A/N: Thank you to creepypasta-queen- for beta reading for me!

...-...

Mother Giselle was talking to Seeker Pentaghast and the others in the Chantry about names of important people who would enable them to go to some city. Apparently Finley was going to be in attendance, as well.

The mere thought pained her.

That was mostly why she wasn't present at the current meeting. It wasn't like if she pointed out that her mending was needed in Haven that they'd let her stay, anyway.

The seeker would come find her and point her in the right direction to walk once they were done. On the way, surely she'd be reminded over and over to play nice and to do a million overthought things to make sure that the Inquisition and its Herald didn't look foolish.

Don't ask what colloquialisms meant. Don't ramble about things that she didn't really know about. Don't ramble period. Try to let Seeker Pentaghast do most of the talking. Stay near the front, but don't charge in.

So many things.

If they weren't happy with her, they ought to declare someone else the Herald and just let her fall to the backlines, quietly sealing up rifts whilst some prattling noble entertained the masses. They could draw a mark on someone else's hand, couldn't they? If they did, she'd wager most anything that she could get it to glow for them. She could stand in the background and wear a hood, and they could tell people not to watch as the rifts were closed, on the unlikely occasion that someone was present to see it. No one would need to know that the figurehead wasn't the one closing the rifts.

Not that any of that would work.

Too many people had seen her in the Hinterlands.

That was when she'd discovered she preferred when they ran away screaming and cursing her existence.

All this…acceptance was jarring. Didn't they know she was a mage?

She pressed her forehead into her knees, the leather of her clothes groaning in protest. Josephine had gifted her a large scarf upon her return. It didn't exactly match her clothes, but it was green and staved off the cold when it got to be too much. She'd wrapped around her neck over and over. It bunched up beneath her chin.

"Herald."

Dammit.

She'd been rather hoping he'd forget about the promise of a talk upon her return.

"Commander." Her tone was as dry as she could make it, and a small part of her hoped he would go away without her having to tell him to do so.

Boots crunched in place on the snow as he shifted his weight. "We could have used your input at the war meeting."

That was a lie. They already had enough people arguing and grousing over what needed to be done…and she was fairly certain that Roderick fellow had returned to Haven with more condemnation and damnation falling from his lips. Praise Andraste; behead the Herald.

Truly, it was best she hadn't been there. Her voice would have just added to the din. Not that she had much to say—other than, 'This was fun, but I'm tired of being a beacon of hope, so please find someone else,' of course.

The crunching of boots came closer. A hesitant, drawn in breath followed.

"If I did something to offend you—"

"Offend me?" she asked as innocently as she could, lifting her head up. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, hopping the slippery rocks near the frozen lake, getting to higher ground before he could try to clap a hand on her shoulder and…bond or whatever this was.

Acceptance was one thing. Bonding was another.

Those smiles from the Hinterlands were contagious, somehow, and it had spread back to Haven, where even those who had given her skeptical once overs seemed more friendly now. She didn't know what to make of it, but it felt like the commander had somehow been the one to put this into motion—even if he hadn't been present. She didn't trust it one bit.

He'd been standing next to the lower rock she'd been seated on, and Commander Rutherford stared up at her on her new perch, brow arched. Then, with a fluid movement, he stepped up onto the rock she'd been on and leaned against the other, peering up at her. That one hand was resting on his damned hilt, like always. She considered making a comment about compensation or some other phallic reference, but she couldn't do it. His damned concern was too genuine.

Not that it would last.

The second her usefulness was expended they'd all turn on her. Their 'civilized' world was not made for mages or magic, it pushed it away until it was hidden in shadows—or the Wilds.

That was fine. It was how things were, and Finley had accepted that a long time ago. The world didn't change just because a little girl cried.

She looked away, drawing her legs to herself again as she glared out across the lake. Maybe he would go away.

"When we were coming back from getting your things, something happened," Cullen began. She could hear the scratch of leather against skin. He was scratching the back of his neck. Again.

The man was a walking habit.

He was still talking. "I must've done something, though I admit I'm at a loss."

"Go away."

"I…what?" More crunching in the snow. The sound of a boot scuffing against stone. "Herald—"

"Commander, am I not playing nice with the others?" Finley snapped before she could stop herself. She peeked out at him from the corner of her eye to see that he was not amused, but also not going anywhere. "You have dealt with mages before, yes?"

"Of course," he replied. For the first time in a while, he looked suspicious.

That made her feel better. With a wave of her hand, she sat back. "Then you know we are prone to whims. There is no answer you will get to your liking. Leave it at that."

"I don't think you've met as many mages as I have," Commander Rutherford replied, a single brow quirked. "Everyone has a reason for what they do. Mages included."

"And what's yours?"

"Beg pardon?"

"What is your reason for this continued harassment?"

An indignant, frustrated scoff was the response.

She abruptly rolled toward him, laying out on her stomach, chin propped up in her hands as she stared down at him. "Well?"

Silence.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat. "It would simply do well if we could work together through this. I clearly offended you somehow. If you would just tell me what I did, I could at least attempt not to do so again."

That.

That sincerity to make amends—it seemed sincere enough, anyway—was the problem, absurd as it sounded. It would likely warrant her little more than a scowl if she told him the truth. Or worse, he'd demand to know what about his sincerity was so damning. If he was persistent enough, she'd have to turn him into something…a hare, maybe.

Or a kitten.

Regardless of what, it wouldn't leave them on good standing. People in the 'civilized' world were so ridiculously afraid of polymorphism. As though being another animal for however long the spell duration was would fundamentally change who they were.

It hadn't done much to her.

Well, being turned into a frog when she was thirteen might have been what had stunted her growth, but then, maybe she was just meant to be this short to begin with.

Abruptly, she flipped over so that she was lying on her back, staring up at the sky. Unless he climbed up onto the rock she was on, he wouldn't be able to see her. She'd hear him if he tried, and she'd go find somewhere else to think if he did.

"Herald." His voice sounded strained, like he was trying quite hard not to lose his patience. She stretched out her legs, crossing them at her ankles, hands beneath her head as she took to inspecting the clouds that formed the outer part of the Breach. Were they just being pushed back, or were they an actual manifestation of the Fade, she wondered.

Finally, there was another sigh and then the steadily softening crunch of boots in snow sounded his retreat.

She waited until she couldn't hear those soft steps anymore before she dared to lift her head and peek to see that he was, in fact, gone. When she was sure he had left, she laid her head back down and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think.

Talk to Mother Giselle, had been Cassandra's suggestion as they'd been coming back from the Hinterlands.

Apparently the fact that Chantry folk made her uneasy had slipped the seeker's mind. After all, she and Commander Rutherford had gone on an adventure together, so that meant everything was well within the Inquisition. Nugs and hugs for everyone.

How was she supposed to explain what had been eating away at her when she couldn't even accurately, or rationally, explain it to herself. People weren't…bad, per se, but things happened.

Inevitably, those without magic turned on those with it. It wasn't necessarily out of ill will or malice. Mostly, it was fear.

She knew this. She had come to accept it a long, long time ago. Someone could smile at you, hold you in their arms, and tell you they loved you more than anything. Then magic got involved, and it wasn't true anymore.

People might be sincere in their appreciation of her now, but it wouldn't last.

If she told anyone, they would tell her she was being ridiculous, and likely continue to dismiss her concerns even if she chose to list off her past experiences which pointed toward the truth of it.

She felt the mark crackle softly and slipped her hand free from behind her head. Her hair was no doubt a tangled mess, spilling around her, her braid barely resembling what it had once been.

As she inspected the glowing mark, trying not to wonder what it could be—she had a sinking feeling she knew at least a little of what it was, and that it wasn't a gift from an absent Maker—a man's voice pulled Finley from her thoughts.

"Herald? Ser Herald of Andraste?"

If she heard that title one more time, she would scream.

It took a moment for her to realize she didn't recognize the voice. She did, however, recognize the way the voice had been muted slightly, by a helm. Lifting her head again, slowly, she glanced down to see a templar standing almost exactly where Commander Rutherford had been earlier. Behind him were four others, all fully equipped, two with their blades half drawn.

Though her instincts told her to run before they could surround her position and drag her down, she stopped herself. The templars here were supposed to be playing nice, after all. She would be fine so long as she had the mark, and there were rifts to be sealed. Never-the-less, she sat up slowly, inspecting them with care.

The one nearest her reached up and removed his helmet, tucking it under an arm and bowing quickly, revealing oddly familiar braids. "Ser Jensen, your Worship."

Biting back the urge to say something scathing to discourage any friendliness, she paused, realizing that, while the man was familiar, he wasn't from Haven. She remembered his face from when he had glanced over his shoulder, after blocking the spell meant for her.

He was from the Hinterlands.

That meant…

That meant these were not the templars who had sworn not to harm her.

She shifted her position slowly to face them, though she didn't come down from her perch. She wasn't about to hand herself over to templars who were clearly half ready to pounce. If they wanted her, the least they could do was climb some rocks.

"You were at the Crossroads."

He nodded, a nervous smile flickering across his face. She made no attempt to hide her suspicions, eyeing him openly as she drummed her fingers against her ankles. Her gaze flickered over the others now. They clearly weren't the men who had fallen during the fighting, but this meant they were some of the templars causing trouble.

Some of the ones dedicated to ridding Thedas of apostates.

She'd had to tell Commander Rutherford off, hadn't she?

She could use a living shield about now.

However, she could neither turn back time, nor scream loud enough to get his attention. He wouldn't make it to her side in time, anyway.

She almost scoffed at the thought of relying on someone else to save her. How many times had she outrun templars and worse in the past? She didn't need a living shield.

And they seemed poorly equipped for the snow and ice. All she'd have to do is start across the lake and at least two of them would be down for the count. That might give enough time for people across the road to notice, distract, and give Finley time to get out of reach.

The templars were watching her. Ser Jensen seemed worried…that look in his eyes, though. It wasn't the sort of look she was used to. No vengeance, frustration, anger. Instead, it was something almost foreign.

Disappointment?

She abruptly tilted her head, motioning toward Ser Jensen and pretending the others weren't there. "What may I do for you, Ser Jensen?"

He fidgeted before looking over his shoulder and motioning up to Finley. "I told you it was her…"

"A mage," spat one of the ones ready to attack.

There was such vitriol in the woman's voice. Such rage. That was something Finley was more accustomed to. That was something she knew how to deal with.

It was oddly comforting.

"Not just a mage. The Herald of Andraste, if you believe the rumors," Finley waved her hand for dramatic effect.

The five templars simply stared up at her, completely and utterly silent.

Time passed.

They didn't move.

She listened for sounds of others sneaking around behind her—it wouldn't be the first time templars had tried to distract her and trap her in, though it would be the first time that so many had stood as a distraction—but the world was eerily quiet. Even the wind was still.

Were they even breathing? A small puff of air escaped Ser Jensen's lips. At least he hadn't died on his feet.

Finally, she just crossed her legs and leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hands, her elbows braced against her knees. "If there's to be any smiting, could we get on with it?"

"Are you well?" Ser Jensen asked. One of his hands came to rest near the top of the rock she was sitting on. If he lunged with enough force, he could pull himself up onto her ledge in a matter of seconds.

She didn't bother trying to scoot out of immediate reach. Even if he did try to reach her, she could get out of range before he could get up to her. "I suppose that would depend on why you've come?"

He looked back at the others again, pausing when he saw the two ready to attack. His posture went rigid, and one of them turned away, shoving his sword back into place. The other grumbled something Finley couldn't make out through her helmet, and then drew her sword, stuck it into the ground in front of her, and crossed her arms.

However, it was one of the last two who stepped forward. His armor was slightly different, a sign of rank, perhaps? It also didn't seem to bear the same amount of wear as most of the others—he and the last of the templars looked like they hadn't been out in the woods baying at the moon like their counterparts. He removed his helmet as well and made a swift bow. "I am Ser Yorric Trevelyan, and we've come to join the Inquisition, if you would have us."

His skin was a bit darker than Ser Jensen's but she could see a distinct similarity between the two, in the shape of their eyes and ears. Unlike Ser Jensen, Ser Yorric's dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail at the nape of his neck, with a few strands falling loose around his face.

When Finley didn't reply right away, he motioned toward Ser Jensen. "When my brother didn't return to Val Royeaux, I came looking for him, to make sure he wouldn't do anything foolish. He was easy to find, but not so easy to reason with. It wasn't until his encounter with you, however, that he'd listen to me. I owe you a great deal."

Finley inspected him, tilting her head carefully to the other side. "You wish to leave behind your great mission to hunt all the terrible apostates and assist in closing that?" She pointed over her shoulder toward the Breach.

Their gazes followed, and another terse silence ensued. It was short, though. Ser Yorric appraised her a moment longer. "It was never my mission, though I can see how you might be wary of Jensen and his…friends." The other two in the more worn armor—the two who had been ready to attack—both seemed to flinch at his words. "But I assure you, we mean—"

"Herald!"

Seeker Pentaghast's angry voice interrupted whatever he was about to say, and the templars all turned to see the seeker storming across the snowy road to where Finley had taken refuge. The tent city roamed out to the sides along the road, but they'd somehow managed to keep everything to the south of the road nearest Haven so far.

As the seeker drew closer, she noticed the templars, and her face shifted from anger to caution. She rested her hand on her blade as she carefully came to stand as close to Finley as she could, though Ser Jensen was still between them, at the edge of the rock she was still seated upon. "What is going on here?"

Ser Jensen looked back at Ser Yorric again, anxious.

"You…you were in the Hinterlands." Seeker Pentaghast's sword was in her hand in a breath.

The female templar jerked her own sword from the snow, though the rest of them made no move.

"They have come to join the Inquisition," Finley offered, chin still cupped, fingers drumming against her cheeks.

While Seeker Pentaghast's brow lowered at her comments, and she made a disgusted noise at her flippant behavior, she did turn to inspect the templars more carefully, lowering her sword. She paused, inspecting Ser Jensen. "You were one of the templars we encountered."

"Yes, ser." He paused and then looked back at Finley. "I wouldn't be alive if not for you. The others…I know you tried to save them."

Finley stared back at him. Had she accidentally shielded more than just the first two? Had she shielded him during the fighting? Was that why he'd lived? Why he'd protected her? Had he been returning the favor? Evening a score?

There didn't seem a good way to ask without revealing that his continued breathing hadn't been her intention.

He shifted his weight a little, that awkward silence settling back.

Was she supposed to say something to that? Confirm it? Apologize for failing his friends?

"We are sorry for what happened to them," Seeker Pentaghast murmured at length, trying to sound polite instead of aggressive. "If everyone had been willing to listen, perhaps we could have gotten more accomplished."

The female templar hissed something, but one of the men beside her put a hand on her shoulder, and she quieted down.

Seeker Pentaghast sheathed her blade. As she inspected them, she cracked her knuckles slowly. "While we do welcome anyone, it is with the understanding that past slights can be forgiven, if not forgotten. You would be working with mages, here."

"We gathered as much," Ser Yorric motioned toward Finley. When Seeker Pentaghast glanced up at her, Finley simply arched her eyebrows. "Ser Jensen mentioned that the Herald was a mage, and that she traveled with another. Where there are two mages there are bound to be more. Regardless, we would serve."

"We need men and women who can follow orders," the seeker snapped, seeming to bristle at the lightness to Ser Yorric's voice. "That you continued to howl at the moon while your betters tried to fix things is appalling."

"The only orders I broke were the ones telling me to stay in Val Royeaux and to leave my brother to get himself killed," Ser Yorric clarified. "You may fault me for looking after family if you like, but Jensen is in line now, and willing to work for a righteous cause, if you will allow it."

"You may feel your actions justified, but it does not change the fact that you abandoned your post. Every one of you has been insubordinate, for some reason."

Ser Jensen just stood quietly where he was, taking the admonishment like a child might, one who knew there would be no place for them here.

Finley watched him, head tilted.

Like her, he'd been uprooted, taken from where he belonged and tossed into an uncaring world. Perhaps it was foolish to consider him a kindred spirit—he was a templar, after all—but there was something she couldn't shake.

She thought of the mage she'd killed.

"The Herald of Andraste forgives you and accepts you into the Inquisition." It took a moment and the stares from all six of the plate-wearing warriors around her before Finley realized she'd actually spoken. She blinked down at them a few times before straightening out of her slouch, frowning as she focused on Seeker Pentaghast. "What? I was under the impression that as Herald—"

"Now is not the time—"

"—I was supposed to go out and recruit people, accept them and all that." When Seeker Pentaghast didn't offer an immediate response, she looked back at the templars. They were out of their element, without a direction.

She hadn't even realized that it was harder for her to breathe until she felt it easing up, even with that prickling sensation of them watching her.

"You will be watched," Seeker Pentaghast was speaking to Ser Yorric, seemingly giving up on arguing with Finley for the time being. She didn't doubt she'd hear more of it later. "If you can show that you can move beyond your past prejudices and follow orders, then you will be welcome here. If not, you will have to leave, one way or another."

Ser Jensen's smile was radiant as he nodded, paused to make sure Ser Yorric was going to accept the terms, and then nodded again. The other templars seemed relieved as well. Seeker Pentaghast motioned for them to follow her, heading toward the sea of tents to take them to Commander Rutherford, no doubt. She paused when they were at the edge of the road, "Herald, I would speak with you in the Chantry, as soon as I am done with our new recruits."

Finley understood that it was an order rather than a request.

Still, she waited until they had a decent head start before sliding down from her perch and dusting the snow from her overcoat and hair.

This whole mess was drudging up too many memories, opening wounds she'd thought long closed and scarred shut, if not mended.

This little adventure was not going to be fun.