Galadriel was glad to have put the Fallow Mire behind her; there was far too little she could do and, while she was willing to provide the aid they required, the time she spent in the starless, fetid marshland was exhausting. Skyhold was not Lórien, but it was a far cry better than the Mire. The ground was stable, the wind did not stink of decay and rot, and she could exchange her ill-fitted traveling garments for the gown she preferred.

Clad in white and with her hair unbound, she felt nearly unburdened by the memories of the Mire. There was, of course, much to do, even in Skyhold, but she savored the afternoon sun as it threw warm, golden light over the gardens and drew long, harmless shadows across the stone.

How delightful it was to simply linger in the sunlight.