"So…is there anything here I should…know?" Finley almost couldn't finish her sentence when she saw the look Commander Rutherford was giving her. He clearly didn't understand what was going on or why she was there asking him about…anything.

After the way she'd acted, she couldn't truly hold him at fault. He'd been kind, protected her from demons, and offered to help her in every possible way he could think while they were retrieving her belongings. He'd even offered to try to mend things, when he hadn't done anything wrong.

And she'd been a bitch.

Granted, he was bound to stab her in the back—either physically or metaphorically—at some point, but it had occurred to her that that wouldn't be for a good, long while.

In the meantime, she could surely be friendly in the interim. The key was not to get too attached, but at the same time, not to act too much like a, well…

Frost queen, Varric had called her. She'd threatened to frost his queen, if he chose that as her nickname. He'd just laughed it off.

Truly, the only down side to being the gentle healer was that it did make any threats of turning people into newts or scorching eyebrows off rather hollow.

One of the templars—one of Commander Rutherford's, not one of 'her' five—had even patted her on the head the yesterday. She'd wanted to shoot him with an arrow to remind him that she could still be dangerous, but one condescending templar was hardly worth ruining her cover.

And with her aim, she'd probably hit whoever was standing next to him, anyway.

At this point, her attempt to convince people that she was incapable of offensive magic was going rather smoothly. So long as she could remember not to use any vines to restrict an attacker or the like, she would be fine. And she might be sealing the lie soon, with the impending Val Royeaux trip just days away. If anything happened at the capital, a lack of fire or ice in a fight would likely be noted by a great many people. The city was supposed to be 'very big', according to Josephine.

She could hardly imagine a place with more people than Haven.

After her talk with Cassandra, she'd had time to think. Well, a night to do so. A night in which the infirmary had been rather slow, leaving her even more time to think than usual, mostly about ideas that had been slowly working themselves into her head for some time.

She'd already figured out that so long as she had the mark and there were rifts in the world, she would be safe from anyone randomly deciding she wasn't important. However, as she'd looked over the war table and inspected the different reports, it had finally sunk in just how many rifts there were. While on the one hand, she wouldn't be going home any time soon, on the other, they were going to need her for…months, if not longer.

Further, if they did turn against her early, they'd toss her into a dungeon before they'd kill her—had to keep that mark handy—and that would give her time to plan an escape when the tides started turning against her.

That meant that she could relax. She could play nice. It was a bit hard, with a little over twenty years of being wary of templars behind her, but she'd decided to commit to her decision.

That was a lie. It was much harder to do than to say, as most things were, but she'd managed not to go out of her way to avoid the templars present all morning, and that meant that when they were around, she was in reach. Her heart still fluttered a little when she felt them watching her, but it wasn't…as bad as it could have been. It was hard not to duck out of reach, but…she was managing.

Varric said she made faces at the templars, still. He said he liked to follow her to see their reactions.

She was tempted to put some itching powder in his sleeping roll.

With the stories he told, though, she wasn't sure she could handle a prank war, especially not when she'd decided to be respectable.

"Herald…" Commander Rutherford's voice interrupted her thoughts before they could spiral too far into the possibilities of what the dwarf might be capable of, and she blinked, refocusing her gaze on him, unintentionally looking somewhat akin to a small creature trapped in a corner. His brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Finley coughed. She felt like an idiot. While she didn't want to have to explain things to the commander, after Cassandra's talk, she couldn't very well just keep on as she had been. Playing nice would require that she make amends with the dear commander, even if the task did seem more daunting than she'd originally expected. His guard was certainly up as he eyed her, a report in one hand and a scout standing beside him, glancing from one of them to the other, clearly not sure what was going on, either.

That made all of them, then.

She fought the urge to scurry off under his scrutiny and shrugged, crossing her arms and then motioning toward him. "So…was there anything I should know?"

"Not at present," Commander Rutherford handed the report back to the scout, and with a nod, the man was off, though he did pause once to glance back at them before committing to his task. The commander crossed his arms as he looked at Finley, his expression one that said he would rather get back to anything else. When she didn't head off, he hesitated and then frowned. "Was there anything else?"

"Well, honestly…" Finley glanced down toward her feet. Fixing this was going to require an explanation, wasn't it? One for why she'd turned so cold at the end of their little adventure. And why she'd been so horrible later. The thought of vocalizing such things was not overly appealing.

Maybe it wasn't too late to just turn him into a toad and run for the tree-line.

"You there!" The commander's attention had wandered when she hadn't forced the conversation on. He strode past her to one of the various recruits as they practiced. His brow was low, his face angrier than it should have been, likely because she was there. "There's a shield in your hand, block with it! If this man were your enemy, you'd be dead." He turned to another man in armor standing near them. The one who'd patted Finley on the head. "Lieutenant, don't hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one."

"Yes, commander."

Even as the recruit nodded and settled back into his stance, ready to resume sparring, Finley took a few quick steps toward him and leaned forward, whispering, "It's okay. I would have healed you."

The man blinked, surprised. Then he gave her an awkward yet appreciative smile and threw himself back into his training.

When she moved back to the middle of the aisle between the practicing combatants, she looked back at Commander Rutherford to see a frown etched deeply into his face. Brow drawn even further down, somehow, his fingers thudded against the side of his hilt. She'd seen that look the time they'd been in the war room together, when he'd been trying to come up with a decent tactic for dealing with one of their many, many problems.

Her endeavors were proving to be for naught.

His lieutenant had the flicker of a grin on his face, but he turned away to hide it when Commander Rutherford followed her gaze to see what had caught her attention. His subordinate strolled down the row to inspect the other recruits, offering a few tips and reprimands as he oversaw their training.

Commander Rutherford took a few slow steps toward her, making sure she didn't dart backwards, so that he could speak without raising his voice loud enough to be heard by anyone else over the constant clang of metal on metal. It was hard for her not to slide back a step or two from him as he advanced, but she kept her ground, instead considering how irate Cassandra might be if she heard that the Herald had run screaming from the commander. Because if she did run, she would scream, if only for effect.

Besides, they all needed to be seen in agreement, didn't they? That had been one of Cassandra's main points.

"I am trying to train these soldiers to be able to take care of themselves in battle. Do not undermine my work with some promise of magical coddling."

Finley put her hands on her hips, trying to keep her back straight as she looked up at him. He was almost a foot taller than she was, and those few inches did give him a rather powerful look. Perhaps it was just because she had to tilt her head back. She glanced over the different fighters and did her best to avoid meeting that angry glare. It was easy enough. There was so much to look at around the training grounds that she'd never noticed before, like weapons' racks, and buckets with water and washcloths—to help the men and women cool down after practicing perhaps? Or were they there to tend to any wounds received from a mis-angled blade or overly ambitious shield slam? Perhaps both.

"I would have healed him," she retorted.

She would have if he was an injured animal, anyway. Spiders, wyverns, tuskets, more recently humans, elves, and dwarves… She had healed the latter set prior to the Conclave as well, though then she typically stayed out of sight with the bipedal races or made sure that they were unconscious before getting too close. After all, her spells took substantially less mana if she was in close proximity, and took less time to cast if she wasn't dodging sharp things.

"Are you going to somehow be present at every battle, able to heal every man and woman under the Inquisition's banner? At all times?"

Finley looked back at him, surprised. "I…no."

The commander rolled his shoulders one at a time, trying to shake the tension from them. He was still angry. "Then they need to be capable of defending themselves."

Finley dug her nails into the leather of her overcoat before forcing herself to relax. "A valid point, but that thrust wouldn't have hit anything vital. For that to have killed him, it would have taken hours to bleed out. Any skilled healer, magic or no, can making a compression…unless there's a dragon sitting on him to keep them at bay." She paused, considering it. "And honestly, at that point, he'd have more pressing issues than a stab wound."

A low, disbelieving cluck of a laugh caught her attention, and she glanced to the side to see that more than a few of the recruits had paused in their practice to watch her talk to their commander. The sounds of swordplay had died out almost completely. One of them half lifted her shield when she saw her superior glance her way, but quickly gave up the pitiful rouse to concentrate on hiding her smile. Though her lips managed to keep a straight line, there was a sparkle in her eyes that she couldn't quite squelch.

"Herald, while I appreciate the perspective, you know very little of battle. Fighting can last hours. Being routed or forced to retreat from an enemy advance can make it impossible to gather our injured."

"Well, that sounds like we need more healers," Finley muttered.

The commander took in a long, deep breath, held it, and then let it out. He motioned to her. "Yes, well. Unless you've got some friends who'd care to join the cause," she tried not to look terrified that he'd even considered such a notion as he spoke, "the best way for these soldiers to stay alive is to avoid injury, rather than depending on someone else to mend them." He turned his gaze to the nearest recruits, his expression measured, oblivious to the way Finley froze for just a second as he suggested she might have friends living out in society's fringes. "So as I've said before. Practice is important."

"Yes, ser!"

The clashing of swords and shields resumed almost instantly, a cacophony to drown out the words the commander had directed at Finley after regaining control of his people. Commander Rutherford uncrossed his arms, letting one hand go to rest on the pommel of his blade while the other fell to his side. His expression was unreadable. He stepped closer to her still, pausing only briefly when she flinched at the proximity.

She hadn't meant to, and hoped none of the recruits had seen.

"Why are you here?"

The words were a low growl.

Finley stood there, at a loss for words. This was going to be so much harder than she'd anticipated. Even as he let out an exasperated sigh and started to turn away, she reached out and caught his arm. That took both of them by surprise.

She held on to him for another moment before nodding to the side. "Walk with me?"

As her hand fell to her side, he appraised her and then turned sharply, beginning a slow pace in the direction she'd indicated.

It only took a few minutes for them to reach the tents, arranged in neat rows, with a decent space for walking in between. Most of them were empty, the men and women busy with their daily routines.

"I wanted to apologize. I was rude."

An indignant laugh rung sharply in her ears. She tried not to glare as she glanced over at him. His look of contempt made her gaze wander over the tents they passed. None of them were particularly interesting.

"It's been…I've…" She drew her hair over her shoulder, pulling loose the ribbon, winding it around her wrist a few times, and then beginning to undo the braid so that she could make it a little neater. "A lot has happened these last…four weeks." Had it really only been a month since the Conclave had been destroyed? "And I…have taken my frustrations out on people who did not deserve it." She paused, forcing herself to turn back to meet that unnerving gaze. His expression had lightened considerably. "Yourself included. I'm sorry."

They both slowed to a stop at the same time, standing amidst the sea of tarps. Commander Rutherford stared down at his toes, tapping his fingers against his hilt again. "A lot has happened, hasn't it?"

"With more to come," Finley sighed. She finished re-braiding her hair and tied it off. "I will…try to remember that I'm not the only one things are happening to."

He looked up at her, catching her gaze and holding it a breath before motioning toward her with his free hand. "I would like to know what I did to upset you before…" He paused before adding, "No sense in me stepping on your toes the same way twice."

"That," Finley replied, instantly feeling her throat tighten. Memories threatened to bubble up and sweep her back into another life, but she held his gaze, an anchor keeping her from sinking into her own thoughts. With a cough, she shook her head when she was sure she wouldn't be lost to her past. "You were too kind." She tossed her braid over her shoulder, taking comfort in the way it swung back and forth against her back before settling into place. "It…" She couldn't say what it reminded her of. "It just felt out of place, with demons everywhere and everything falling apart. It felt like it had to be a lie or a twist or…I don't know."

Commander Rutherford rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze on the tents around them, away from her. "Well, I've never been accused of being too kind before."

"Oh? Truly?"

He laughed a little awkwardly. "Truly."

Her brow knit together. "You're so nice, though."

"That is… I, uh," he rubbed the back of his neck again, voice cracking slightly as he floundered. "If I had to guess your feelings toward me, it would never have been that you considered me kind." He finally glanced back at her, offering her a weak, uncertain smile, like he expected her to take back what she'd just said.

Or for her words to be the trap.

That would be quite the twist, wouldn't it?

She held her hand out to him when she saw his smile lingered. "Perhaps we could…do that thing where you pretend the unfortunate things haven't happened?"

"A fresh start?"

"Yes, that," she nodded, glancing down at her hand and then at him again. "I can't promise that I won't make your life a bit difficult from time to time, but I'll do my best not to, as we are working together in this."

He took her hand and bowed toward her. "I doubt I'd know what to do if you were suddenly always agreeable." She felt a soft warmth stir in her chest. It made her forget, albeit briefly, that the point of this was to act friendly, not be it. When he met her gaze, he paused, holding her hand a second too long. He let go of her, straightening up, his attention wandering back toward his recruits. "A fresh start, then."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Was she supposed to say something else? She'd already asked if there was anything she should know, and unless he was lying, there wasn't any news on that front. Finally, Commander Rutherford motioned toward her. "I should get—"

"I'm sure you have work to get back to," Finley started at the same time, picking at one of the smaller holes in her shirt sleeve. "After all, if you take more than a five-minute break, the Inquisition will fall to pieces."

"Is that so?"

"Well, Josephine, Seeker Pentaghast, and Sister Nightingale, as well. If any one of you stops to breathe, I think everything will just…" She made a swooshing motion as though something were falling over.

He laughed, turning back toward the training grounds and then looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Are you…heading back this way as well?"

Finley paused, realizing she would need to. She hadn't thought this through. It meant time to talk, and she had nothing to say. Though, honestly, he was probably somewhat relieved with that. She turned with him, matching his stride. There was a brief silence between the two, with the sound of the wind rustling the tents around them and the crunch of their boots the only noises. They'd walked further than Finley had realized. It was taking forever to get back.

Commander Rutherford abruptly began to talk about the different matters he was overseeing, recruitment and the like. Anything to fill the silence, she supposed. His voice was a pleasant drum, and she had to look out over the tents when she realized that she didn't dislike listening to it. That little ball of warmth in her chest fluttered.

When she realized that she hadn't really heard the last few things he'd said, she snapped her attention back toward him, not wanting to seem like she was brushing him off so soon. He noticed and instantly tripped over his own sentence.

With an awkward smile, he laughed. "Forgive me. You didn't come here for a lecture."

Finley shrugged a little, the wind tugging at her hair and clothes. She could see the soldiers running through their regimen ahead, slowly becoming clearer. She could hear the sound of shields and swords clashing. "No, but if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it."

Her words caught him off guard. He cleared his throat, glancing around at nothing in particular. "Another time perhaps," he paused and added, "What with the whole five-minute limit, I doubt we'd have time, anyway."

She shook her head. For the first time in ages, she almost felt like smiling.

He was watching her from the corner of his eye again, and he looked away when she glanced toward him. "I, uh," he coughed. "There's still a lot of work ahead."

As if on cue, a scout darted up to them, report in hand. He looked like he'd been running about for a few minutes, searching for the commander. "Commander, Ser Ryan has a report about the supply lines."

It was as if the arrival of more work had given him the purpose he'd needed to regain his composure. He offered Finley a half smile that tugged at the scar on his upper lip. "As I was saying…"