Time blurs in an assortment of days, grey in lighting and tepid in temperature. Autumn is close at hand, and the sun sets earlier and rises later, leaving more of their journey lit by the twin moons, by the stars, and by the light of Morrigan's staff. It vexes Savreen to no end, and she finds herself pacing the edges of their campsites rather than sleeping or resting, wishing they could just move another half hour, even another quarter hour. She wants this done, wants this over with, because with each and every step they take further south, the aching and scraping whisper of the Darkspawn hoard digs itself deeper into the base of her skull.

They reach the outskirts of the Korcari Wilds in what would otherwise be excellent time. To Savreen, though, with the sound of fingernail scraping on stone lodged inside her ears, it hardly matters. Good time, bad time, all of it is time they cannot spend fighting the Blight. Part of her knows this is the price they must pay to keep Morrigan with them, to keep the witch among their party. They need her, and Savreen does care about her, care for her, even. And she knows that, and it's the only thing that allows her to lay down on her bedroll in the dark and sleep when at last the exhaustion becomes too much.

That sleep, though, never lasts long enough. After an hour, maybe two or three if she's lucky, Savreen wakes with the taste of flesh and rot coating her tongue, and she's back to thinking of the Blight. In the worst moments, she hums refrains, performing shabad kirtan in her own head to try and force the Darkspawn song from her mind. It works only marginally well, and even that marginal relief dims with each passing hour, with every step they take. When they pass fully into the swampy marshland of the Wilds, nearly a week and a half after turning south, it hangs on her every thought with buzzing claws, grating at her bones.

Tali and Alistair can feel it too, that much is obvious. They're too loud when they speak, too distracted when they listen. They, like Savreen, toss and turn at night in their bedrolls. More often than not, the three of them end up sitting together in what best approximates silence, sharing watches while they can't sleep. There's nothing else to be done, after all.

Things begin to look familiar all too soon, and Savreen knows that they are nearing Flemeth's hut. She would be hard pressed to navigate her way here on her own, but that copse of trees, that broken pillar—they're familiar, she at least knows that. Morrigan won't say it—she hasn't said much of anything since they passed into the Wilds proper—but Savreen can tell that she, too, is nervous.

"It would be foolish to continue on tonight." Leliana's voice, an almost forgotten sound, slices through the fog in Savreen's mind, the ornate and unusual syllables of her Orlesian accent rising above the constant buzz of the Darkspawn hoard. The young woman, Savreen notices for maybe the first time, looks exhausted, the skin under her eyes hollowed and bruised for want of sleep, her red hair lank and dull. It's as if Savreen's been pulled from a dream, some sort of sleepwalking episode, and she finds herself looking, staring at the others, noticing their tiredness and wondering when was the last time she slept, after all?

She can't remember if they stopped and made camp the night before, she realizes, and she blinks.

"Surely there's time enough to rest until the sun rises? It's growing dark again." Ranjit suggests softly, and when Savreen looks at him and sees the tiredness hanging heavy on his cheeks and below his brow, she can do nothing but nod.

Their group all but collapses, like puppets with strings cut, and Savreen realizes they never did stop the night before. No one said not to, they just kept walking, kept moving, forward and onward, carefully and steadfastly plodding along through the maze of marshy ground. Her stomach rumbles, but it feels almost more out of habit than real hunger. Even the sound is tired.

"We are close," Morrigan says, pacing the small patch of ground they've claimed. Savreen takes a moment to actually look around, realizing that she needs to assess the lay of the land, that she needs to know where they'll keep watch, what their vulnerable points are. They're up against a large pool of water on one side, protected by an ancient, if crumbling, wall on the other. The remnants of the wall—thick, massive stone blocks, mostly—trail out across the ground and disappear under the surface of the pools of the marsh, covered with grass and moss and growing things. It's just before sunset, just before dark, and Savreen realizes that she is, in fact, tired.

"Leliana is right," Savreen says, half in response to Morrigan's pacing and half to convince herself. "We can't continue like this." But oh, how she would like to. "If we're close, we can pick up again in the morning." In the recesses of her mind, she finds the energy to wonder why Morrigan doesn't seem nearly as tired as any of the others. Even as exhausted as they clearly seem, their companions are still setting up camp: Sten building a fire, Alistair and Tali setting up their tents, Leliana and Zevran bent over a makeshift snare with the hope of catching breakfast, and Ranjit watching over it all, eyes scanning the horizon. But Morrigan simply moves aimlessly back and forth, eyes straining as though she might be able to see her mother's figure emerging from the reeds and the weeds and the fog of dusk on the water's surface.

"We are close," is all Morrigan says, repeating her words in the same tense, taut tone. Savreen sighs, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She would like to tell Morrigan to shove it, just a little bit, just this once, but when she inhales and opens her mouth to speak, looking back up at the witch, Savreen realizes Morrigan isn't saying it to insist they keep moving. She's saying it simply because she can say nothing else, can think of nothing else. Her eyes, already smeared with dark purple powder on their lids, seem to be ringed in black now, their brown color popping gold in contrast. They rove frantically across the scenery, wide and bloodshot, too tired to focus, too scared to close. There's even a faint tremble to her fingers, revealed only when she pulls a hand up and off her staff to tuck her hair back from her face.

"Do you think—tomorrow?" Savreen wants her to say something else, to think of something else, anything else. Maybe logistics, maybe tactics—anything but the aimless fear of Flemeth's uncertain proximity. Morrigan nods.

"'Tis certain to be tomorrow. Well before noon, I should wager." That comes as a small surprise to Savreen, and she frowns a little bit. They haven't discussed a plan yet, haven't discussed what they'll actually do beyond 'kill Flemeth.'

The thought of it gives her a headache, truly. She's pushed to the limit of even Grey Warden endurance, Savreen knows. This point is driven home even further when she moves to pull her tent and bedroll from her pack to find Sher, already asleep, drooling on the cloth bundle.

"You should sleep, Morrigan." It's a bit of a suggestion, but it's mostly a command. One that Morrigan seems to have no intention to heed, not as she shakes her head.

"We are too close for me to lower my guard."

"Can't you…do a spell? Or something?" For a minute, Savreen considers just pulling out her bedroll, not even bothering with the tent. She does away with that notion the instant she hears the buzzing whine of a marsh bug in her ear. She would rather not wake up covered in itchy little bites, come to think of it.

"I can set a ward, but…" Savreen isn't sure how Morrigan intends her sentence to end. The witch cuts it off, clipping the end of it before it can leave her mouth. "I can set a ward." With that, she moves off, closer to the fire than Savreen's ever seen her sleep.

While she struggles with her tent, Ranjit takes his turn to approach Savreen.

"Are you well?" he asks, moving instantly to help pull the canvas taut. With a shrug, she answers, trying to ignore the guilt that burrows into her stomach and under her ribs.

"I am better than some, that much I know." He doesn't seem to know what, exactly, to say in response, his own tiredness stilling his mind. Instead, he continues to help her.

"Do we have a plan?" When the tent is fully erected, he asks the question that Savreen knows is coming. Sighing, she considers how to answer.

"Tomorrow," is all she can come up with. "Tomorrow, we will have a plan." Ranjit purses his lips together, their soft curves flattening into a single sharp line. He doesn't argue, though.

"Tomorrow." He leaves her, and almost before she can volunteer for second watch, very nearly before she finishes clambering inside her tent, certainly before she can straighten her bedroll, and far before she can crawl under the blanket, Savreen falls into an uneasy sleep.

The Darkspawn are slow. They wander with an aimlessness that makes it hard to understand them as a threat in some ways, what with their apparent lack of intent. But intent is not the source of the bulk of the destruction that follows in their wake. Farms fail beneath their feet, crops falling to ruin. Wells turn, sour and poisoned, as their blood leeches through the soil. Rivers and streams run barren as they cross, fish floating bloated along to ruin some other lake with their bellies full of decay. Towns and villages fall, ground between their teeth, torn to bloody pulp, eaten without ever being tasted, consumed for the sake of it.

Intent on destruction or not, still they stumble across plains and fields, blighting the soil beneath them as they go, almost agonized as the sunlight bakes their rotten flesh like meat in a clay oven. Almost agonized only because they do not feel, not in the same way, not where pain is involved. Everything is pain, for them, everything but the song, everything but the melody driving them forward, dragging them along. The Darkspawn are slow, but they are inexorable, inevitable, unstoppable, like the tide. They wash over everything.

In her mind, Savreen watches, helpless, as Lothering drowns beneath the Darkspawn. But no, no she's seen that before, she dreamed of that weeks ago. She dreamed of that as though she was there, as though she was part of the Blight that destroyed the town where once they rested. Now, she is back, watching again as the sky turns a roiling green, then gray, then purple, and then green again, like a mottled bruise. She watches as the Darkspawn appear, a mass of figures like writhing roaches along the Imperial Highway, twisted armor glistening dully like carapaces. Around her, people scream, flee, run, panic. They are too late. The Darkspawn are here. Lothering flickers, the sounds of agony in Savreen's ears, wailing and then silence but for the choked groans of those not yet dead.

Suddenly it is over, has been over for some time already. Everything is ash, carrion. The sky still blooms with sickening green like some growth of mold, but it is no longer as powerful as it was while the horde still passed through the area. Still, something is crunching, grunting, wheezing. Savreen can hear it, behind her. She turns, toward the inn, the remnants of the inn, beams collapsed from fire and rotted almost as though years have passed. The sound grows louder. The stone stairs are cracked from heat, but still they stand, bearing Savreen's weight as she climbs them.

Inside, the tavern space is even darker than it had been before. Everything is blackened, and light seems to be unable to escape. The crunching, groaning, wheezing sound grows ever louder with each step. There, to her left, are the remains of the stairs up, up to the room where they slept barely a week—no, a month? More than a month? When? How much time has passed? Savreen is unsure. Everything slips through her mind like water through her grasping fingers. And still the sound: wheezing, groaning, crunching.

The beam above the bar has broken, its structure eaten through by fire. Beneath its weight, the bar is crushed. Wheezing. Crunching. Groaning. The barkeep, the innkeeper, the old man who had given them their room, he is crushed, too, crushed beneath the beam, limbs akimbo. But he is not dead. Blighted tissue hangs from his own teeth, sharp things set in sunken gums in a skeletal, decaying face. Black veins, choked with coagulated blood, infected with rot, spiral under the surface of his suppurating skin. His eyes, once pale and blue, have the clouded look of a rotten fish. He does not notice Savreen, not as the trapped ghoul of a man tries desperately to bend his body so that he might be able to find a bite, just a taste, of his own flesh, of the flesh remaining that he has not already gnawed and chewed to ribbons. Crunching. Wheezing. Groaning.

One of his hands is flattened, shattered, under a portion of the upstairs flooring. His teeth find it and he bites down, hard. The bones, already broken, shatter to splinters in his mouth. The flesh stretches and then tears, splitting along threads of muscle. Savreen thinks she might be sick. She breathes in once, twice, too sharp, too fast, too loud, and finally the ghoul notices her. He jerks his head towards her, blackened blood and marrow dribbling down his chin with the texture of porridge. And he smiles, smiles as though Savreen isn't dreaming, as though she's right there, in the horrible wreckage of Lothering, in the burned inn, with this wretched ghoul. As though he can see her, with his curdled, dead-fish eyes.

She's still lying on the ground, in the Wilds, in her tent, at their campsite, Sher sleeping dutifully at her feet. All that's moved are her eyelids, closing with sleep and opening with waking. But her heart pounds. Savreen sits up, slowly, shakily, feeling tears aching at the back of her throat. There is no use in wondering if the innkeeper really died when Lothering fell. There is no use in thinking about the possibility of him, Blighted and infected, a horrible ghoul, undying and yet dead and decaying. There is no use. But what if he's there? What if?

Despite her best efforts, a sob rises in Savreen's mouth. She bites it back before it can pass her lips, and it dies in the grip of her teeth. With a swallow, she focuses elsewhere. She thinks of other things. She tries to think of other things. She fails.

The bugs have mostly dissipated, Savreen finds as she exits her tent. Likely on account of the fire's smoke, billowing about. For a moment, she wonders with panic in her chest over whether they should have lit a fire at all, if it will alert Flemeth to their presence. Then the moment passes, and she realizes that it is far more likely that Flemeth knows they are coming anyway, without the help of some paltry smoke. Morrigan sits by the fire, her back rigid, keeping watch as Savreen has never seen her keep watch before.

"You need to sleep," she says. The witch hardly moves. As Savreen approaches the fire, she notices a deep bed of glowing red coals, as though the fire's been burning for hours. "What—" She looks up at the sky with a jerk of her head that almost wrenches her neck. The moons are too far along in their journeys across the sky, the inky indigo of the sky just brushing blue on the eastern horizon. "It's almost morning." It's half observation, half accusation. "I said I would take second watch."

Silently, Morrigan turns to look at Savreen. The witch's eyes seem to cut through her, almost as though seeing directly into the Fade, through the inscrutable fabric of the Veil. She stares at Savreen with those eyes, with that gaze, and Savreen wishes that she wouldn't.

"Morrigan—"

"I shall sleep when Flemeth is dead." Shaking her head, Savreen sits, folding her legs under herself.

"You haven't slept—"

"I know how long I have been awake. I shall sleep when she is dead, and no sooner."

"You can't make yourself stronger by refusing—"

"'Tis not about making myself stronger." Savreen sighs and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Would you let me finish speaking, or must you keep interrupting me?"

If the situation were any different, Savreen would take Morrigan's silence as a joke. But the situation is not different.

"Why will you not sleep? You seem as tired as anyone else." The witch's nostrils flare and a vein thrums in her neck as she clenches her jaw. She does not answer. Very well. If that is how she wishes to play this, Savreen is content to wait. There is no use in attempting to return to sleep, anyway. Not after her dream. "I will not simply go away, Morrigan."

"I cannot go with you."

"Go with me?"

"When you go to slay Flemeth. I cannot go with you. I cannot be there when she dies." It's a bit of a blow, but somehow Savreen had expected that Morrigan would not be there for the fight. It doesn't mean that she isn't disappointed, though.

"You could have told me earlier." Morrigan scoffs, the sound deep in her throat.

"Do you think me a fool? 'I could have told you earlier.' Told you what, exactly? That I am afraid? That I desire for you and your obsessively kind cousin to do my dirty work? That I have realized that Flemeth is, after all, my mother, and it pains me to kill her?" Savreen lets Morrigan lash out. She knows there is another reason.

"And are you?"

"What?"

"Are you afraid, Morrigan?" Morrigan glares at her, but the hatred is a pretense. The anger is not for Savreen. The witch breaks eye contact first, turning back to the fire.

"If Flemeth's body dies while I am near, she will simply take me as her vessel regardless. I cannot be there when she is slain." Her non-answer does not escape Savreen's notice.

"It is not so terrible, you know."

"I do not take your meaning."

"To admit that you are afraid. It is not as terrible as you seem to think it is." The edges of Morrigan's lips curl back, baring her teeth in frustration.

"You are so very invested in forcing me to reveal myself to you. Does it give you pleasure to see my soul laid bare? Is it of use to you?" Again with the anger, the walls being thrown up.

"And you seem to want to keep lying to me." Morrigan has no response to that but another sharp glare. "I'm not your enemy. No matter how transactional you may think the act of caring is—"

"You ask me to believe that you are different than any person I have met before, that the things I have lived and seen and the ways I have learned to survive are not true. You claim these things about care and affection and transactions, and I own that your life may have taught you thusly. But, O noble daughter of House MacAuslan, your life has been very different from mine. You would like to know if I am afraid? Very well. I am terrified. I am distraught. I believed that my mother cared for me, and now I find that she cares only for what I can give her. Does that satisfy your cravings for my lifeblood? For my secrets and my weaknesses? Are you pleased?" The horizon shifts from blue to lavender, dusky and hazy. Savreen's eyes, in turn, shift toward it.

"I do not think I would use the word 'pleased', no."

"Then what is it you want?"

"I want you to understand that things can be different." Stifling a yawn, Savreen stands. "And I am sorry you are afraid. I am sorry that I cannot do anything to make that fear go away faster."

"Why do you persist?" The anger is gone, as Savreen had expected it would be. She glances toward her tent, toward the sleeping lump that is Sher, directly outside of it. There is no time to return to sleep, no need, but she could take a turn about their camp, one last patrol before they begin their planning. It would help to know that their position is secure.

"Because I know I cannot make you trust me through one conversation alone."

"There must be another reason."

"Is it too much for you to believe at the very least that I would like for you to trust me? That I would like to trust you? We eat together, walk together, keep watch together, even bathe together. We are all, each of us, alone together, and I care for and about each person in this camp."

"I did not ask—"

"No. In fact, I seem to think that your actions have explicitly asked me not to care. But I care nonetheless. And if you desire to do only as you wish, you must also accept that I will do as I wish." She returns to her tent, patting Sher awake and reaching inside to grab her swords. "I will make a single patrol circuit. When I return, we will wake them, and you will tell us what it is we need to know to defeat Flemeth."

She does not wait for Morrigan to respond.

By the time Savreen returns, the sky is painted by dawn. She can see Sten, Ranjit, Leliana, Zevran, gathered with Morrigan by the fire. Alistair's snores punctuate the quiet air, and she's sure Tali is still asleep. On her way toward the others, she smacks the canvas of her cousin's tent. A faintly muffled m'awake and an indignant light boof sound from within, and shortly after a disoriented Tali emerges, rubbing sleep from her eyes as Abarie whines and yawns behind her.

Alistair gets the same treatment, and he, too, exits his tent looking as though he's been roused from hibernation. Savreen is jealous of their apparent abilities to return to sleep following their nightmares, but she lets it go quickly. No one speaks as they all gather themselves around the fire, each looking at the others, each glancing toward Morrigan every so often. Once they're all sat there, though, the silence grows unbearable. Savreen waits, deferring to Morrigan, should she desire to speak, but she doesn't, and so, eventually, that task falls to Savreen, like all tasks seem to.

"Morrigan says that we are near the hut," she begins. The others perk up, leaning in to listen. "We will reach it by noon. But there is a problem." She would like for Morrigan to say this part, would like for Morrigan to break this news herself. But the witch doesn't, so it is left, once more, to Savreen. "The nature of the spell is such that, if we were to kill Flemeth with Morrigan nearby, she would simply take over Morrigan's body in that moment. Morrigan cannot…she cannot come with us."

The uproar is instant.

"Has she known this the whole time?"

"Does the witch seek you to kill all her enemies for her in this manner?"

"We cannot defeat a mage without a mage of our own!"

"Why didn't she tell us sooner?"

"Hmm, now this does smack of intrigue and deception."

It isn't everyone; Tali and Ranjit at least are silent. The others, though, are unimpressed—vocally so. Savreen lets them talk, lets them trip over their words and over each other. She understands the frustration and the irritation. This is dangerous, that much they all know. It was always going to be dangerous. And it would have been helpful to know earlier that they were preparing to head into a fight against a legendary witch without a mage of their own, a mage who knows their opponent just about as intimately as it is possible to know a person.

But they are here, now, and this is the hand they have been dealt. They have come too far to let this stop them. So Savreen lets them all talk, lets them be frustrated and angry and indignant, and she waits for them to tire themselves out.

"This is far from ideal," she starts, and while Alistair makes a small noise in the back of his throat, he doesn't try to interrupt her. "But none of this has been ideal, not since we turned south. I am happy to hear your complaints, to be sure, but I would be happier to hear your solutions. We have said before that this is the only way open to us. That hasn't changed." No one speaks. Sten is clearly unhappy, but he defers to Savreen, inclining his head in one deep nodding motion. Alistair, too, accepts the situation, as does Zevran, who appears more amused by everything than anything else. Leliana, however, looks as though she's been drinking soured wine.

"She has brought us here, weeks off our course, to do something about which she cannot even be honest!" the redhead cries, gesturing toward Morrigan.

"Do you have an alternative?" Savreen asks. The sour expression grows.

"We will do as she asks. That is what the Maker would want." Oh, good. Excellent to know that's what the Maker would want them to be doing. "But is it not also justifiable that we should ask…that…" With a sigh, Leliana trails off. The sourness is gone from her mouth—now she simply looks a bit petulant, annoyed with herself. "No, I am sorry. She asked for our help and we should give it. Forgive me for demanding anything else." Savreen takes a moment to marvel at Leliana's self-realization, but no more than a moment.

"Thank you," she says, and she continues, returning to the point of their conversation. "Without Morrigan, we will have a disadvantage. It is in our best interest to figure out how to approach that disadvantage, and discuss our plan of attack." Finally, Morrigan clears her throat.

"My—Flemeth has many magical skills, learnt over her long centuries in the Wilds. She is likely to use all of them as she is able. You should be prepared for her to change her form—it is how she walks among men. You should also be ready for her to attempt to turn you against each other."

"Or against you," Tali offers, eyes fixed down on her hands. Morrigan pauses. It's only for a heartbeat but it is long enough for Savreen to notice.

"Yes. Or against me."

"Is there anything we should know about the land, about the terrain and how we might use that to our advantage?" Deep in thought, Ranjit strokes his beard as he stares off into the distance, no doubt imagining the hut and its surrounds. Savreen thinks back to when they woke up there, after Ostagar. She remembers little, only the general flatness and the swampy ground. There were trees, but not near enough to the hut itself to make much of a difference.

"The land is as you see here," Morrigan answers, "and as you have seen since we entered the Wilds. Marshland and swampland, flat and open. You shall have limited cover, but so shall she." Ranjit, frowning, nods nevertheless.

"That is less than desirable, but battles have been won in worse circumstance, and by fewer warriors." For what Savreen thinks is the first time since Redcliffe, Morrigan lets out a chuckle. It is dark and mirthless, but it is a chuckle nonetheless, fed on irony.

"So optimistic. 'Twould be delightful to believe as you do in your success." Savreen can't help it—she sighs, weary.

"Morrigan—" But Tali interrupts her before she can ask Morrigan to please, have a little faith, just a little, or at least try not to make it seem as though they are all about to go to their deaths.

"You said a Templar stole her book, her grimoire, yes?" Morrigan blinks owlishly, once, twice, and then, slowly, she answers.

"Yes, 'twas a Templar." Grimacing, Tali directs her next question half at Morrigan and half at Alistair.

"I have heard that Templars are trained in the ability to disrupt magic." Even without her question completed, it is obvious that Alistair knows the direction in which it's headed. He, too, grimaces. "If we—that is, if someone knew how to do that same thing—if someone were once a Templar—"

"I never made it to full initiation," Alistair says, partially in self-defense and partially in apology. Morrigan rolls her eyes as though she can make them disappear back into her skull.

"Of course he was a Templar." Talvinder bristles.

"That's not—that's not the point! He isn't a Templar now, he's a Grey Warden, and the question is, could it work? Could it help us?"

"It could," Morrigan concedes, "but only if he does actually know how to dispel magic. Do you? Aside from the question of your knowing anything at all, that is."

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny. I do, in fact. Count that one of ten things I know."

"Ten! I am surprised you can count that high. Next, we shall be learning that you can write your own name, too!"

"I am not taking that bait," Alistair announces, though it seems more like he's trying to remind himself not to.

"Very good," Tali says, ushering their conversation away from Morrigan and Alistair's continued sparring. "We can dispel magic safely without having to worry about Morrigan also being caught in that. That should help, right?" Savreen smiles at Tali, the expression certainly a little wan and weak, but a smile regardless. Her cousin is right, and she's grateful for the suggestion.

"It will. Flemeth has not faced Templars in many a year; she will not be expecting the idiot of a Grey Warden who she saved—"

"Maybe you can call me an idiot when I'm not trying to help save your life?" It's barely been a minute of the two of them talking, but Savreen has had more than enough.

"Let's argue about who can call whom what later, please." Archly, Morrigan nods, and when she speaks, it's with a facetious edge that Savreen cannot abide.

"Indeed. There are far, far many more important things to discuss." As soon as the witch finishes speaking, Savreen turns to her, a single finger raised as sternly as she can muster.

"Oh no. You're as much at fault as Alistair is." This is not what Alistair wants to hear. Despite his earlier words about not rising to any bait, he apparently cannot resist doing so now, in spite of the bait not being for him in the slightest.

"At fault—she's been bullying me!"

"We have one witch to kill and another to save, remember?" Tali's somewhat frantic tone brings them all back down, reminding each of them of the weight of the situation. They're all silent for a brief moment, looking back and forth at each other, and then Morrigan shrugs.

"'Twould also be a good idea to warn you of the dragon, I should think."