A/N: Thank you for pointing that out. I don't know why it messes up like that sometimes. I uploaded the document the same way I always do. But it's fixed now.

...-...

It was late, and the rain was falling hard. It felt cool on Finley's skin, and she shirked off her overcoat so it could splatter against and through her shirt, soaking her thoroughly. It didn't send chills through her like the winds back home did, but there was a primal force there, something so much older and stronger than her. It made her feel small and invisible. It made her feel safe, hidden from a thousand curious stares.

A few loose wisps of hair were plastered to her forehead and neck. She'd undone her braid completely before they'd arrived, instead twirling her hair up into a bun. That would be easier to brush out, after all the weather it would have to bear. However, standing there in the storm, she let her hair down, the rain quickly tugging it the full length down her back, ending just below her rear. It was heavy with water, and she felt like she was melting away into nature itself.

How she needed to melt away.

While she'd claimed to want to go out into the world to close the rifts, that wasn't the whole of it. In truth, she'd been trying to get away from the templars. It wasn't that she thought they were going to skewer her. That fear had been unraveled, at least for the time being.

Now, she was concerned for back home. Or rather, the people there.

She was fairly certain that Commander Rutherford and every templar there knew she couldn't be the only apostate living out of their reach in the Wilds. After all, there were stories of wilds witches and the like. She was actually a little surprised no one had seriously accused her of being a witch, as she'd heard from others that such was almost always a natural course of thought for 'civilized' folk—Cullen had made a joke of it once, though he hadn't pursued the matter when she'd shown no appreciation for such humor.

When she'd told Josephine about why she was there, she'd intended to tell her the whole truth, but…it had felt like it would have been a betrayal.

She hadn't just been there to meet Enchanter Pernice. She'd been there on behalf of a small group of apostates, healers of the wilds. She had been asked to go because the others were former Circle mages or had had too many run ins with templars along the borders to feel safe going to the Conclave.

Of her group, they had felt that she would be safest walking amidst the 'civilized' world. Even if she was caught, Donovan—an old elven mage who had escaped from the Circles over thirty years prior and had been living in the Wilds well before Finley had ever stumbled her way into them—had muttered that she would likely not be made tranquil. Too gentle to be a threat.

Then again, Donovan was a crotchety old bastard who liked to lie, so maybe he'd been hoping she would get plucked up by the templars. Maybe he'd wanted to see if someone Fade-touched could actually have their connection to the Fade severed.

She wouldn't put it past him. He did a great many things she would never even consider in the name of fine-tuning his spells. She didn't always agree with his tactics, but he was a damned good mage who had never resorted to blood magic or demons, and one of the few who would keep a promise, no matter what. That was partially why he made a point of making as few promises as possible.

She had sent word to them just before the Conclave, when she'd stowed away her things, telling them that she was there and would update them shortly. And then…

Then the sky had torn open.

The spells she'd used—the ones they'd developed together—to talk to one another across great distances with relative quickness weren't working anymore. Either they'd cut ties to her, or falling in and out of the Fade had damaged them.

Regardless of why they were defunct, she'd been isolated from them.

It was standard practice to give up on someone, if they were caught by the templars. Their honor would bind them not to mention the others, and it was an agreement between every one of them: if caught, we are but lone mages, living in a harsh wilderness.

It wasn't much of a lie. Their homes were typically miles upon miles from one another.

Theirs was a fragile community, one that had been mostly forged during the Blight, when they'd all been stirred from their private corners of the Wilds to find help against the encroaching horde. Many had chosen to go back into isolation after the Blight ended, but some of them…

Finley had always kept a bit of distance from the rest of them, not wanting to fall into desperation if they were caught or lost to other horrors, but they had been her friends.

They were her friends, and she knew that the truth of their pacts were weak. She'd saved some of them before, others had dared templar executions to save lovers. They broke their own rules quite often, all in all.

And not one of them had reached out to her. Not one of them had attempted to find out if she'd survived the Conclave.

While she knew better than to expect them to charge into templar territory, part of her had felt like her circumstances were different from the usual misfortune. She hadn't been careless and gotten caught in the woods. She'd left her home, for all of their sake. The least they could have done was bind their sight to an animal to see if she was alive.

It had occurred to her that perhaps part of the problem was that she was so close to templars. While most sight spells were low key, it would only take one observant templar to notice. It would be like grazing a wasps' nest. Minimal damage, and still a bunch of pissed off bastards trying to stab their sharp things into the 'aggressor'.

Going to the Storm Coast had felt like a chance to get away from all the templar activity, a chance for someone to come out of hiding. She doubted Donovan would come to check on her, but there were others, shape shifters or dreamers, who could have hidden in plain sight, or tried to find her through the Fade.

It had taken them just shy of two weeks to reach the Storm Coast. She'd considered trying to initiate contact herself—to let them know she was alive—but somehow every time she'd tried to get a moment to herself, someone had shown up just as she was prepared to cast a spell. She didn't want to have to come up with a lie for what she was doing.

After reaching the Storm Coast, they'd met with Cremisius again—Krem as his boss called him—and she'd quickly been swept up in accepting the Chargers into the fold and then traveling the Coast to deal with various problems.

The Blades of Hessarian had joined the Inquisition two nights ago. Cassandra though she was crazy for recruiting them, but she was glad that they'd managed to avoid most of the bloodshed.

The Iron Bull had been interested in the turn of events, as well. He had sent his Chargers back to Haven under Krem's supervision, and offered to travel with the famed Herald, to get a sense for the Inquisition. He was an excellent fighter.

And he'd been interested in her healing abilities. Where had she learned them, had anyone mentored her? He'd wanted to know about the Wilds, asking dozens and dozens of questions. She'd avoided most of them. Sometimes Sera would come up with another topic, other times something would attack them. Once, when nothing else had been ready to save her from his queries, she'd 'accidentally' fallen off a small cliff.

The Iron Bull was persistent, though. He'd casually ask her something like, 'Back in Seheron, this happened frequently. We were always running in with the locals. I suppose that's sort of like how you would meet with the Avvar?'

He was fishing, waiting for her to slip up and say something that would tell him more about, well, her.

She wouldn't be so foolish, though. When he asked such things, she politely professed confusion, and he would grunt and settle into a watchful silence. He was more terrifying than a templar, in that regard.

There were reports of a final rift in the area, which was where they were headed now. They were following a river further from the coast, looking for some sort of waterfall. They'd made camp under a small outcrop of rock that was tall enough for the qunari to stand beneath without having to duck, needing a rest for the night. Tents had been angled to slope down from the rock, allowing them a rather decent, relatively dry area to lay out their bedrolls.

Finley and Sera had been the ones to hang the tents from the rocks overhead, and after more than a few slips and near falls, Sera had been the first to pass out. She snorted and giggled in her sleep, sprawled out so that most of her wasn't even on her blankets.

They'd managed to catch one of the local animals, and Cassandra had cooked it over a meager fire for dinner.

It…that had been when things had started falling apart for Finley.

The quiet had brought in the reminders that she'd been abandoned to a foreign world. The roast had filled the air with the smell of burnt flesh. Since the Conclave, she'd been having trouble eating meat. Even as she'd tried not to think about her friends, she'd heard the crunch of her boots on the scorched earth. The ash stinging her eyes. She'd nearly stepped on someone's hand when Cassandra had initially led her up to the Breach.

They'd been in such pain when they died. She wished they hadn't felt it, but their faces said they had. Their mouths were twisted in silent screams, and she'd felt herself being drawn down into darkness, a deep, rumbling voice speaking just out of earshot. She couldn't remember.

What had happened…?

And then Cassandra had tapped her shoulder, drawing her from the brink.

She'd felt so tired, though. Every time those images rose to sweep her away, she felt weaker coming back, and a part of her was terrified that one day soon she wouldn't be able to pull herself back. Without the infirmary nearby for her to throw herself into her magic and her lie, she'd been having a harder time focusing on things other than the terrors she'd witnessed. The terrors she couldn't even remember.

Cassandra had told her to go to sleep, that Varric was going to stay up to watch the camp. The dwarf had given her a half wave, and she'd nodded to the seeker as the woman lay out and went to sleep. Their newest companion had volunteered for the second watch, and already dozed off earlier.

Despite the seeker's suggestion, Finley hadn't wanted to see what dreams might await her.

After some time, she'd told Varric she needed to stretch her legs and had headed out into the rain.

She tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her face. She'd given up on her makeup for the time being, and a small smile stretched her lips as she considered how miserable it would have been to have her eyeliner splashing into her eyes.

This was the furthest north she had ever been, and it was so…warm. She'd always favored a chill in the air, a crisp bite that forced the senses to stay heightened. Warmth made her sluggish and lazy. It reminded her of curling up in a big chair with too many pillows and blankets, watching a fireplace burn slowly as stories were told amidst kind laughter.

Simple pleasures of this civilized world, ones that so many seemed to take for granted.

They were nice things, but they weren't hers.

The Wilds were her home, and they had just as many wonders and pleasures. She missed them so.

Why hadn't anyone contacted her?

With the rumors of the great Herald of Andraste's eerie eyes, surely they knew that was her. Or had those rumors not reached so far south? Did they even know the Conclave had been destroyed?

They had to have seen the Breach.

Another thought struck her abruptly, and she felt like her blood had been replaced with lead.

Were they entrenched in rifts of their own?

Stepping over rain-slicked rocks to the nearest tree that angled awkwardly near the cliff that ran along the side of the stream, Finley plucked a few leaves from its branches and began to twine them together, her fingers quick and careful. She picked a few more, adding them to the mass in her hand until she'd made a crude looking little bird. She cupped her hand around it and leaned her head forward, whispering between her fingers, like the words could get caught there.

"I know how to close the rifts. I can send the demons back."

She blew into her hands and then opened them, palms facing up. The little leaf bird took flight, soaring out of her reach and into the rain, disappearing quickly from view in the dim light. It would be weeks before it arrived in the south, but perhaps it would get a response.

She just had to be patient.

They would be alright for that long, wouldn't they?

"Neat trick," a deep voice offered her, near her ear.

She jumped, whirling around to see that the Iron Bull was looming behind her.

He'd been bent over, peering over her shoulder to watch her work. More than that. He'd been watching her more closely than she'd thought. Had he ever really gone to sleep? Even if he didn't know much, he knew. He knew there were others.

He knew.

She could see the other apostates, see the templars closing in, their homes in flames. She could see the twisted bodies at the Conclave, valiant men in armor accusing the ones she cared for of the murders, blades gleaming. She could see Cullen and Cassandra leading the Inquisition forces into the quiet, hidden places in the world, hunting, hunting, hunting…

Her breath caught in her throat.

How could she have been so careless with her magic?

"Don't tell," she whispered before she could stop herself. She was barely able to draw in the air to speak.

He blinked at her, the rain running down his face in little rivulets. "It's not exactly like you were plotting Thedas' downfall there," he said, standing upright so that he seemed to form a tower of flesh and muscle. He crossed his arms. When she didn't respond, he leaned his head forward a bit, squinting his eye through the constant barrage of rain.

She couldn't breathe. Everyone was going to die because she'd gotten careless. She was never careless. She never let things spiral so far out of her control. She wasn't—

Quite abruptly, he smacked his hand hard against her back. It forced the air from her lungs, and she instinctively took in a deep breath, sputtering as rain tried to follow down her throat.

Her back ached, but she could breathe again. She doubled over, propping herself up against her knees to take in more deep breaths.

"You're surprisingly hard to get information on, considering that you're rather meek and all," he rumbled, squatting down so that he was pretty much level with her eyesight.

"I am not meek," Finley muttered.

"Well, you're hardly a bastion of confidence, either." He scratched at his chin, inspecting her slowly. "I kind of expected the Herald to be more…authoritative. To have more of a presence. You…you feel like you could disappear in the blink of an eye."

Damn right she could.

When she dared to look up at him, she noticed a spark in his eye. He'd gotten a better feel for her than she'd realized. Not that that seemed to be particularly hard for people. She was terrible at keeping her thoughts from being displayed on her face.

So then, had he said what he'd said because he meant it, or because he knew it would make her feel better?

She narrowed her eyes at him as she straightened up. Some of her hair had fallen over her shoulders, and it was a sopping mess. She was a sopping mess in general. And her shirt was see through with all the rain. With a cough, she crossed her arms in front of her, glancing back toward their camp. The fire danced dimly, reflecting odd patterns against the rain as it fell.

Standing up, he lightly patted her shoulder before starting back toward the camp. "See you in the morning, boss."