Finley was at a loss.

The morning after she and the commander had gone to get her belongings, Seeker Pentaghast had declared that she would be leading a small group—with Finley included, of course—to Hinterlands to speak with a Mother Giselle about something to do with the Chantry. The seeker had said they would need some time to get things together, but would be headed off in the next day or so.

Finley had quickly suggested that they leave before noon.

After all, she could gather who would need to be going—it was to be a small party that could move quickly, so she'd figured Solas and Varric would likely be the rest of their merry little band—and then get any materials that might be required.

She hadn't slept much the night before and had spent the night going through her pack, making sure that everything was in place. Her clothes, her reagents, her potions, her book. She'd almost flipped through it over a dozen times, but hadn't been able to get herself to open the it.

There was a…it wasn't magic per se, not in the sense people would understand, but there was something about that old tome that meant the world to her, and part of her was terrified that if she opened it now, whatever had happened at the Conclave would have found a way to destroy even the simplistic comforts found within those precious pages.

And so she'd kept it tucked away at the bottom of her satchel, resisting the urge to dig it out every time her mind wandered in that direction.

Having it near was enough.

For now.

Aside from her book, the rest of her things had been welcome comforts as well.

Her makeup was mostly dark shades that blended in well enough with shadows, and her clothes were not as well tailored as what most wore in Haven. Her undershirt was made from spiders' silk that had been soaked in her own special concoction to tone down the stickiness of it. It made it smoother, but it also fell apart more dramatically as time went on. As it was, there were holes dotting her sleeves, as well as wisps of silk strands coming loose around the hems.

She'd been intending to gather more silk from the spiders to make a new one as soon as she returned home.

Now who knew how long this undershirt would have to last.

Aside from that, she had a dull green, hooded leather overcoat that sported its own runs and frays showing the wear of use. Her pants were leather as well, tucking into sturdy boots that could weather mud and ice, snow and rocks. They were her newest article of clothing, though they still looked about as worn as the rest of her gear.

That tended to happen when one made a habit of being on the run constantly.

However, unkempt as her clothes seemed to a few—she'd heard the murmurs as she passed—they were hers, and she felt more at ease in them than she had in weeks.

Despite braiding her hair and setting it back in her lowered hood, her hair still found a way to slip free and fall haphazardly around her face and neck.

She thought she'd heard someone whisper something about a witch as she'd headed out to find Solas and Varric and tell them to pack their things—Seeker Pentaghast had seemed a bit suspicious of her willingness to help, but had accepted it in the end, after appraising her for what had felt like an eternity—but when Finley had looked around to see who had leveled such an accusation, she hadn't been able to find them.

A spell would have singled the bastard out, but that might have also raised questions as to just what kinds of spells she could cast aside from healing ones, and that was not a conversation she was going to have with anyone here.

Ever.

Well, except for maybe Solas. He seemed like a decent sort, fellow apostate and all. Perhaps they could trade a secret or two.

Though they'd have to find somewhere more isolated to even talk about magic. After all, she wasn't about to engage in such a conversation where templars could hear.

In no time, she, Varric, and Solas had been waiting near the gate, bags packed, supplies gathered, with Cassandra's pack resting next to Finley's feet. Varric had teased her that she looked ready to run, but Solas had dismissed his comments, stating it would merely be pleasant for all of them to stretch their legs. Finley had wholeheartedly agreed at that.

However, before they could head off onto the road, the seeker arrived with Commander Rutherford in tow.

The very person she'd been so eager to leave behind.

The night before, when they'd been on their little adventure, he'd stirred something, a half-forgotten wound, old and deeper than anything a blade could inflict.

She hadn't wanted to see him again. She hadn't wanted to risk him knocking loose anymore scabs. Yet there he stood, watching her, mildly perplexed, even as Seeker Pentaghast seemed surprised that even her belongings had been gathered.

"May I speak with you a moment?" He'd gestured to the side, a little ways off the road.

Finley had felt trapped. There was no way to talk about what had happened between them—assuming that was even what he wanted to talk about—without talking about what had happened so many years ago, and seeing as she'd made it thus far without telling a soul, she'd be damned if she'd let him break all of her streaks.

"Commander Rutherford," she'd fixed him with a stern look, arms crossed, head tilted back ever so slightly. "Before you ask something of me again, please take a moment to inspect that garish bruise raining demons upon us and then tell me if whatever your needs are outweigh those of the sky."

He blinked a few times, quickly. "I…of course not. This will only take a moment—"

"And how many people do you think are going to insist on simple moments throughout this endeavor of ours? How many people will be so horridly slighted just because I felt ensuring the waves of demonic creatures battering our precious world were stemmed?" Even as he slowly closed his mouth, she turned so that she was facing the Breach, taking a long side step away from him, though she could still see him from the corner of her eye. "Honestly, I would think you would be more encouraging of a prompt departure, rather than trying to prolong it, for such things just leave us open to more people coming up to steal more simple moments and—"

"I will speak with you when you return," he interrupted. With a swift bow, he turned to leave, one corner of his lips tipped up so that it tugged at the scar on his lip. "Safe travels, Herald. Seeker." He nodded to the other two before heading back into the village.

There had been a tone to his voice that Finley was rather unfamiliar with. No disdain, no exasperation. It had been something almost friendly.

Or perhaps cocky.

She'd spent the next hour suspicious of every leaf that rattled through the trees, sure that a templar ambush of some sort had to be imminent.

After all, templars tended to smirk when they thought things were going according to their plans. She must have walked into some trap, though she couldn't fathom what it could be.

However, no attack came.

It took them a week to travel from Haven to where they met Scout Harding at the Inquisition's first official camp outside of Haven.

Finley had seen the scenery before, to some degree, but it was a welcome change from that demon-rampaged misery. And she'd been thrilled to be leaving Haven and its throngs of people. The chill in the air never quite left—honestly, she didn't want it to—but the greenery brightened her spirits. She could almost pretend that she was on her way home.

The mark always tingled or outright ached to remind her such things were dreams.

During the week, she had finally loosened up enough to abandon her constant vigilance and hunt for hunters, allowing herself to fall into casual banter with her companions. She and Solas had spent time going over her inventory of dried herbs and powders. Varric and Seeker Pentaghast had listened in too, on occasion, though most of what the mages said went over their heads. They'd talked about magic and the mingling of it with alchemy.

Varric had asked why study healing tonics when a simple spell could mend a bone?

She'd chosen to ignore that there was nothing 'simple' about mending bones and pointed out that magic could be expended or bound temporarily, and Solas had agreed that it made sense to have back up.

She could name almost every herb and plant and tree they passed, though some of the names were ones she'd made up herself so that she could keep track. She'd been thrilled every time one of her companions had been able to tell her an 'official' title for the pretty flowers or slender leaves of something she used often.

While they traveled, Varric entertained them with tales of adventure—some even real. Seeker Pentaghast explained different cultural elements, after Finley mentioned that she wasn't really familiar with most social expectations. However, the occasional bitter tone to the seeker's voice made her wonder how accurate her explanations were.

Everything felt…peaceful. Pleasant. Nice.

The smell of death and fear was replaced with wildflowers and fresh leaves. Babbling brooks and pleasant conversation replaced the cries of horror and a deep voice that she could never quite remember, but echoed through her mind none-the-less. She was able to sleep without dreaming of the dead. It still hurt to wake up and find herself tethered to that damned mark, but it was better.

Things were better.

Without even realizing it, she'd slipped into a comfortable acceptance of her fate, barely registering the way she let her attentiveness dull a little when the seeker was looking her way, not immediately worried about an attack of some sort.

And then they'd come across the fighting.

Finley had seen darkspawn sweep across areas, striking down innocents. She'd seen demons attack. Seen blood mages run rampant.

But in those events, there had always been a bad person, and the bad person had always paid for their crimes, in the end.

Now, it sounded almost like a fairytale to say that the good guys had always won, but…they had, in a way. The few blood mages she'd been unfortunate enough to encounter in her life had met terrible ends, cut down by mighty templars or Avvar or Chasind protecting their holds and homes.

Good had always prevailed.

But the people at the Crossroads. They'd just been people, killing each other. Neither side had been right—honestly, if the rumors held any semblance of truth, they were both rather wrong. The templars wished to eradicate magic and its users, and the mages had been so blinded by terror and rage that they were barely more than demons themselves.

At least, it had felt that way at first.

They'd stumbled upon the templars first—Finley had felt their gazes well before they'd come running out of their hiding place—and had turned on Finley and her group as they approached, despite their calls that they meant no harm.

Out of four, Seeker Pentaghast had disarmed two of them right away. She might have killed them, if Finley hadn't messed up her damned spell and shielded them instead of the seeker.

The templars and her companions had all been confused. For a second, Finley hadn't known what to do, either, terrified that they'd realize she wasn't really a healer because she couldn't even shield the right targets.

Finally, she'd clasped her hands in front of her and said, "Forgive me, but are we not here to put an end to the violence? I should think saving lives to be a more prominent goal than simply ending them for convenience's sake." With what she hoped didn't look to be too nervous a smile, she'd motioned to Seeker Pentaghast. "Perhaps we can…talk through these issues? Surely we all want the world to be healed, yes?"

Despite having been told that anyone they might encounter out here would be mad with the war, the templars hadn't acted as rabid beasts. Instead, they'd gathered their arms, suspicious, and grouped back, shields still ready in case Finley's words had been a rouse. She'd kept as still and 'relaxed' as she could, and had noticed Solas take a similar stance near her.

They were both used to templars like this, the kind that truly hunted theirs.

One of the templars—a young man with a swarthy complexion and dozens of braids in his hair that had been pulled back into a loose ponytail—had whispered something about the Herald when he saw her. Another had hissed back that she was just Fade-touched.

At that, the other three had, despite their suspicion, eased their stances a bit further. Finley had rather expected that she would make her little speech to save face, and then the templars would attack again and they'd kill them and ho-hum about what a shame it was.

Instead, they'd at least seemed willing to listen, understanding that they were outmatched, so her blunder was not for nothing. Perhaps they'd simply hoped to buy time until reinforcements could arrive. Who could say?

However, before said reinforcements could appear or talks could begin, the mages had descended on them. Lightning had slammed down onto one of the templars, arcing through the air and catching another before Finley had realized what was happening. She'd managed to toss out a few shields to people in the general area—she really had no idea who at that point—and cast a few feeble heal over time spells. When cast on a target other than herself, they were about half as effective and twice as mana-consuming.

Seeker Pentaghast had called out that they meant no harm and that the fighting needed to stop. It had worked with the templars, and—in Finley's position—they were likely more akin to mindless beasts than the mages would be, even riddled with fear as they were.

For a breath, it had seemed like it would work. Two of the mages had…well, they hadn't canceled their spells, but they had held them, fire burning around finger tips and ice falling in soft flakes past palms, as though to see what would happen.

It was foolish to hold magic like that. It left one open to templar interrupts.

Even as Finley considered that, one of the remaining templars had shot past Seeker Pentaghast, interrupting one of the casters as he swung his blade into her neck, his friends' deaths from that lightning fueling his fury.

In a breath, the other three mages' spells had converged on him, ethereal flames eating away until there was nothing but bones and melted armor to collapse in a pile where he'd been.

Even as he fell, they'd turned on Finley's group, no longer trusting the calls for peace. Seeker Pentaghast had interrupted a spell as she deflected another—the fireball ricocheted off her shield and into a tree, lighting the branches aflame. After a final call that the mages ignored, she charged toward the nearest one.

Finley tossed a shield around her that absorbed a lightning strike, feeling the pull of her mana straining her.

Don't shield the wrong ones this time had echoed in her head over and over. As she tried to track her companions, shielding Varric from ice shards and casting a heal over time on Solas to mend a few burns as he conjured his own lightning. The mages knew how to deflect magic, however, and Solas was soon having to dodge his own spell as it was reflected back at him.

She didn't doubt that had to hurt, if not him, then his pride. It would have hurt hers.

She felt the templar's gaze on her quite abruptly. That prickling sensation in the back of her mind, that inner voice screaming to run, to get out of range before she could feel the blade piercing through her, overwhelmed her so abruptly that she drew her bow and an arrow and hunched to the ground on instinct, as though she might be able to disappear into the sparse leaves and grass underfoot.

These woods were not her Wilds, of course, and the cover was scarce.

Even as she looked for the templar, he was beside her, then in front of her, then blocking a spell with his shield.

She stayed where she was, frozen for a moment, barely breathing, arrow still notched, bow only half raised. He was between her and the rest of the fighting, and despite what she had just witnessed, she couldn't say she believed it.

Templars didn't save mages.

However, her inner turmoil was hardly his concern. He simply looked over his shoulder, made certain that she was in one piece and then charged at one of the other mages, interrupting his cast in time for Seeker Pentaghast to shield bash him and then run him through with her blade.

One of Varric's arrows nailed a third mage in the forehead mid-cast.

Solas, growing quite frustrated with the deflections, dodged closer to the fourth mage, opting to swipe at him with his staff rather than keep wasting his mana. That threw the mage off. As she tumbled backward, Solas took advantage of the opening and called down lightning to strike her before she could shield herself.

As all of this happened, the last of the mages had decided to target Seeker Pentaghast with some spell. Finley could feel a vague pull of mana, but didn't bother to try to grasp what kind. It didn't matter. She had her bow in hand, and the mage was against her.

Without thinking, she aimed for the man's arm and fired. The jolt of the arrow impacting him would interrupt his cast. While she doubted he'd want to work with them after they'd slain his companions, perhaps he was not completely beyond reason. Mages were a sensible sort. He would surely understand his own survival could be obtained. They could talk to him—maybe he could take them to where the other mages were holed up, and they could recruit them.

They could bolster their cause's forces, gather enough mages that the templars in Haven were more preoccupied with everyone than just their dear Herald.

Unfortunately, her aim had been off. Her arrow had gone a bit too far to the right, just like the time she unintentionally almost murdered Commander Rutherford when they were fighting demons together. It should have missed the mage all together.

It should have, but he'd turned just as she'd fired, and the projectile had slammed into his chest.

He'd been about as surprised as she was. And then he'd just crumpled awkwardly, slouching down like he'd fallen asleep while sitting there in the middle of the road.

Or he would have looked like that, if not for that arrow sticking out of him.

She'd run up to where Seeker Pentaghast and the mage were, staring at him, wide-eyed, barely hearing as Varric voiced how impressed he was with her shot, a half laugh following his compliment.

The mage was dead.

There would be no healing him, no talking sense, no recruiting others.

Even as that was a mild disappointment—death was a constant in the Wilds, after all—an abrupt terror gripped her.

Would her companions call her on the fact that she'd taken life? Would they claim she couldn't be a healer if she was so 'good' with a bow?

Good with a bow…

How many times had she had to use three or four arrows to catch a rabbit or two for dinner? How many times had the damned thing been injured and not dead from her shots? How many times did she just miss all together?

And now, not only had she missed the man's arm, but she'd killed him…

Even as she'd tried to think of how best to play out the scenario—cry, maybe?—Solas had been next to her, rubbing her back and telling her she was alright. Fighting could be unnerving. These weren't demons driven mad by the sky. These were people.

It must be so hard for a healer to have done what she'd done.

Apparently whatever look of horror that had settled onto her features had worked well enough in her favor. She'd nodded weakly, still not sure what to do next, and then looked around at the others to make sure they were alright. Her companions were unscathed, save for Seeker Pentaghast, who had a new, small cut on her cheek above her scar, nothing that truly required healing.

Finley had healed her anyway.

The last of the templars had left the field without a word to them.

Or so she assumed.

She hadn't looked for another charred pile of bones.

Varric had spoken ill of the dead, about how they were mad with their war. Solas has condemned them with solemn reprimand, as though they were children who could learn from what they'd done wrong. Seeker Pentaghast had dismissed it as madness.

Finley hadn't said anything.

She hadn't known what to say.

It had left knots in her gut, and she'd walked with them quietly to the Crossroads, having to fight back the urge to just run. To go home to where she belonged. Home where it was quiet, where she didn't have to worry about keeping other people alive or keeping up their expectations, where she didn't have to fight.

Home.

It was so far away.

Seeker Pentaghast had been the one to speak to Mother Giselle on behalf of the Inquisition.

Finley had noticed a makeshift infirmary and wandered over, mechanically asking the healers there if she could help. There had been a hush before they'd welcomed her magic. She'd given tonics to the ones who didn't want it, just like she'd done for those at Haven. Losing herself in her spells and the rhythm of binding wounds had been such a welcome distraction. It had been numbing.

She felt that the fighting shouldn't have affected her so, but every time she gave herself pause, her hands were shaking and her breathing became unsteady. When she couldn't place why, she finally dismissed it as the templar having gotten too close to her. That sort of thing always gave her the jitters.

Even so, that last mage's face kept resurfacing in her mind, his expression surprised just before he fell.

They'd arrived at the Crossroads a little before noon, but it wasn't until the sun was setting that Seeker Pentaghast came to gather her. She'd frowned when she'd seen Finley, telling her that they would rest in the Crossroads for the night and then head back to Haven with Mother Giselle.

Finley hadn't slept that night.

She didn't see it happen, the change that now had her baffled and anxious. She didn't see it until it had already passed, already fallen into place.

Somehow, from the time she'd stepped into the Crossroads until then, the way people were looking at her had changed. There was no suspicion like in Haven, no anger or mistrust like from before the Conclave.

They looked up to her.

As they'd gathered their things in the morning—Seeker Pentaghast giving her a strong look of reprimand to see that Finley had never bothered to rest—people had been…smiling.

At her.

When Finley and the others had left, there was still so much wrong, and yet…people had been thanking them, praising them.

She'd nodded her head to a few, smiled to others, but felt oddly out of place.

She was indeed at a loss. How did people normally handle this sort of praise? It rather felt like a trap of some sort, but there hadn't seemed to be one. She and the others had left the Crossroads un-harassed, unharmed. Their spirits had all been brighter.

She supposed it made a sort of sense. They'd helped people. There were Inquisition forces following them, there to help protect the area from the warring forces.

It hit her rather abruptly, as she walked beside Solas, wandering their way higher into the mountains, heading home, that her merry little band were heroes of a sort, like the brave knights in children's stories.

She nearly unshouldered her bags to pull out her book, to flip through those old pages and see if she could find any similarities to those old stories and her current one.

However, even as her fingers gripped the strap of her bag, she hesitated, that mage's face flashing in her mind again. With a frown, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and kept going.

Whatever people might think of them, she didn't feel much like a hero.