Ell keeps her eye on a ridge in the distance as she trudges through sunken soil overrun with water. The air smells of mud, stagnant water, and decaying leaves, though seems to have become flooded only recently, judging by the trunks of the trees, which hold firm and show no sign of damage or wear. Two weeks have passed since her departure from the clearing. The wisps trail her, an ever-present retinue, as she cuts down wayward vines and branches. Her eyes shift constantly, seeking any anomalies of the Fade. She can no longer be certain that the features which draw her attention are truly disruptions of the Fade, as each step leads her into an entirely new frame of reference. Having little else to occupy her mind, she pours more focus into extracting some semblance of a conversation from the wisps. "Do you think we are going in the right direction? The direction that will lead me out?" At times their bobbing and flickering seemed to reflect some intelligence. Other times, they did not seem to hear her at all. She takes the steady pulse of light she receives in response as a "yes."

Once, she had thought that her escape would doom the world. Solas had claimed that his presence—the presence of an immortal being such as himself-in the prison was necessary to keep the Veil intact. But she was not immortal, and yet the Veil remained quite impermeable, in her humble opinion, even after a year. And, well…Solas was not the man she thought he was. She could only guess at what cunning scheme the lie had been in service of. Still, every step forward brought her closer to the moment her assumptions would be tested, and the idea made her nauseous.

She stops in her tracks as she feels a cool sensation touch the tip of her nose. Another cold tap to her cheek. Wet. Raindrops? Yes. It was indeed raining. To her knowledge, it never rained in the Fade, though she saw no reason why it could not. The rain continued for several hours, increasingly soaking the dirt beneath her feet. The moisture in the air formed a fog which made it difficult to make out the ridge she needed to maintain her bearing. Too difficult. She sighs as she makes the decision to stop and let the rain pass. In the Fade, she could not guess when that might be. She looks around for a decent place to set up camp, only to find one there already. She approaches it cautiously. It is old, abandoned. But the fact of its existence…Is it possible? Is she not alone?

...

Ell pulled herself along the rope, seeking purchase with her legs against the severe incline. Iron Bull led the party along the slope, carefully anchoring the rope as they ascended. Finally, he disappeared onto the summit. A moment later his enormous form appeared once again, extending a gigantic hand down toward her. Blinking the rain out of her eyes, she took it and pushed herself along the remaining slope with her legs, though it was hardly necessary. She took the chance to catch her breath as Bull pulled Solas and then Dorian up after her. It had been a miserable two days on the Storm Coast. The terrain was extremely treacherous. Every step risked a rolled ankle on the jagged stones blanketing the mountains, and a smaller chance of catching a loose piece of gravel and tumbling hundreds of feet down the mountain face. They were soaked to their boots in rain and sweat. It had not ceased raining since the day they arrived.

The mood was somber. They had learned hours before that Inquisition soldiers had been murdered by some sloppy band of grandiose bandits calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. The weary party traversed the plateau and arrived at the opposite face of the mountain. "There," Ell said, nodding down toward a crude encampment, splattered with bright paint.

"Subtle," Dorian said flatly.

They found this face much less steep than the one they had ascended. There was no need for ropes and anchors as they descended the mountainside.

"Beasts. Probably more of those hounds," Bull said, voice low and gravely.

"No magic wielders," added Solas, sharp eyes focused on the camp.

"Nothing flashy then. Keep it clean. I'm bloody tired. Solas, focus your barriers on Bull. Dorian, you're control. Focus on Bull," Ell instructed, eyes ahead, fixed on their target. At 200 paces, they silently readied their weapons. A faint blue glow flickered between Solas' fingers as he flexed his palm, the movement echoing the casting of a barrier spell. Bull was gargantuan but silent as he heaved his great axe from its resting place on his back to grip it firmly in both hands. Dorian nimbly extracted his staff, and Ell could feel the heat radiating from the tip, ready to deliver some variety of fire magic on their unsuspecting targets. As they closed in on the only entrance, heavily guarded, Ell's eyes flicked to each of her companions in turn, and each returned a nod. Bull took the lead, and she followed. As they moved into position, Ell waved a hand and the glowing rune of an ice mine appeared before her. All noise became muffled, and she could hear her own breaths as if beneath a quilt in her bed at Skyhold. Solas had cast his barrier. They closed in.

The party made short work, efficient work of the camp. She had hoped that raining death on this amateur would-be militia would bring her some peace. She had broken bread with some of the men they had slain. At least one had a wife and child back at Skyhold. In the end she felt no peace upon delivering death to these fools. She felt only grief, of the wasted life. Of both her Inquisition soldiers and of the men who lay dead at her feet. She took some time to gather the few valuables she could find and they left the camp, headed further down the mountain and back toward the shore.

There was little conversation as they navigated down the slopes. Dorian had made one or two attempts to incite some dialogue, but his efforts fell flat, save for a perfunctory comment from Bull. As they trudged along, each of them eyeing the landscape for a place to camp, Ell took a sharp breath in and, as if automatically, closed her right hand around her left to dull the needle of pain in the anchor. She caught in her periphery the movement of Solas' head turning in her direction, though he said nothing.

They settled at an abandoned warden campsite in a rocky alcove which offered adequate shelter from the constant downpour. After they had made camp, washed, and prepared a brothy stew of vegetables collected over the past two days, the mood had lightened, if only slightly. Solas was reclined in a corner of the small cave, scribbling notes in a worn journal. Ell huddled by the fire, warming her bare feet and idly combing snags from her hair as she gazed at the flickering flames. She could hear the masculine voices of Dorian and Bull nearby but could not make out any words, nor was she trying. She kept catching Solas' eyes flicking toward her and then back to his work. They had spoken little of the kiss they had shared in the Fade in the weeks since, though they continued to indulge in subtle flirtation with one another. Her ears twitched as his soft voice broke the silence. "How is your hand?"

Mention of it drew her attention to the dull, pulsing ache in her palm. "It's fine," she said, flexing her fingers. She looked up as she heard Solas set down his journal and make his way toward her.

"You closed many rifts today. The magic may have destabilized. May I?" He kneeled beside her, hand outstretched expectantly.

She was not sure what he was asking but extended her hand toward him. He took it in both of his and rubbed his thumb along her palm, pushed the back of her hand with his fingers to get a better look at the anchor, which elicited a wince.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, and she felt a warm tingle flow across her body as he cast some spell, and the pain was gone. He held her hand in his lap and they sat that way for several long minutes as he wove some magic she did not recognize around her hand. He smelled of soap and rain.

"Better?" He asked, as the glow of magic receded.

"Yes," she said, "Thank you."

They sat in silence, then, both staring into the flames. In her mind, she listed the names of the Inquisition soldiers they had lost today, vowing to deliver news of their deaths to their families personally. "They should not have died," she heard herself say, as if she had not meant to say it aloud.

The words hung in the air for a still moment. "It is war," came Solas' low voice beside her, his eyes still fixed on the flames.

The words made her itch, irritated by the idea that the statement should be explanation in and of itself.

"I move the pieces," she said, "Their children will weep because of the decisions I made. I should have examined Cullen's briefing more carefully."

At that, Solas turned toward her. She remained where she was, as if made of stone. "You are the Inquisitor. The hundreds of daily decisions required to keep the machinery of a vast organization moving cannot possibly fall to you alone. What you can do is surround yourself with people you trust to make the choices you would make."

She sighed. She did trust Cullen's judgment. She trusted that he had chosen the best course of action based on the information he had. She knew today's losses would have devastated him—would devastate him-just as they devasted her. It occurred to her then that Cullen would likely wish to notify the families himself. She nodded her head absently.

"It is the painful price of leadership," Solas said softly. He leaned toward her and brought a thumb to her cheek, wiping away a tear she had not noticed had escaped from her eye. "I am sorry you must bear such a burden."

Finally, she looked at him. "Thank you, Solas. Truly."

He nodded and offered a faint smile before he rose and set about preparing his bedroll. Though she was exhausted, she got up and sat with Dorian and Bull, seeking some levity before bed, lest her sleep be plagued by nightmares. By the end of the night, she was glad she did. As she prepared her own bedroll, she found herself inches away from Solas' journal. She could not resist. She silently chastised herself as she reached for it and flipped to the marked page. Her mouth fell open as she opened the journal to a sketch of her. Dramatic shading made her features appear sharp in the firelight. In the image, she was sitting just as she was a few hours before, barefoot, hands pulling at her hair. Despite herself, her lips curved into a sleepy grin.