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The Fallow Mire sprawled before them in all its dismal, sodden misery, a place where even the halla would hesitate to tread. Taerian Lavellan pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he stepped into the clearing. Mist hung low, wrapping itself around the ruins of trees and pooling in the hollows of the marshy ground. The stench of rot and stagnant water hit him from every direction, a miasma that clung to his skin and sank into his clothes. He suppressed a shiver, though his disgust was plain on his face. Mythal's breath, how had he come to this? The supposed "Herald of Andraste," chilled to the bone, muck up to his knees, playing wet nurse to half the soldiers in the Inquisition.
"This is what passes for a camp these days?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice carried, though, low and sharp against the fog. "Nothing screams 'appointed saviour' like a swamp full of undead and freezing rain."
Varric snorted from behind, though even his wit seemed dampened by their surroundings. "Hey, it beats spending the night on the move, wondering which corpse is going to try and eat your face first."
"An improvement," Taerian said flatly, "if I were particularly fond of trench foot."
His boots squelched as he trudged to help with the camp setup. Every step was a reminder of how ill-suited the Mire was for anything resembling habitation. Water seeped into his boots, icy and relentless. He tugged at a stubborn tent stake, his fingers slipping on the soaked wood. All the while, he found his thoughts drifting, spiralling through the endless absurdity of his predicament.
It had been nearly two weeks since Haven's destruction—and several more since the world decided to heap its problems onto him. "Inquisitor," they called him now. The word tasted bitter every time it was spoken. He hadn't asked for this. The idea of it still felt laughable, like a cruel joke whispered among spirits in the Fade. Taerian Lavellan, Dalish mage and a self-proclaimed nobody, carrying the weight of a title that felt as foreign as the Chantry itself.
He could picture his Keeper's reaction if she could see him now, trying to stake a tent in a bog where the ground practically swallowed it whole. She'd likely shake her head, click her tongue, and ask what idiocy had led him here. That question had no easy answer. He could trace it back to the Conclave, to the Anchor, to the growing unease of a world tearing itself apart—but no single thread unravelled the full tapestry of chaos he found himself in.
Taerian flexed his fingers absently, the green glow of the Anchor faint beneath his gloves. Divine intervention, some called it. A mark of favour. Nonsense, he thought. This wasn't Andraste's doing—it was a curse, plain and simple, and a painful one at that.
"Careful, Inquisitor," Dorian's voice drew from somewhere behind him. "Frowning that much might summon a demon. Or worse, lines."
Taerian didn't even bother to turn around. "If you're not going to help, Dorian, at least have the decency to complain from somewhere else."
"Help?" Dorian sounded scandalised, though Taerian could hear the smirk in his tone. "Do I look like someone who toys with mud? These robes are silk, Tae, not burlap."
Taerian finally turned, giving the Tevinter mage a flat look. Dorian stood there, immaculate as ever, as though the swamp itself had decided it wouldn't dare touch him. "Amazing," the elf said drily. "The undead don't manage to terrify you, but a puddle sends you fleeing."
Dorian arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "A puddle didn't just murder three scouts, did it? No, I think not. Priorities, you know."
A booming laugh broke through their exchange as Bull drove a tent stake into the ground with a casual punch. "Let the Vint be. He'd probably slip and sprain something if he tried. Soft hands, y'know?"
"Oh, I assure you," Dorian shot back, smoothing his hair with a flourish, "these soft hands are capable of far more than you imagine. But manual labour? I’ll leave that to the professionals. And you, Bull."
Taerian bit back a laugh. He hated to admit it, but there was something comforting in their banter. It was absurd, but so was everything about his life lately. A Dalish elf thrown into the middle of human politics, undead battles, and titles he never wanted—what else could he do but find humour in the ridiculousness of it all?
Still, he’d noticed something lately. Dorian's teasing carried a warmth that hadn’t been there before, a playfulness that seemed meant for him alone. Taerian caught the other mage’s gaze now and again, lingering, thoughtful, as though Dorian saw something in him that even he couldn’t recognise yet.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Lavellan,” Dorian said, his voice pulling Taerian back to the present.
“Hear what?” Taerian asked, feigning innocence.
Dorian narrowed his eyes, but there was a twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. “That laugh. Don’t pretend you’re above enjoying my wit.”
Taerian smirked, leaning on the tent pole he’d finally managed to stake. “Oh, I’d never dream of it. You’re practically a bard.”
“Finally, some recognition,” Dorian said, gesturing dramatically. "You may rise, my adoring public.”
"Well, if we're all going to be fucking miserable," Bull declared, his grin as wide and dangerous as the murky waters around them, "might as well make it fun. Chargers and I used to blow off steam with a little mud-wrestling when things got rough."
Taerian blinked, momentarily frozen. Mud-wrestling. Of course, it had come to this. As if traipsing through a blighted swamp full of restless undead wasn’t surreal enough, now he had to contend with the visual of a half-ton of Qunari enthusiasm flinging itself into the nearest mud puddle. He sighed internally, a long-suffering note that seemed to echo the entirety of his life choices.
"Mud-wrestling?" Blackwall echoed, his tone walking a line between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.
"Exactly!" Bull nodded with the eagerness of someone who genuinely thought this was a good idea. "Mud, muscle, mayhem! Let off steam, get the blood pumping. What do you say?"
Taerian didn’t even bother to hide his grimace. Of all the bizarre traditions the Inquisition had brought into his life, this might take the cake—or the bucket of mud, as it were. He glanced at Bull, who looked far too pleased with himself, like a mischievous child about to unleash chaos on unsuspecting adults.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Cassandra said, folding her arms over her chest with a scowl that could have cut through steel.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little dirt,” Sera sneered, her grin full of challenge and mischief. “Bet you’d end up face-first in the muck. All that Seeker dignity wouldn’t save you.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning into a line that Taerian recognized immediately. It was the look of someone moments away from making a decision they might regret purely to spite someone else. He could practically feel the energy around her shift, sharp and crackling like the air before a storm. Creators preserve them all.
“Very well,” she said at last, clipped but steady. “If only to show you what a Seeker is capable of.”
Varric let out a low whistle, clearly delighted by the turn of events. He climbed onto a rock, settling in as though this were nothing more than a new chapter for one of his stories. “Now this I’ve got to see. Best seats in the house, right here. Lowtown pit fights have nothing on this.”
Within moments, chaos was in full swing. The group had cleared a rough patch of ground—or rather, Bull had declared a particularly sodden stretch of mud “perfect”—and the impromptu match began. Cassandra squared off against Sera, her expression a mask of determination, while Bull and Blackwall loomed on the sidelines, both clearly itching to jump in.
Taerian, wisely, stayed back, his arms folded as he watched the spectacle unfold. He leaned toward Dorian, who was also keeping a cautious distance, his nose wrinkling every time mud splattered a little too close.
“Five coppers on Sera,” Taerian said, amused. He glanced at Dorian, whose expression of horrified fascination was nothing short of priceless.
“Oh, please,” Dorian drawled. “The real wager is on how long Cassandra tolerates this nonsense before she drags Sera into the mud by her ears.”
Taerian smirked. “Scared of a little mud, are you? This could be a test of endurance, resilience—”
“—and idiocy,” Dorian interrupted, crossing his arms with exaggerated dignity. “Let’s not forget that part.”
Before Taerian could respond, a thunderous splash interrupted their banter. Bull had tackled Blackwall with the subtlety of a trebuchet, sending both of them skidding through the mud in a glorious display of chaos. Varric clapped his hands, laughing loudly.
“And the giant charges!” the dwarf announced, his grin practically glowing. “Let it be known, folks, Tiny’s officially kicked things off. Not sure our Warden was ready for this level of enthusiasm, though.”
“Come on, Bull!” Taerian called, unable to resist the grin spreading across his face. “Is that the best you’ve got? I thought Qunari were supposed to be unstoppable.”
Bull, now thoroughly caked in mud, shot a thumbs-up in his direction. “I’m just getting warmed up!”
Dorian made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Their dignity is as ruined as their clothes. But at least they seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“Admit it,” Taerian teased, nudging him lightly. “You’re entertained.”
The other man snorted. “Entertained? Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to dive into this barbaric display.”
Meanwhile, Cassandra and Sera’s match had reached its peak. Sera darted and rolled, her agility keeping her just out of Cassandra’s grasp, though the Seeker’s determination was relentless. With a final lunge, Cassandra caught Sera by the arm and hauled her down into the mud with a triumphant growl. Sera let out a cackling laugh, her voice muffled by the muck.
Varric leapt onto his rock for dramatic effect. “And the Lady Seeker claims her victory! Buttercup put up a good fight, but discipline wins the day! Though I doubt the Orlesians would approve of this technique—too much mud, not enough lace.”
Cassandra rose, breathing heavily and utterly covered in mud, but there was a faint glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. She turned toward Bull and Blackwall, who were still grappling nearby.
“It seems Blackwall is due for a lesson,” she said, her voice steady but edged with a rare, wolfish grin.
“Oh, ho!” Varric called out, his laughter echoing through the Mire. “Hero, you’d better watch out. Looks like you’re next.”
As the matches continued, Taerian found himself relaxing for the first time in days. The swamp’s oppressive gloom felt a little lighter, the cold less biting. Despite everything—the mud, the undead, the weight of his role—there was something undeniably comforting about this strange, chaotic family he’d found himself a part of.
“You sure you don’t want to join?” he asked Dorian again, his tone teasing.
Dorian’s soft laugh caught him off guard. “Not in this lifetime. But I’ll admit,” he added, his voice quieter now, “it’s… oddly endearing.”
Soon enough, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a dim, cold glow over the muddy scene. Cassandra finally stepped back, thoroughly mud-covered and victorious, looking over the scene with a mix of pride and mild horror at the mess they’d made.
"Perhaps we should attempt a meal," she said, though her voice was softer now, almost fond. "Even a meagre one would be better than nothing. If the fire holds… well, we’ll see."
Dorian gave a mock shudder. “A fire? In this place? You may as well wish for a fine Orlesian banquet.”
“Hey, with enough complaining,” Varric added with a grin, “we might just warm it up enough.”
Taerian knelt by the firepit, his hands outstretched, fingers trembling slightly from the cold as he murmured the incantation. The damp wood resisted, stubborn and unyielding as everything in the Mire seemed to be. He focused, drawing heat from the core of his magic, coaxing the flame to life. The first tiny spark sputtered, almost mocking him before catching the edge of the logs. He leaned in closer, murmuring again, his voice low and steady, though frustration prickled at the edges of his concentration.
There. The flame flared to life, flickering weakly against the oppressive damp, and then, slowly, it grew. Warmth radiated out, chasing away the cold that had dug into his bones since they’d arrived. He straightened with a quiet sigh of relief, flexing his fingers as if to shake off the lingering chill. The others drifted closer, their gratitude unspoken but clear in the way they crowded around the fire, shoulders slumping as the heat seeped into their tired bodies.
By some miracle—or perhaps sheer stubbornness—the fire held. Taerian could feel the subtle pull of his magic as he maintained it, a constant thread of energy tying him to the fragile flames. It wasn’t enough to drain him, not yet, but it was a reminder that even warmth came at a price out here. Another in a long list of sacrifices he hadn’t quite agreed to make but had ended up shouldering anyway.
Food was a different problem entirely. Catching anything in the Mire was a grim thought, the waters teeming with decay and whatever unholy things had crawled out of the depths. Taerian had seen Cassandra’s gaze linger on the stagnant pools for a moment before she’d muttered something about chewing her gauntlets instead. Sensible. Even the Dalish wouldn’t touch water this foul.
So they turned to the emergency rations. Taerian passed the bags around, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric of their supplies—dried strips of meat that were more sinew than flavour, rock-hard bread, and something cheese-like in theory but deeply suspect in practice. It wasn’t appetising, but it was food, and food was survival.
Dorian held up a strip of jerky as if it were a piece of refuse plucked from a midden heap. His expression, one of profound distaste, was almost comical. "Of all the indignities this Mire has inflicted upon us," he began, his tone haughty, "this—this—is the worst. Bear jerky, berries, and spirits know what else masquerading as sustenance. Truly, we are cursed."
Taerian couldn’t help but smile, biting off a piece of his own jerky with far more enthusiasm than it deserved. "Could be worse," he said, his voice light with mock cheer. "We could be eating nug."
Sera made a noise somewhere between a gag and a groan. "Nug? No, that’s just wrong. Beady eyes, fat little butts—like they’re all smug about it, too. I’d rather eat mud."
Bull’s laugh rumbled out, low and warm. He held up a piece of bread and slapped it against his thigh a few times, softening it—or trying to—before gnawing on it like a predator savouring its kill. "Nug stew’s not bad. Depends what you cook it in. Some places even call it a delicacy."
"Not in Orlais," Varric quipped, leaning back against a log with an easy grin. "I can’t see a single noble spooning up nug stew at a masquerade ball. Doesn’t pair well with wine and intrigue."
Blackwall chuckled, his voice rough but good-natured. "Even Fereldan nobles wouldn’t stoop to that. They’d feed it to the mabari first, see if it was worth the risk."
Taerian shrugged, tearing another piece of jerky free with his teeth. "Fereldans have the right idea. If it doesn’t bite back, it’s fair game."
Dorian still hadn’t taken a bite. He held the jerky between two fingers like it was a cursed artefact, his lips curling in a mixture of amusement and despair. "I’d sell my soul for lamb," he declared, his voice rich with longing. "Seared to perfection, a hint of rosemary, perhaps some honey glaze. But no, we have this. Bear jerky. If the Maker has truly abandoned us, he's making his point clear."
Taerian laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "If a plate of lamb’s all it takes to buy your soul, I’ll make a note of that. Seems like a bargain."
Varric cut in, his grin sharp as he passed Dorian a slightly less petrified piece of bread. "Careful, Sparkler. If you complain too much, Antlers here might try to summon a lamb from the Fade just to shut you up."
Taerian snorted, holding back a laugh. "If I could summon lamb, I’d eat it myself and leave you with the jerky."
Dorian finally bit into the bread, his expression one of utter betrayal. He chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Even the Fade wouldn’t produce something this foul. I’ll endure, but know this—my patience has limits."
The firelight flickered across the group, pulling shadows across their faces as their laughter and stories filled the damp night air. It was strange how something as simple as miserable tales of even worse meals could knit them together. Varric recounted the time he’d eaten what he swore was leftover spider meat in Kirkwall, though the tavern owner had insisted it was “exotic roast.” Blackwall chimed in with a grim tale of a fungus-like substance in the Deep Roads that had the texture of an old boot. Taerian couldn’t help but grimace at that one; the Deep Roads were nightmare enough without adding mysterious meals into the mix.
And then there was Sera, waving her arms dramatically as she described a stew that crunched with every bite thanks to the sand that had somehow found its way into the pot. “Worse part was, the cook swore it added texture,” she declared, her face twisted in mock horror. "Said it was a bloody ‘artisan touch.’ Artisan, my arse.”
As the fire burned lower and the chill crept back in, Bull stretched with a groan, his massive frame cracking audibly as he rolled his neck. “Alright,” he said, his tone easy but commanding. “Sleeping arrangements. Doubled up, since it’s colder than a frost-rimed snoufleur out here. Nobody’s freezing on my watch.”
He jabbed a thick finger toward each of them as he rattled off pairs with casual efficiency. “Blackwall, you’re with Varric. Cassandra, you’re with Sera. Dorian, you’re—” Bull paused, a slow grin spreading across his face as his gaze slid toward Taerian. “Well, you know. Everyone just sort of assumed you’d be sharing with Tae anyway.”
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Taerian froze, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the fire’s warmth. He glanced at Dorian instinctively, and their eyes met—lavender against sharp hazel. For once, the Tevinter mage looked caught off guard, though he hid it well beneath a raised brow and that faint smirk Taerian was starting to recognize all too well. There was amusement there, certainly, but something else lingered in the way Dorian didn’t immediately look away. Something that sent a strange, unsteady warmth curling in Taerian’s chest.
“Right,” Taerian said, forcing himself to clear his throat and inject some nonchalance into his tone. “Put the mages together. Makes sense.”
If Dorian took offence, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he adjusted his cloak with a practised elegance that somehow felt maddeningly out of place in the swamp. “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice light and tinged with mock suffering. “The joys of rustic charm. I shall endeavour to endure.”
Varric chuckled from his perch on a nearby rock, his grin sharp. “Hey, you’re the one who signed up for the Inquisition, Sparkler. Rustic charm’s part of the package.”
Dorian shot Varric a look that could have withered a particularly fragile Orlesian rose. “A shame no one mentioned it until I was knee-deep in a swamp.”
Taerian bit back a laugh, shaking his head as he rose to help set up the shared tent. The banter continued around him, but his thoughts felt oddly scattered. He hadn’t expected Bull’s casual remark to catch him off guard like this. Sharing a tent with Dorian was practical, sensible even, but the knowledge of it set his pulse thrumming in a way he wasn’t quite ready to name.
As the group settled for the night, Taerian spread out his cloak in the cramped tent, his movements purposeful as he avoided glancing at Dorian too often. The space was small—closer than was strictly comfortable—but there was no helping that. Despite the mud and the damp seeping through every layer of fabric, the tent was a welcome reprieve from the chill outside.
When Dorian ducked inside, his every movement carried that same easy confidence, though Taerian noticed the faintest shiver as he adjusted his bedroll. For all his sarcasm, the Tevinter mage wasn’t immune to the Mire’s cold bite. Without thinking, Taerian murmured a soft incantation, nudging just enough warmth into the space to make it tolerable. It cost him a thread of energy, but the sight of Dorian relaxing, just slightly, made it feel worthwhile.
They lay down side by side, close enough that Taerian could feel the faint brush of Dorian’s shoulder against his own. It was distracting in a way he hadn’t expected, his senses suddenly hyper aware of every shift and breath. He tried to focus on the firelight flickering faintly through the tent’s seams, on the muffled voices of their companions outside. But his gaze drifted, drawn inexorably to Dorian’s profile in the dim light—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark lashes cast faint shadows against his skin.
Dorian caught him looking and smirked, though the expression was softer than usual. “Staring, are we? I suppose I can’t blame you. It’s difficult to find anything remotely lovely in this swamp.”
Taerian rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upward. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pavus. I was just making sure you weren’t planning to sneak off and avoid the 'rustic charm'.”
Dorian chuckled, low and warm. “Rest assured, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve suffered enough for one day.”
As silence fell between them, Taerian found himself relaxing despite everything—the cold, the mud, the unrelenting weight of the day. Sharing warmth with Dorian, feeling the steady presence of him so close, made the Mire’s harshness fade just a little. For the first time in what felt like days, Taerian allowed himself a small moment of peace.
Maybe, he thought as his eyes drifted closed, being stuck in a swamp wasn’t so bad after all. Not when you had the right person beside you.