"Herald?"

The voice was faint, and Finley pretended she hadn't heard as she continued walking toward Haven's western gate. Ever since her talk with Josephine a week ago, she'd been trying to find a nice, quiet time to go get her belongings. It had taken her almost a month to travel to the Conclave, and she'd brought plenty of supplies and a few changes of clothes with her, along with one or two simple comforts that reminded her of home.

When she'd gotten close to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, though, she'd decided to leave her things somewhere inconspicuous. She hadn't wanted to walk into a peaceful gathering with weapons—though the rest of the bastards had had their staves and swords, so she damned well could have—and she hadn't wanted them to get a proper glimpse of any item that might mark her a wilder. She'd donned some pretty, 'proper' clothes—a simple shirt, a light leather vest, light leather pants, knee-high lace up boots, and a plain, pitiful cloak that most closely resembled the sort of thing she'd seen villagers near the edge of the woods wearing—to make herself appear like she blended in.

Not that she had. All the mages had been wearing robes that would have made running completely impractical. Further, the fact that she hadn't any type of weapon had turned a few heads.

She felt like someone had stopped her to ask her something—perhaps about her lack of a weapon—but she couldn't remember. Her memories grew horribly fuzzy around the point where she'd been scanning the main room for Enchanter Pernice, and then…they just disappeared.

She could remember thinking to send a message via a spell to someone who might be able to help her find the Circle mage, but if she'd actually attempted the spell, that too was gone from her memory.

The new clothes Seeker Pentaghast and the others had given her—her 'proper' outfit had weathered too many holes to be wearable in this cold—were simple, thankfully, but they were itchy and so…wrong. She didn't know a better word to describe the problem. The boots barely came up a few inches above her ankles and thudded awkwardly against the front and back of her legs when she walked. It wasn't anything that would cause blisters, but it wasn't what she liked. She didn't need to be reminded that she was wearing clothes, as she was quite confident in her ability to dress herself.

She hadn't bothered to complain, though. People weren't exactly thrilled with her.

After what she'd assumed to be a rather clear-cut conversation with Josephine, Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Rutherford had come looking for her. Apparently she'd been too vague about a few details, and they'd wanted clarification.

Where was she from? South.

How far south? Very far.

South of what? Ferelden.

The mountains, the swamps, the Wilds?

She hadn't intended to answer that one, until they'd pried. Then she'd merely pointing out that where she was from was hardly that important, seeing as she wasn't there at present, was she? Commander Rutherford looking like he was getting a headache, and Seeker Pentaghast had finally moved on.

How had she known about Enchanter Pernice's studies? A spirit mentioned it in the Fade.

Oh, they hadn't liked that. Talking to spirits? Did that mean she thought demons were fun, little play things, too?

Spirits and demons were different. Solas understood that much, at least. And he'd been conveniently nearby when the conversation had begun to deteriorate.

Alright, not conveniently, intentionally. Josephine and the others had finished discussing Finley faster than she had anticipated they would—she'd thought she would have a little time to help Adan with his potions—and when she'd seen those two coming her way, she decided to bank on the one person who hadn't side-eyed her yet.

Granted, he was another apostate, so that could have been a horribly ill-conceived tactic, but it had worked.

The next answer had brought deeper frowns. How had she known Enchanter Pernice would be at the Conclave? Why, spirits of course.

Now Solas had started asking her questions about her interactions with spirits, and she was fairly certain that he knew she was lying about her information.

Except that she wasn't. A spirit had said those things. Just not to her.

Thinking of the others—the ones who had talked to the spirit—made her wonder if they were alright. She needed to find a way to send word to them—her communication spell had either been severed when she went into the Fade or they'd severed it after hearing word of the Conclave and assuming she was either dead or in templar hands—but that was proving most difficult with all the templars around. They picked up on magic being used so quickly, and appeared almost as soon as she thought of a spell, like flies to a corpse.

It hardly mattered anyway; she was the one who was there. And she did deal with a spirit or two from time to time, so she just fell back on those interactions when Solas pestered her, and he seemed at least semi-placated with those stories.

The last question in the seeker's interview had left both her and Solas ready to bolt with the way the seeker's rage had boiled just beneath the surface.

How did she sneak in unnoticed? Just walked in. It wasn't hard. Shoulders square, a disapproving scowl on my face like every other mage, and I was in. There wasn't exactly someone with a list of names and portraits making sure only the ones invited had shown up.

There was also the tiny detail that she'd made a point of pretending to wave to someone and then told the revered mother at the entrance that the only reason they hadn't waved back was because they hadn't seen her. The woman had clearly been dealing with a great many agitating people for a while. Taking that into consideration, all Finley had needed to do was offer to tell a story of how she'd met her imaginary mage contact during their early years in the Circle that sounded like it would take a good long, winding while to tell, and the woman had all but begged her to just walk in.

She'd left that part out.

That woman was dead. She felt a twinge of guilt for having pestered her so, just before her death. If she'd known…

If she'd known, she'd have told the woman to run. She'd have told them all to run.

Finley had also enchanted her eyes to look plain before she'd gone in, and with her cloak, no one had had any reason to give her much pause…except for her pesky lack of a staff. Was that why she'd been stopped? That had to have been why…

If only she could remember.

As she pushed against the blankness of her memory, a strange terror roiled in her stomach, darkening the edges of her mind and threatening to swallow the rest of her memories. She felt like a face was staring at her, just behind the veil of darkness, a grinning, twisted, horrible—

"Herald!"

She blinked and found the snow brilliant around her, the darkness and face gone. A different fear settled into her stomach as she recognized the voice.

Commander Cullen Rutherford.

Since her immensely pleasant conversation with him and Seeker Pentaghast, she had done her damnedest to avoid the scary trio, which had, regrettably, also meant limiting her conversations with Josephine. It was a pity; she seemed like a nice woman.

As it was, Finley could hardly say hello to Josephine before Sister Nightingale was there, casually asking her the oddest of questions. What were her thoughts on shape shifting? Had she ever done so? What was her mother like? What fell into her arsenal of spells?

She'd told the sister she didn't like her spells being referred to as an arsenal. There were a great many ways to kill a man, and she'd never seen a point to add magic to the list.

The sister had then asked her how she defended herself. Apparently simply asking her what she used to kill people with would be too forward.

Finley wasn't sure how, but she'd managed to keep her breathing even as she felt like her lungs were collapsing on themselves and explain that she preferred out running her enemies to fighting them.

Sister Nightingale had wanted to know what sort of spells she used? Did she have a haste buff? What was the extent of her healing abilities?

Finley had asked just why she wanted to know about her spells. The sister wasn't a mage, so it wasn't like they could trade secrets. Even as Sister Nightingale—she'd said Finley could call her Leliana, but Finley was still a bit skeptical on being so friendly with her—had tried to say something about curiosity, Finley had found a reason to be elsewhere.

She was quite good at that.

It truly seemed a novel concept to the leaders here in Haven that a mage could use magic strictly to help, too. That she could have made it through life without conjuring fire or ice or lightning or resorting to dastardly blood rituals seemed to be as much of a miracle as her stepping out of the Fade.

She'd been very careful to imply she couldn't use any types of offensive spells, hoping they wouldn't think to ask her about nature magic and then catch her in a lie.

After all, it would be better if they all assumed she was simply a healer, nothing more. Let them wonder about her survival skills, if they must, though surely there were more important things in the world to concern themselves over.

Like the hole in the sky.

That was part of why she avoided Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast. She didn't want to have the same conversations, over and over. She didn't want them comparing notes, looking for variations in her answers.

Well, that and she didn't trust templars as far as she could throw them. Which was not at all because she refused to get close enough to them to try to pick them up to begin with, though she doubted that would go over well if she did. All that armor was bound to be heavy.

She actually had an odd respect for the templars—and seekers, as they seemed somewhat akin to one another—who chased down malificarum and the like. It was a hard job, and she was glad that there were those willing to be meat shields to keep the world safe from monsters.

However… there were also a great many templars who saw monsters in their own noontime shadows. They allowed their fears to influence their choices. Even the best of men could make a poor decision in a moment of panic, could accuse an innocent mage of conjuring imaginary demons.

And so Finley stayed vigilant and cautious. She kept her distance.

But Haven was small. During the day, she stayed out of sight by assisting Adan with his alchemy. She had a gift for such things, and it was always good to have mundane healing supplies on hand in case one's magic was bound or expended.

At night, she tended to the wounded, practicing her craft and proving to the skeptical that she was exactly what she claimed to be. As she would wander toward the infirmary to heal those who didn't mind magic—and help apply tonics and the like for those who did, which was, fortunately, almost all of them—she would see the commander walking back to the chantry from the training grounds. He always had someone with him, either the seeker or sister, or some scout handing him a report and then awaiting orders. The man truly never seemed to have a moment to himself.

So much for fixing that war table.

At least he was too busy to notice her, most of the time.

Even so, sometimes she could feel him watching her. Another of her spells. There was something in templars that made them easy for magic to spot, and her spell had served her well in the wilderness, where templars were a rarity. There, she could be resting in a tree, enjoying her day, when that spell would kick in, and she'd be alert and ready for them, already slipping out of reach before they were close enough to even try to attack her. Here, though, there were dozens and dozens, and her heart skipped a beat every time one of them glanced her way and triggered that quiet chime in her head that let her know she was being hunted.

Someone was always watching her, it seemed, which meant her heart's rhythm was quite erratic these days.

Somehow, though, she always knew when it was Commander Rutherford. She'd angle herself just enough that she could glance across the way from the corner of her eye, without making it obvious that she was looking for him, and there he'd be, gaze narrowed in her direction until some blessed scout approached him with a report. The second his gaze was off her, she always made certain to get out of view before it could return.

Today had been different, though. She was on a mission, and she couldn't just duck out of view. She had to get out of Haven.

A few guards seemed to permanently mull around both Adan's hut and the hovel she'd been given to rest in, making it impossible for her sneak out most of the time—even at night. The only way she'd been able to ditch them today was by slipping out the window of Adan's hut while he was away delivering some of their products to people around the village. She'd chosen now because the gates would be open for a while yet, and perhaps she'd be able to slip out unnoticed through a throng of people.

Commander Rutherford had all but dashed her hopes, as soon as she was near the gate.

She'd felt his eyes on her as she'd approached the gate, but she'd hoped that he would be too entrenched in getting his recruits to act like soldiers to watch her long enough to realize that it was her beneath Adan's stolen spare cloak.

If she could just get out… She would come back. It was just that the longer she left her things out in the woods, the more likely that something would get into them and steal or destroy the only comforts she could think of for miles and miles.

She should have just scaled the wall at a less traveled point, but in these shoes, it would have been a nightmare, and someone likely would have stumbled across her before she made it over. That would have made for a great story…. The Herald trying to escape the Inquisition….

His gaze had left her, several times, and each time she'd hoped that he would assume the gate guards would simply stop her if she was indeed the Herald. She had plans for them if they tried to. Mostly, it involved an unnecessary amount of words thrown their way, but she had managed to scrape together enough left over reagents in Adan's hut to make enough sleeping powder for one or two…obstacles.

But now…

If she could get another few yards before he caught up—his voice had been closer that second time, hadn't it?—then she could get to the trees before he could get to her…if need be. There was always a chance that he'd remember she had the mark on her hand and keep himself from skewering her for no apparent reason.

Well, if he did skewer her, she was sure he'd come up with a reason first.

Like now, 'fleeing apostate' seemed like a pretty standard fall back.

"Herald Finley."

Dammit. He was too close to pretend she couldn't hear him now. Resigning herself, she turned slowly, stopping a few paces beyond the gate, ignoring the few glances some of the passersby cast her way.

How had she only gotten this far? The guards had each taken a few steps toward her, though as the commander caught up, they retreated to their posts. She clasped her hands in front of her, allowing a simple, innocent blankness on her face that she hoped would hide the innate terror that he'd gotten far closer than she'd realized.

There was a reason that she never looked back when she ran from templars. It was generally too jarring to see just how well they kept up.

Commander Rutherford did not have the look of a man on the hunt, at least. Instead, he simply seemed agitated that he'd had to call her thrice to get her attention. She would blame the wind, if he asked.

He did not.

"You're leaving, unarmed?" The last word seemed to have been added as an afterthought, an attempt to make the statement less accusing. His hands rested on the pommel of his blade, though she reminded herself that at least one of his hands was always there, likely white-knuckled half the time beneath his glove, as that sword seemed his only tether to reality.

She wondered what he'd do if he woke up without it one day.

It was tempting to find out, though with her current standing, things would not end well if she took to playing tricks. Especially on templars.

As he closed the distance between them, she took a few long steps backwards, keeping an even ten paces betwixt them. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped, vexed.

Finley kept her hands clasped, sure not to make any sudden movements. Templars were such skittish creatures, after all.

And mages were so very frightening.

As for the unarmed part, he must have been referring to that worthless staff they'd given her when Seeker Pentaghast had first led her to the Breach. It had been little more than a burden to her.

Even so, she oughtn't to call it worthless. It had belonged to someone.

One of the corpses…

"I've magic," Finley replied curtly. No need to mention she hated staves in general. Nothing screamed, 'I'm a mage, come get me!' like a giant stick with a glowy rock on one's back. Besides, so long as she could get out of reach, she could take a second to heal herself and keep going. No staff needed. Though…perhaps that would help with channeling her spells toward others while she was here… "And I'm not going far. Just a walk, really." She glanced up at the sky. "I'll likely be back about when the stars start making their appearances."

Commander Rutherford motioned toward the frozen lake that bordered their little base. New tents had popped up just outside of town, obscuring part of the view. "If you need to stretch your legs, you could walk around the edge of the lake."

Where we can see you was the implied sentiment.

He took a step forward, and she took one back. This time, one of his feet angled ever so slightly, the snow muting any sound it might have made. He was ready for her to run. How exactly would that play out? 'I'm sorry I killed our dear Herald, but she was fleeing?' Or perhaps he intended to simply subdue her and drag her back into Haven, tossed over his shoulder like an Avvar returning home with a stolen bride.

He would be horribly disappointed if he actually tried that.

Finley tried not to frown. There didn't seem to be a tale she could spin to get him to leave her be. She fought back a grimace as it occurred to her she was going to have to be honest. It was one thing to be truthful with Josephine, another to be so with a templar. The words did not want to come to her, but she took a deep breath and spoke in a slow exhale. "I've a small cache of supplies in the woods, not terribly far from here. I should like to retrieve it before some scavenger finds it."

"I see," was his only response.

The two of them stood there, each inspecting the other, for a few agonizingly quiet moments. There was tension in his shoulders, though it was masked mostly by that mane of fur around the neck of his surcoat.

Striving for a distraction, she pointed toward what was either clouds on the horizon or smoke from some new demon attack. It was hard to tell through the trees. "If I don't go now, I'll be caught in the snow on my way back. I'd rather avoid that…" She took a few steps backwards, keeping her eyes on him as he glanced over his shoulder, never turning quite far enough for her to be completely out of his sight, to see that there was indeed something in the distance.

It was so tempting to just run.

Without warning, he strode toward her, his steps closing the gap between them too quickly. She stumbled as she tried to match his pace, still backing up.

"I'll go with you."

"'Twould be in poor taste, were I to ask you to shirk your duties, Commander," Finley said, finally side stepping to keep the space between them. With his pace, he'd be able to circle around and have her backing toward Haven. He seemed to consider that as well, though he simply stopped, watching her with that unnerving stare that said he knew exactly what she was capable of and that he could stop her before the spell even hit her lips.

She tried to smile, but her lips merely quivered a moment before giving up.

"From what you said, we'll be gone less than two hours. My people can manage themselves for that long."

"You hope."

"I have faith in them," Commander Rutherford said, his usual irritation punctuating his voice. "And Leliana and Cassandra can deal with any minor issues in so little an amount of time."

She took a few slow steps towards the woods, angled to keep space between them. "You assume they won't spend the whole time looking for you."

"Weren't you worried about getting caught in the snow?" As she reluctantly dragged herself forward, realizing that she wasn't going to shake him, he matched her pace. His steps were quiet, measured. "Besides, there are still demons about, and it wouldn't do to have our Herald struck down by one."

"So you're offering to be my shield," Finley whispered, allowing herself a small measure of curiosity. She made sure to keep her distance, as she picked up her stride ever so slightly.

"I am. Unless you would rather we go back to Haven, and I assemble a proper guard for you?"

Once they hit the trees, she'd be able to lose him, if she needed to. It would be harder with more people following her. Not that she would run…would she?

No. She just…the option was a comfort. Possibly the only one she'd have, if they failed to retrieve her things.

To be able to get away from this place. To have a choice. To go home, to where she could be the only person for miles and miles, where she didn't have to worry about templars' glares or demons rampaging through everything….

She felt his gaze on her. The wind gusted around them, and she shivered. "Fine."

She caught the frown that anchored the corners of his lips down as he drew even with her. He paused, looking toward her, and motioned forward. "Lead the way, Lady Herald."

...-...

A/N: Thank you for reading!