeo. His eyes were heavy, but he came full awake as an animal bounded into the firelight; it was Hanal'ghilan, but he was not alone. With him came a handful of others, some young, others older, and the last was a female, clearly heavy with calf, and she was bloody, hurting.

When three giant wolves lept into the firelight, Rodeo barely reached his feet. The halla lowered their horns, males trying to gather the females and young behind them, the Hanal'ghilan in their lead, but the pack leader was quick and lunged for the pregnant female and managed to rake her side before the halla could intervene. She collapsed on the green.

Rodeo fired two bursts from his rifle, killing two of the three, but his rifle jammed, multifeed the worst jam at the worst time. He would have to drop the mag to clear it, and he had no time.

His pistol was locked in his holster; he had not unsnapped it. His combat knife was in his right hand as he snatched up a burning log in the other; at first, he did not feel the pain of the burning embers biting into his flesh; adrenaline will do that for you.

These wolves were enormous, even by Canadian timber wolf standards; he guessed they might be related to the long-extinct Dire Wolves that died out with the megafauna of the last ice age.

They were the size of a small pony, making a Great Dane look like a lap dog. Still, he raced across his little impromptu lawn to place himself between the halla and the wolf.

The head of this monster was enormous, its eyes glowing green and red in the firelight of the burning torch in his hand. The fire gleamed off of the razor-sharp edge of his blade.

The firelight was reflected by dozens of eyes just outside the blaze's illumination; the clutch of halla backed up against the stone wall, protecting their flanks and staying in the light, with Rodeo between them and the monster.

The great beast leapt; Rodeo charged, bringing the flaming brand down on its snout as hard and fast as he could. The Alpha yelped and leapt back, but not without using its claws to score down his arm and left side. The impact knocked much of the flaming coals from the improvised torch, making it less menacing to the Alpha. The pain of the burns was registering now, but he stayed focused. The mother halla was bleating softly behind him, and the Alpha, hearing the weakening cry of its prey, lost focus on Rodeo, only concentrating on its intended kill. It was only a moment, but that was all that was needed as Rodeo used that distraction and charged the attacker.

All his strength went into the attack, but the wolf weighed as much as he and his four legs cold bight into the turf more easily than Rodeo's boots; the wolf drove him back, and then the Rodeo fell onto his back, with the wolf over him snarling, worse it managed to clamp is powerful jaws down onto Rodeos left arm between elbow and wrist. Jaws powerful enough to break bone clamped down and began to thrash. Screaming in pain, instinctively, Rodeo drove his right hand up toward his left to try and wrench his arm free of the vice when the large animal yelped, whimpered, and then collapsed, the hilt of a combat knife protruding from just behind its powerful jaw, the tip exposed between the now lifeless crossed eyes.

Exhausted, Rodeo managed to free himself and get to his feet. The wolf eyes in the shadows were closing in, growling filled the night, but all had seen three of their strongest fall, including the pack Alpha. None wanted to be its next victim, but the scent of halla blood was still thick. They wanted their due.

With practice experience, even with a burned and injured arm, and wolf blood-slickened fingers, he hit the mag release, dropped the mag into his waiting hand, allowed the two bullets to fall free, then reinserted the mag and dropped the BCG, chambering a round. Three shots into the air discouraged the advance; another sent the yelping pack out into the night.

Adding enough wood to make the fire blaze till morning, he turned to the badly injured mother.

She was barely breathing now; however, her eyes were alert and searching. The others of the little herd gathered around, males facing out into the night, females watching over young.

Cleaning his knife, Rodeo sheathed it, checking the wounded animal; it was ghastly; her gut had been ripped open at some point, she was bleeding, and he could see her internal organs. He had no suture to stitch her back together, and even then, she would likely die from infection.

There was no choice.

He gently stroked her neck from head to shoulder, looking into her pain-filled eyes.

"You did good, mama; I will take it from here; you can rest now," then, without her seeing the blade, he eased her to sleep.

That done, he had little time; he could not tell if her womb had been damaged, much less the calf. He carefully cut the already damaged belly. Her womb was enlarged as it should be, there was movement within, and her udders were full. He had spent enough time on the range to know the calf was going to die if he did not move quickly.

Some skills are lost with time, and some, like riding a bike, never fully fade. In seconds, the halla calf was freed from its mother's body and lying on the grass. Though cold and it would expose him, Rodeo pulled off his outer armor and ripped his undershirt off to rub the animal down.

If he were in a barn in Texas, he would have used dry straw, but the evening dew made all the grass close to him damp and worse than useless. The rubbing stimulated the calf, causing her to try and stand, which was critical; the next task, though gruesome, was crucial for the calf's survival. He was moved to the mother so the calf could feed from her life-giving milk. The first drinks of a calf are filled with nutrients necessary for a new calf, antibodies, ultra-rich cream, and everything needed to have enough energy to keep up with the herd. The calf latched onto her mother's teat and took the last gift her mother would give her.

While she fed, he used what was left of his shirt to wrap his burned and bleeding arm.

The Hanal'ghilan and the rest of the males stood guard.

When the calf finished eating, it lay down to sleep. Rodeo had gathered what he could. When the fire had burned down, the dawn had come. Three dead wolves lay to one side, and the little glade had been filled by even more halla, more than a dozen; the calf, Hanal'ghilan and Rodeo were together.

"Well, Goldie, 'ave to get this little one back to the Dalish. Otherwise, she will die," He looked directly into the coal-black eyes, which seemed to understand. "What you do is up to you, but they need you too."

He gathered his gear and the sleeping calf bundled in his overshirt and started back.

He was a hundred yards from his camp when Hanal'ghilan appeared on his right, and the oldest female of the little herd appeared on his left. He said nothing, and of course, neither did the halla, at least not that he understood. The real shock was looking over his shoulder to see the herd of over a dozen halla following behind.

The numbers grew in the miles he walked, and the wolves stayed comfortably away but shadowed them.

As he approached the camp, the whole clam came out to see him, then stopped standing, silent.

"Let me through, move over, Hegglen," Keeper Howen used his staff to press through the cluster of young ones blocking him from the path.

The sight that greeted him was from some hero from a fireside tale. It was not an emerald knight out of ancient legend was approaching them. It was a shemlen, naked to the waist, his armor thrown over his shoulder, the arm below it wrapped, to his wrist, in bloody bandages. Weapons slung casually across his back, good arm cradling a newborn halla, whose head was nestled against his sweat-glistening muscled chest. Walking on his right, head held high as if escorting a close friend, the Hanal'ghilan walked apace. Just as shocking, across from both, the most beautiful female halla the Keeper had ever seen strode as regally as any queen from folklore. Behind them, as far as the eye could see, a line of halla trailed as wanderers returning home from a long journey. The hunters pointed to wolves skulking about the rocks, watching but afraid to be seen as if some great power protected the blessed procession, all afraid they would be struck down if noticed.

So entranced was Howen that Emalien went overlooked until he heard a gasp beside him.

"Oh, my, he is hurt," Emalien started running forward, only to be blocked by several male hallas who bounded forward with heads down in challenge. She froze as they held her at the tip of their horns.

The sweat-covered Rodeo, all smiles, walked up and gave Emalien the newborn, which she took into her arms; then, with a nod of his head, she took up her spot to his left, between him and the halla matriarch as they walked the fifty yards to finally stand before the whole clan and the Keeper.

"I have returned, Keeper, and my friend Hanal'ghilan has chosen to come with me," Rodeo looked around and smiled. "I might have brought along a few more guests for the party; I hope that is not too great an inconvenience."

Rodeo stood as straight as he could; he felt wonderful having Emalien standing beside him. She looked so happy there, and the calf returned to sleep, although her little tummy was growling again. She would need milk soon; he hoped there would be something for her in camp.

His arm was throbbing, strangely not from the angry burn but from his bitten arm, which throbbed especially when he moved his hand. No, the real pain was from the bite; it was pounding like a base drum. His head was no better, he was feeling thirsty and tired and could eat a druffalo whole, but still, he felt pretty good, a little euphoric actually, although he was a bit chilly and felt like he would start shivering any minute.

Emalien was talking, but it must have been Dalish because it didn't make any sense. He thought she must be excited about the Hanal'ghilan being found, and that was wonderful; he was glad it all worked out.

Keeper … what was his name again? Rodeo could not remember; it was right at the tip of his tongue.

He had been rehearsing the speech since the morning. He always got tongue-tied at important events, so he decided to rehearse, but his memory went blank. He just stood silent, and after smiling drunkenly at Emalien, he decided it was time to lay down — right there and right then.

'Wow, for a nice place for a nap, but there sure is a lot of shouting,' His head lulled to one side as several strong hands lifted him up and carried him back to the cool of an aravel, and not just any aravel, but to Emalien's.

---

The makeshift repairs to the bridge were complete. Indeed, nothing would survive the spring thaw and high water, but it would do until permanent repairs could be made. Serrada only needed it to hold together through the negotiations and, hopefully, the withdrawal of Celine's forces from Citadelle du Corbeau. Assuming she could talk some sense into the woman.

Serrada sighed, not even realizing she was holding her breath.

Commander Jehan was not likely a problem; the woman was so thankful for saving Fabienne that she would probably have come to the talks in the nude if that was required.

No, the problem was not Jehan but Marshal Bastien Proulx. It was not him either, but more the rock-headed people they represented, Empress Celine and Grand Duke Gaspard.

The real problem was that Celine and Gaspard argued over the Orlesian throne like children fighting over the last strawberry tart at their tea in the nursery.

The image of that squabble, with flying frosting and spilt juice, caused Serrada to laugh while looking over the small platform built in the center of the bridge over the broken remains of the central pillar holding the once proud bridge.

"It is nice to hear you laugh," John whispered in her ear. His whisper caused her to jump. He was always sneaking up on her; she chastised herself for letting it happen again. She really had to practice her skills at examining shadows and listening for threats.

"Thanks," She replied, then sighed again. "This has to work; we have spent too much time here; no one back at Skyhold knows where we are!"

"Actually, they do," John looked a little sheepish. "With everything we have done the last couple of days, it slipped my mind."

Serrada sighed again; she had been doing that a lot lately.

"John, I will lose my temper one of these days. You presume too much. If I am going to make this Inquisitor thing work and keep our relationship, you have to tell me everything when it happens, not when you bloody well get around to it!" Her voice was sharp but not with anger, just frustration.

The stomp of her foot on the platform made a boom that sounded like a gigantic base drum. Which caused him to snicker and her to blush.

"I am sorry, Serrada, you are right; I will do better, I promise; it is just that with all the commotion and you're trying to get this collection of idiots to stop killing each other, it just slipped my mind." John was trying to apologize.

She knew he was being honest; things had been crazy even by Inquisition standards, trying to rescue two armies for problems they created while trying to keep her own troops together, mages and Templars, from killing each other and still balancing the Dalish clan and their paranoia was taking its toll. She looked at him; he looked like a little boy who had chocolate on his nose from a stolen cookie. He was so cute when he was caught, and besides, even though he was right, she sure, as Andraste's gorgeous tits, was not going to tell him.

"So, you remembered what happened?" Serrada looked up and down the path, narrow on both sides so neither commander could pull an ambush; it would just be Serrada, John as a witness and the principles, Proulx and Jehan. She was a little annoyed that John had insisted, but she had to admit that he was right; either of Proulx and Jehan might pull some stunt, and she needed someone to keep an eye on them; both commanders respected John and his troops in liberating their respective commands. He was a soldier like they were; Serrada was, at least in their minds, a religious leader of a temporary movement or, at worst, a rogue cult.

"Well, you remember how we left, right? That big … hole … she made?" John started; Serrada nodded; it was unlikely she would forget, given that no one, even Solas, seemed to have seen the like before.

"Well, she came to me worried about the return trip; see, she said she had cleared the space, drawn the casting circle, and we left, but getting back was the problem." John seemed uncomfortable but carried on.

"See, that room is heavily used, and if she opened that portal again and someone was there? It would be very messy on both sides," He shivered; the description that Rachelle gave him was alarming.

"And I suppose she found a solution," Serrada did not want to think of what might happen if that magical energy passed through some innocent servant's body, or worse, during a meal with dozens of soldiers sitting down to eat. There had to be a safer solution.

"She came back a day later, all smiles; she, Sera and Wisdom had worked out that all they needed was a small portal big enough to drop a letter through, out of the way, say, a few feet above a desk? That would get attention. So Rachelle, Cassandra, and I got together, wrote a short note, and signed your name. Sorry, but you were exhausted and thought you needed some sleep." John let that sink in a moment. "The other night, Sera dropped in over Josie's desk. It is near a nook that Sera uses to spy on Josie. Sera could not help herself and shoved her head and arm right over Josephine's desk. ; Sera found the yelp of surprise amazingly satisfying, by the way. Whatever you do, don't get on that girl's bad side."

"I try not to, so what is the plan?" Serrada was impressed that they had solved the problem but a little upset at not knowing about it until now.

"Well, we left instructions to pack supplies in the same room and leave the floor bare where the casting circle was; apparently, Rachelle will open a portal directly from the Dalish camp to Skyhold. Josie is to keep everyone out and doors locked." John looked rather pleased with himself.

"Ahhhh, did it occur to you that she might not believe a word of your note?" Serrada had her doubts after all; subterfuge, false leads and machinations were the order of the day on Thedas.

"Good point, but I think when Sera stuck her head and arm through the portal, that convinced Josie the note was legitimate," John snickered. "Sera said Josie nearly fainted."

"Oh, poor Josie!" Serrada could not help but giggle herself, but the image that conjured for both of them would have been disturbing; a disembodied Sera head and shoulder brandishing a note hovering mid-air must have been … unnerving. "I will have to find her something nice, the poor thing."

"Tomorrow morning, Rachelle will open a portal, and we will bring the supplies through for the Dalish as we promised and for the Orlesian forces," John stated flatly. "The Hinterlands have been pretty productive, and there are enough supplies to go around, but only just; things might be a little tight unless we can get this area back in production, but it is a mess, so …"

"You leave that to me," Serrada said firmly.

A pavilion tent was erected on the platform. The platform was not huge, and with the tent, it became downright intimate once Proulx and Jehan arrived, each with their own entourages. Serrada had explicitly asked them not to bring anyone but knew they would, and on either end of the bridge, Inquisition soldiers were keeping all but Proulx and Jehan from crossing the bridge. Neither seemed particularly pleased, but Proulx was the only one throwing a tantrum. John and Serrada could hear him carrying on from halfway across the river.

When Jehan surrendered her weapons and ordered her people to hold their position at their end of the bridge, Proulx had little choice but to follow suit and cross both alone and unarmed.

The four met in the pavilion; Serrada offered each a seat, but Proulx refused. John pulled out the chair for Jehan, who politely took it, then he stood behind Serrada and waited for Proulx to decide.

Serrada started with introductions, "I am Serrada Trevelyan, Inquisitor of the Reformed Inquisition; this is Commander John Gray, commander of the Inquisitions Special Forces and, for the purposes of these talks, my witness and second in command."

"Would you both please sit?" Serrada gestured again to the chair available to Proulx; he did not move.

"You may stand or sit; it matters not. We are here to establish a truce," Serrada started.

"Maker's ass; we are negotiating their surrender," Proulx pointed directly at Jehan, who, to her credit, sat quietly with no reaction at all.

Seeing no reaction or confirmation of his position, Proulx took a single step toward the small table where Serrada and Jehan sat; Serrada reached for her daggers, forgetting she had banned even her own weapons.

Instinctively, Proulx reached for a sword that was not there; reminded of its absence, he glanced down at the empty scabbard, taking his focus away from the one he saw as a peer. He only glanced at the Inquisitor, focusing on Jehan, the leader of Celine's forces and a fellow Chevalier. Proulx took no notice of John.

In a single breath, Proulx was hoisted high in the air, his sword arm dragged behind him, Silverite fingers wrapped around his hand, unimaginable pressure forcing his fingers splayed wide, John's thumb digging deep into the flesh of his palm, driving his thumbnail into the median nerve. Proulx screamed in white-hot agony, his body tense as if electrified. Johns's left arm wrapped around Proulx's free arm, pinning it, while John's fingers pressed deep into Marshal Proulx's throat, encircling the man's windpipe; if John wished, he could rip the man's throat out. His Earth-born and bred muscles again show their worth. Try as he might, Proulx might as well have been an infant in his mother's arms, for all his thrashing got him.

Murmurs and shouts from Proulx's side of the river were silenced by a burst of M4, the same as the cheers of Jehan's supporters.

"Now listen to me, Your Highness," John's tone made it clear that the title was not a compliment. "I will set you down, and the Inquisitor will start over."

Proulx's eyes were on the Inquisitor now, ignoring Jehan completely. He energetically nodded, and Serrada simply returned the nod.

John planted the man in his chair and effortlessly lifted Marshal and chair to sit him against the table, then took up his position behind the Inquisitor.

"I am not here to negotiate anyone's surrender; it is simply a cease-fire until I have been able to meet with both Celine and Gaspard to try and iron out some sort of permanent solution. I should think that given what you have experienced, you should know that there are greater forces at work than just their struggle for the throne." Serrada looked at each commander; she could read that both were trying to determine whether, now that the undead and demon issue was resolved if they had the upper hand.

The bickering started, the sun climbed into the sky, tea was drunk, lunch was served, and the bickering continued.

John leaned in and whispered, "Inquisitor, perhaps give me a minute, take a break and freshen up or something."

Serrada nodded; she needed to pee anyway. She stood; "We will continue in a few minutes."

She walked off toward the Inquisition camp just outside the burned village. The look on her face must have been frightening because Proulx's forces parted quickly to let her pass.

"Commander Gray, you have the air of a professional soldier. You must understand our position; we can not simply negotiate a truce; surely you must see that." Marshal Proulx almost sounded exhausted himself, but much to his surprise, Commander Jehan agreed.

"I understand that the Inquisitor's heart is in the right place, but she is not a soldier. Does she not see that our leaders would not respect or accept such a truce? The Marshal and I would simply be replaced, we might get to dance together at the end of our respective ropes, and that might be the only thing that Celine and Gaspard might agree on, but the fighting would resume regardless." Again, Proulx agreed with his opposite.

"You must see it is impossible," both said nearly simultaneously, causing both to laugh.

"The truth be told, I believe we both hate that it has come to this." Proulx sounded exhausted himself now. "I did not consider Jehan a friend, but I would never have considered her an enemy. I believe she feels the same, but we had to make a choice; we simply chose opposite sides, as our hearts and loyalties directed. Surely, you must see that."

"No, I don't. Your loyalties are fucked up," John reversed Serrada's chair and sat down. "What I see is two spoiled brats, Celine and Gaspard, having a family feud and you two idiots forgetting who you work for. You don't owe Celine or Gaspard or any particular asshole that sits on the throne but the throne itself and the people and nation it represents. You owe your loyalty to Orlais. This royal squabbling is bleeding your army dry and making Orlais an easy target for possible enemies like Tevintor."

Both gasped in utter shock. "Certainly, Tevintor would never dare?"

"Why not? Your leadership is involved in a pointless catfight. You two are here killing each other, your commands are starving, your horses are all dead, you have no supplies, no communications, no reinforcements, and you are as far from the border as possible; it seems like a perfect time to invade." Glancing to his left, John could see Serrada approaching. "But hey, follow your orders; I am sure those squabbling children might even notice … someday … maybe."

John took a moment, leaning back in the chair, arms folded behind his head, glancing up the bridge as Serrada was still a few yards away. He let his words bounce around the Proulx and Jahan's respective skulls.

"I am sure that the Inquisitor will find a way to patch the sky without you or Orlais, and maybe she will have enough forces left to rescue Orlais … maybe …" Moving back to the table, leaning toward the worried-looking commanders. "If anything is left."

John stood, turned the chair, offering it for the Inquisitor to sit, then took his place behind her.

"Well, shall we start again?" She tried a not an overly friendly smile, but one intended to get both of them to at least listen this time.

"Inquisitor, I believe a battlefield truce is in order. One long enough to exchange prisoners, honor the dead and heal the injured. My forces are exhausted, and Jehan, I have no doubt yours are also. Let us say we take two weeks to start?" Proulx nodded to Jehan.

"Unless my memory fails me, did you not teach at school that in the second exalted march on Tevintor, both sides agreed to a four-week truce so that both sides could exchange and honor their dead?" A smile crept over Jehan's face that could not be entirely hidden by her mask.

Proulx laughed, "And here I thought you slept through my lectures! Yes, you are right; as civilized people, we can do no less than those animals from Tevintor, can we?"

"Of course, I slept through them, but your voice! It carries even into the Fade, yes, four weeks then we shall see, perhaps this will all be over by then, what do you say, Inquisitor?" Both Jehan and Proulx turned to the gob-smacked Serrada.

"Yes … yes, of course, that sounds reasonable, but I have one concern: idle hands lead to mischief. Your civil war has significantly damaged the landscape, making it impossible for anyone to travel. I suggest you set your healthy soldiers to repair the damage by using the wood from the stockades to burn the dead and restore the buildings, filling in the trenches and the like." Serrada leaned in, "In exchange, we will provide weekly provisions to sustain your armies, but if hostilities resume or if the Dalish are harassed, then we will leave you to starve. One more thing: I want both your forces to work together to eradicate any Freeman of the Dales you encounter."

"Why do you care so much about the knife ears?" Proulx asked but instantly regretted the question. "I apologise, the elves; I meant no insult."

Serrada answered coldly, "Never use that term in my presence again; next time, I will not be forgiving. My reasons are my own; I expect my wishes to be honored; anyone harassing or harming this or any Dalish or city elves will answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Both Proulx and Jehan answered as one.

"Good; I am told supplies will begin arriving tomorrow. I expect you to finish with the dead within a week. I will see if we can provide a priest or two to help with the services. After that, I expect the clean-up to begin and to have individual and joint reports every week. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Inquisitor." Again, there were simultaneous responses.

"Very good, I think we are done here; you will both receive duplicate terms of the truce; I expect them signed and exchanged as well as a copy filed with my ambassador immediately." Standing, she held out her hand to each in turn, first to Proulx, who shook her hand with a smile, then to Jehan, who whispered a thank you. "I think we are done here; please don't make me come back except to congratulate you on your progress."

Serrada and John walked down the bridge without a backwards glance, leaving the two commanders to work things out themselves. After collecting their weapons, they started back to camp.

"What in Andreste's knickers happened there, John?" Serrada asked once they were out of earshot.

"They tried to appeal to my being a soldier, and I told them they were being fools, that they owed their loyalty to the people of Orlais, not to the person whose ass is sitting on the throne; they owed it to the throne, yeah, but not the person in it." John was rather proud of himself.

Serrada stopped dead in her tracks, "Shite, you said all that, did you?"

Her hands were balled on her hips, legs spaced apart, and she was looking up at him, leaning forward at the waist; she looked angry.

"John Grey, do you know how hard Leliana and Josephine have worked to convince people you and the New Comers are from Thedas? How much effort and treasure has been expended to make that seem believable?" Serrada was on tiptoes now, poking him in the chest with her right index finger. "And you burn that down in one conversation!"

Shaking her head, she turned and started marching back toward the Dalish camp.

"I said the truth, this whole civil war is because they are loyal to individuals, not to the nation; they should be loyal to the nation and every citizen, high or low born, rich or poor, human, dwarf, elf or qunari, any citizen of Orlais not to some asshat who lies cheats and steals his or her way to sit in the fucking throne!" John was getting really pissed now.

"That is noble, and honestly, I agree; I am angry that I never thought of it before, but that is the point, is it? It is a new, bloody idea. This is not Earth, John! Until you said it there, those highly educated people never had that thought in their lives, and now they will wonder where you heard of it! They are busy now, but soon they will have time to think and start asking questions we did not want to have to answer!"

She stomped on. John stood for a few minutes, finally realizing the implications of his speech, which he had been so proud of until now.

"Fuck!" He almost kicked a rock but decided he liked his toes. Then followed after.

---

The morning dawned the day after the delivery of the supplies; the look on the faces of those tasked with getting the supplies through the portal was priceless. Keeper Harwen, with the Inquisitor, had to cross back and forth for them to finally come to get the supplies, but once they were comfortable, it took no time to shift the crates through the portal.

Just in time, Rachelle was getting stronger, but holding the portal was not easy even for her, and Solas was clearly impressed.

"I am aware of many remarkable forms of magic, but this? I have never seen it like that, even in the Fade from ancient elven ruins. It is similar to magic involving mirrors and doorways, but this is novel. I suggest we keep it from our friend Madame De Fer at least for a while; she will definitely be jealous; I know I am." Solas actually smiled and shook his head. "It is a remarkable accomplishment, indeed."

Serrada just stood there watching. Yes, Solas was right; John and the New Comers had reported doorways or mirrors that had transported them from their world to Thedas, but that was through some sort of middle ground; this was direct travel from one place to another and created out of nothing but magic and air.

She planned to make good use of whatever it was, just as this morning as the last crates were brought through and Inquisition wounded, and trunks of papers and artefacts were carried back to Skyhold for analysis. Yes, this morning was an example.

The Dalish were very grateful; the Inquisition had fulfilled all of its promises, and there were supplies enough to repair all the aravels and build several more. In fact, the Inquisition had made Harwen's clan more prosperous than it had been in several generations.

The aravels were quickly repaired, and only two days later, they were preparing to leave. Most were happy, but Serrada knew at least two would not be.

John stood beside Serrada after the feast had finished; they watched Rodeo hobble beside Emalien, his arm draped over Emalien's shoulders, holding her close to his side.

Serrada knew there would be tears and love tonight; her heart hurt for them.

"Good evening, Keeper," John said quietly without even looking up.

A soft chuckle came from the Keeper as he stepped closer to Serrada's left side. "Your ears are keen, young warrior; most hunters can not hear me when I do not wish them to."

John just chuckled and whispered a thank you.

As if on cue, the sounds of a woman's passion came from the aravel that Emalien and Rodeo had entered. This was new; in their entire stay with the Dalish, there had been no disruption of the night's silence. The intensity and volume of the activity made it clear that Emalien wanted everyone within earshot to know that she was with her lover. From time to time, Rodeo tried to quiet her with gentle, hushed whispers, from which she would only grow more boisterous.

It was too dark for anyone to see her blushing, but John was uncomfortable. She glanced at Harwen and was shocked to see a bemused look.

Softly smiling, Harwen took a deep breath, "She has given all of herself to him; she will never be happy with the people again."

"What did you expect? He was in love with her the moment he saw her," John answered, thinking back to the look he had seen in Rodeo's eyes, unlike any time since he had known the boy.

"Your people are not like most shem … Commander. I thought he would take pleasure with her and grow bored and move on; that is the way with shemlin, but he is not that way; he sees her as his mate, not just an elf to be used." The Keeper stood up straight and turned to Serrada and John. "If they have each other, they have my blessing; they may wed in the morning. This feast was for the women who knew Emalien's heart. It is a great sadness to lose her, but she is gone from us already. It is better to wish her well and happiness than mourn her as we watch her wither and die. No, it is a good thing, perhaps a new beginning between our peoples; let us hope so, Inquisitor. I hope so, regardless."

Impulsively, Serrada stood on her tiptoes and kissed the Keeper on the cheek, "Thank you. I think they will be very happy together."

Harwen blushed himself, then turned to leave, "Oh, one more thing, two or three others have asked to join the Inquisition; I have given them leave to do so. Again, we are diminished, but perhaps some good will come of it."

Before he left, Serrada caught his arm. "Keeper, do not wander too far. I suspect things here will change; in fact, I mean it, too. I desire that the village near the temple ruins be given to you and your people; that way, you may keep your sacred crypts and honor what once was while building something for the future."

The Keeper initially looked at the Inquisitor with the sad amusement that a grandparent might have when a grandchild says she will slay a dragon. Then, in a moment, his expression changed, and he nodded.

"Inquisitor of all those I have known, living and dead, I believe you are the only person who might be able to fulfil that promise," This time, he kissed Serrada on the forehead. "My people would be most grateful, I would be most grateful, Inquisitor."

He turned and was gone.

"Now, who is thinking new thoughts here?" John asked and tried to duck away from the elbow aimed at him. "Seriously, I love the idea, but how do you plan to pull that off?"

"Haven't a clue, let's go to bed. We have a wedding in the morning." Serrada walked away and wiggled her bottom, looking over her shoulder at John, then sprinted for their aravel. She was doing her best to entice John to her bed. So far, he had said it was just a bit public for him, but tomorrow, they would be back in Skyhold, and she was determined to make the walls of her fortress shake as just as Emalien was rending the quiet of this night.