A/N: In comparison to other chapters, this one got pretty long. Thank you for reading!

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Finley peeked around the side of the pillar before slipping out of the shadows and heading toward the back of the Chantry. The building was quiet for the night, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was going to come in at any second and ask her what she was doing there.

She had a small pouch of sleeping powder ready in case someone did, but if she was forced to leave unconscious bodies lying about, it would just increase her chances of failure.

With luck, she wouldn't come across anyone, and she'd be able to just do as she wished, without interference. She tiptoed as quickly as she could, barefoot, across the cold stone floor. She'd left her shoes in the rafters, to make sure no one would find them while she was there.

Josephine's office was locked tight, as was the war room. Neither mattered, though.

Instead, she was heading down, into the dungeons.

She slipped along the wall until she made it to the door. Just as her fingers closed around the handle, she saw a pair of boots at the bottom of the stairs leading down, just barely visible through the grating on the door—the support beams and low ceiling made it impossible to see the rest of the guard. With a silent curse, she slid back against the wall, considering her options.

Truthfully, she hadn't any. Either she could leave and forget this endeavor or she could take the risk of encountering the guard below. The former was absurd to even consider. She slipped back up to the door.

On the positive side, leaving a soldier sleeping down in the main corridor of the dungeons wouldn't be in nearly as open an area. She could likely be in and out before he woke up. Though… if she did put him to sleep, he'd report it in the morning, wouldn't he? Someone went down to visit the prisoner.

If her plan worked, Finley would confess before they could start an investigation.

Using a keyring she'd lifted from Commander Rutherford when she'd gone to visit him, she opened the door as quietly as she could—she'd used a spell to make the key she would need glow faintly so that she wouldn't have to stand there, trying all of them.

The Inquisition's advisors were going to use force to get their captive to tell them what they wanted to know, but they weren't going to ask the right questions. They would want to know who was in charge, were the other templars missing because of this red lyrium, how many were like this, where were they?

Finley wanted to know why it was so familiar. It carried a sickness to it that she knew she'd dealt with before, and it was driving her mad that she couldn't place it. It wasn't like the water sickness or…anything she could place a name to, yet she was sure she should have been able to.

The advisors wanted to know who and where and why.

She wanted to know what and how.

That was why she'd stolen Commander Rutherford's keys.

The fact that the man had kept them on him, even when he was out of his armor had been…quite cumbersome. At least, it had been until he'd gotten so frustrated that he'd just grabbed her and tried to drag her out. She'd had the keys the instant his eyes were off her.

He was a good man, though. She'd have to apologize when she was done—technically, she already had, though she'd played it off as the late hour of her visit. Perhaps she'd be able to bring information that would garner a begrudging acceptance of her tactics.

Even as she swept up to the guard on duty, blew the sleeping dust into his face, and caught him as he slumped forward into a quick, dreamless sleep, she heard boots scuff against the stone floor and snapped her gaze over to see a second guard standing in the doorway leading down the main corridor, mouth agape.

Her cloak was in place, shadowing her face and hiding her telling features, and the guard no doubt thought that she was some enemy on the prowl. He cleared his throat to cry out as he drew his blade, and she darted over, using more of her powder on him. He staggered a few paces, his cry dying on his lips before he finally dropped his sword and slipped into unconsciousness.

This did not bode well. If either of them had a decent tolerance against the powder, her efforts would be interrupted early.

Taking in a few deep breaths, she steadied herself. It would be fine. If she could get what information she needed, it wouldn't matter if she'd put two guards to sleep instead of one. Everything could still go as planned.

Finley dragged the both of them out of sight from the dungeon's main entrance and then headed down the hall, gripping Commander Rutherford's keys in her hand.

The chandeliers were well lit, at least. She walked along, peering into each cell, fiddling with the dungeon keys.

She stopped when she found the cell with the templar in it. In addition to the lock on his door, he had also been shackled to the wall. It seemed excessive, but Finley was hardly concerned with that. It wasn't her job or place to question the dungeon quarters.

She held up the dozen keys and whispered a spell. The key that had been glowing dimmed and another began to shine. She slipped that one into the lock and allowed herself a satisfied smile when a simple click let her know it was open.

As she tucked the keys away in an empty pouch on her belt, she felt that keen prickle that came with a templar's gaze. This one was so much worse than she was used to, and she hesitated as she raised her own to meet his. His hair was matted, and dark rings made his eyes sinister. It looked like they hadn't been feeding him.

She knelt in the doorway. His shackles afforded him a few feet of leeway so that he could lower his arms. She wasn't sure how far that meant he could reach with his feet, if he thought to use them. Hopefully, he wouldn't.

They sat there in silence. Even chained to a wall, seeing a templar looking at her the way he was made a cold sweat break out on her skin. She tried to ignore it, hoping he wouldn't be able to see how much he frightened her in this light. After all, the corridor's light was behind her, no doubt shadowing her face.

"Are you well?" she whispered.

The man's expression spoke volumes to his belief in her sincerity.

To be fair, she didn't quite care, so his skepticism was well-placed.

"I would like to speak with you about that red lyrium that was growing from your fellow templar."

Silence.

Why couldn't he be like a villain in a child's book? One who readily monologued about his dastardly plans so that the valiant hero could save the day.

Granted, Finley wasn't exactly a hero, but she could have used the not-so-subtle guidance.

How else did people generally get information? Aside from torture. To torture him she'd either have to get close enough to touch him—even chained to a wall and starved, he was likely stronger than her—or use her magic. That would likely draw notice from other templars.

Or just give him the opportunity to interrupt her cast, drag her closer, and snap her neck.

She had not thought this through very well…

"You know, if you would just talk to us, you could join the Inquisition," she offered. She moved forward an inch. "I'd vouch for you."

"Stern didn't work, so they sent the sweet one." The templar spat to the side. "A sweet mage. How novel."

"The man who had red lyrium in him, was he your friend?" She tried again. "I tried to help him, but whatever the lyrium did to him…I couldn't fix it."

"Maybe he didn't need fixing," the templar shot back. The way he shifted his weight, however, made her sure that he didn't believe that. He looked so tired.

Tired and pained.

Finley frowned. She'd never honestly needed to talk to a templar before, and now she found herself wondering what sort of reassurances she could give him to get him to trust her. The mere thought seemed ridiculous. If she was the one chained to a wall, she certainly wouldn't have trusted him.

Though…they had had her in chains, before, hadn't they?

"If it helps, they had me in one of these rooms, too, when I first came." She shrugged her arms out a little, motioning around them. "Now they call me the Herald of Andraste and let me wander all over the place. Fortunes chance with a bit of faith."

And a mark on her hand to make sure they couldn't kill her without damaging their cause. Perhaps his knowledge of red lyrium could be his mark.

Though, where would that put him once he'd given that knowledge up?

The templar stared at her, brow scrunching together, a slight look of either disgust or dismay settling over his features. She couldn't tell which in the dim light.

She knocked back her hood and pulled some of her hair forward, fingers playing with it, twisting locks and winding strands. "What I mean is you don't have to be a prisoner. You could help." When he scoffed, she twisted her mouth to one side. "I can't help you, if you don't talk. They're going to hurt you to get what they want."

His gaze flitted back to hers, eyes narrowed. "You think I don't know that? You can do whatever you want to me. I don't care."

Despite it all, she had to respect that he would stand his ground. Perhaps templars had pacts similar to the ones she and her fellow apostates had. That sense of loyalty, the need to protect their brethren so that further harm would not come to them…

It felt strange thinking about a templar as anything other than a hunter.

She inched closer. "I'm not asking you to betray your people. Just tell me about the red lyrium itself. Help me, and I'll help you get out of here. Once you're free, you can go back to your people, if you want. I won't stop you."

He lurched forward, nearly gripping her arm. She barely managed to jerk back out of his reach. "You expect me to believe you actually care what they do to me?"

"Of course I care," she snapped. It was true enough, though it wasn't for the altruistic reasons that he was likely struggling with. "I don't know, maybe you've done terrible things. But you haven't wronged me. I have nothing against you."

"I tried to kill you."

"Many templars have. It's what you do," she shrugged. "It doesn't mean we can never be of use to one another. You are a protector, and I am a healer. Let's work together and set things right."

He was silent for a long, long moment before finally settling back against the wall, tilting his head back slightly as he watched her. "You mean that."

"I do."

"Your compassion is worthless."

"Why?" She shook her head. When he didn't answer, she edged forward again. "I am a healer. I can feel when something is unnatural. Red—"

"You are unnatural," he interrupted. "That poison in your veins is unnatural. It's an abomination. Do not think you can lecture me on such things."

And there it was.

That unspoken 'truth' of the civilized world that Finley had seen echoed in eyes but never spoken. That accusation of being a blemish on a perfect world.

Kind eyes devastated with disappointment flickered up from Finley's memories, and she winced at the templar's words before she could help herself. His gaze narrowed. The pinpricks of being under his watchful stare were more like tiny knives slicing into her.

Fighting hate with defensive statements of innocence never worked. Not in the Wilds, not here.

"Perhaps I am. Unnatural."

At that, he straightened a bit where he sat, waiting for the catch.

She let her gaze drop from him. She was still out of reach, and he was unarmed. It was safe to take her eyes off him. Maybe if she could make him believe that she was on his side… "Perhaps that's why I recognize things that are wrong so easily. Because I can see myself in it. It could be possible." She tried not to grimace as she spoke the words. With luck, he'd mistake it as self-loathing if she did mess up. "Despite what I may be, I am doing everything in my power to make this world a better place. Red lyrium is just as much, if not more of a poison than magic."

As he stared at her, bewildered, the candlelight hit his eyes just right, and she caught a glimmer of red. Normally, it wouldn't have meant anything, just a reflection in the darkness. But now…

"You've taken red lyrium, too, haven't you?"

Fear twisted his face, and he curled closer to himself, as though trying to keep his secrets from being exposed further.

She had felt something inside of him when she'd healed him on the road, but she'd assumed it was just her own struggles with magic—it was still more draining to cast on others, even if she was getting considerably better at it.

It was with shameful reservation that she realized she had been too caught up in what had happened with that first templar to see what was going on with this one.

"You can't save me."

"How do you know if you don't let me try?" she asked gently.

"Cast your spells and maybe I will," he replied, his smile more of a sneer.

One step forward, two steps back.

Most of Finley's spells were still short enough that it was hard for a templar to interrupt, but if she cast while he was sitting right in front of her, waiting…

She sat down, her back against the bars of the cell. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you how tricky and spiteful magic can be," he scoffed at that, though it was followed with a slight nod, "and perhaps this is because my training happened outside of the Circles, but for me to heal an injury, I need to know what type of ailment it is."

He narrowed his eyes again, but said nothing.

"Mending a broken bone is different from mending a cut, and neither is the same as fixing a bruise. A crushed windpipe requires a different spell than one used to lower a fever." Never mind that the latter was never a permanent fix. "And poisons. Ugh," she shook her head. "There is a nightmare." She leaned toward him a little, eyes darting toward his hand when he brought it up to scratch at his stomach. He seemed most amused by the tension that rippled through her before she could force it out. "Red lyrium is a poison, isn't it?"

"All lyrium is a poison."

"Truly?"

He arched his brow, tilting his head to the side. "You didn't know?"

"Lyrium is a scarcity where I am from."

"How do you replenish your mana?"

Finley felt herself bristle at the question—a reaction that further amused the templar across from her. He was still scratching at his stomach. "There are herbal remedies that help with regeneration. Those and time."

"Embrium."

"You're an alchemist?"

He snorted. "I worked in a Circle Tower for fifteen years. The mages used to bitch when it was out of stock."

Arching her brow, Finley shrugged. "Then you already knew."

"I thought you might have different methods, what with being a—"

A door slammed open down the hall. Both of their heads snapped toward the sound. Finley instinctively hunched lower toward the ground as the sound was followed by the stomping of boots.

A pause, no doubt at the sight of the sleeping guards.

When the footsteps resumed, they were faster—a jog.

Fuck.

She hadn't learned anything.

"What is red lyrium? How is it different from regular lyrium?"

"I don't know how they make it," the templar replied, his tone puzzled as he noted the panic Finley failed to hide. "It's stronger."

Lovely.

It wasn't what she was looking for, but it was a nice little detail to give her nightmares about being chased by templars.

The boots were getting closer. She could hear swearing.

Commander Rutherford was swearing. She could guess why.

She fumbled on her belts, pulling loose a small pouch and tossing it to the templar. He caught it instinctively, though he quickly paused, brow knitting together as he gave her a puzzled look. "Chew on those to numb the pain, but don't swallow. If you do, you'll have pain in your gut like you wouldn't believe, and you'll wish it would kill you—"

"Herald!" Commander Rutherford's voice echoed harshly through the dungeon.

He was beside her and yanking her out of the cell before she'd realized he'd even made it to her, slamming the door behind them, using a second set of keys to lock it back. He gripped her around the shoulders, hot breath hissing into her ear as he pushed her out of sight of their prisoner. "My keys."

She dispersed the spell she'd used on them before she drew them out, hoping he would be too angry to catch the dispel, and held them up. He scowled, tearing them out of her hand.

As soon as her stolen goods had been returned, he whirled her around, releasing her only long enough to catch her arm in vice grip, his voice still low. "Just when I think you cannot be more—"

Laughter stopped him. His words had carried further than he'd meant them to, and the red lyrium templar was cackling at the situation playing out to his ears.

The commander's grip tightened as he stormed down the hall, dragging Finley after him. He did, however, slow his pace ever so slightly, when Finley stumbled trying to keep up.

Sister Nightingale was waiting in the main hall, arms crossed, looking rather tired, but hardly concerned. Her hair was neat, and she was in delicately embroidered, silken night clothes. She yawned as Commander Rutherford flew up the stairs, Finley still in tow. He barely slowed his stride, making a beeline to the war room. With a flick of his wrist, he had the right key in hand and unlocked the door. He shoved Finley through the open doorway.

She stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the war table.

"Gentle, commander," Sister Nightingale murmured as she walked in after him, closing the door quietly behind her.

He ignored her, stepping up to Finley until they were practically chest to chest. He was in nothing more than his undershirt, trousers, and boots, with his sword strapped around his waist. His hair was disheveled, and little more than a mass of golden curls. His face was gaunt, and there was a fury in his amber eyes that she'd never seen before.

"What were you thinking?" He cried. He didn't wait for her to answer. "You do NOT—" He cut himself off, beginning to pace back and forth, gaze never leaving hers, like a wolf ready to pounce. Or a lion.

That nickname of his suddenly made a lot more sense.

"Where do I even begin," he hissed, running his hands through his hair, fuming.

Sister Nightingale waited, leaning against the door. "Perhaps, commander, you should go take a walk. I can speak with our Herald."

"Not a chance am I letting her out of my sight," he snapped, glaring angrily at their spymaster. The sister's expression seemed to ask if he really thought she'd lose their Herald. He turned his rage back toward Finley. He paced to her again, putting one hand on either side of her against the war table, effectively pinning her in place without laying an actual hand on her, not even registering when the table shook a little from his weight. "You do NOT visit prisoners on your own. You do NOT distract guards from their posts. And you NEVER," he hissed, leaning forward to make sure she was listening, "You NEVER steal from me again. Do you understand me?"

A tense, quite moment passed in the room as she leaned back to keep at least a little distance between them.

She took in a short breath, swallowing slowly. "I hear you, commander."

He narrowed his eyes, searching hers for a lie, waiting for a sarcastic comment to make things a thousand times worse.

Even she knew better than to provoke a templar when he was already this angry.

He eased back a step, releasing the table, though his face was still twisted into a scowl. "You can't just go rushing in without thinking! Do you even know what he could have done to you?"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Finley bristled at his words. More than that, she bristled at the flutter in her chest that had come from those words. He'd been worried for her. "You think just because you've got a few dozen templars on leashes around Haven that I can just forget? I know damned well what templars do to mages, commander."

The words seemed to find a way home that she had not intended. Commander Rutherford jerked straighter where he stood, as though he'd been struck. He paled and then cast his gaze aside. "You must remember that you have the mark. If we lose you, we lose—"

That agitating flutter vanished as quickly as it had come.

No. He hadn't been worried for her. He'd been worried for the mark.

How silly that she could get those confused. After all, she knew far better than that.

"You think I don't know?" Her voice rose as she spoke. She flung her arms out, one hand knocking over a place marker and making the entire table shake. "I'm well aware of how important the mark is, Commander Rutherford." She shook her head. "And every soul here is more than willing to remind me on a daily basis." It was her turn to scowl. Despite a little voice in the back of her head whispering to be careful, that people never liked an angry mage, she strode up to him, shoving her hands against his chest. Despite the effort she'd put into it, he barely flinched. "Did you ever stop to consider that maybe I'm alive—after two decades of living in a place that your kind loves to deem barbaric, after two decades of avoiding capture from templars in full armor who aren't half starved and chained to a wall—because I'm not completely incompetent?! That maybe, just maybe I might actually have some semblance of a clue as to what I'm doing?"

He caught her hands and jerked them back from him, not hard enough to hurt her, but with enough force that said he wouldn't tolerate such an action again. His hands encompassed her wrists so easily. "You're not in your wilds! How many times do we have to tell you to work with us before you'll actually listen?"

"Cullen…" Sister Nightingale had stepped up to them, her hands carefully reaching to untangle his from Finley.

"Maybe people would be more willing to work with you if you didn't kidnap them and accuse them of murder!" Finley cried out, kicking at him without thinking. Sister Nightingale caught her around the waist and dragged her out of reach, even as the commander sidestepped the assault.

"That man tried to murder you," Commander Rutherford hissed. "If you're thinking he's in even a remotely similar situation to yours, you're wrong! Acting like this is just going to help our enemies to—"

"You don't even know who our enemies really are!"

Commander Rutherford strode back to her so that they were toe to toe, even as Sister Nightingale let out a lowly hissed warning. Pointing back toward the dungeons, he cried out, "He is our enemy!"

His words filled the room with such force that Finley instinctively cringed back into Sister Nightingale.

Instantly, he looked like he regretted it. His fingers gripped his hair, tugging locks free to curl wildly around his hands as he closed his eyes. "I can't believe—"

"Enough, both of you." Sister Nightingale's voice was sharp and clear, without ever raising above her normal volume. "What's done is done. Let us talk about this civilly, lest we all leave with headaches."

Commander Rutherford flinched as though the words had been spoken as a jibe at him specifically.

She'd noticed he seemed to have headaches before, but this made her wonder if they were worse than she'd suspected.

Finley carefully slipped out of Sister Nightingale's grip and leaned against the table, ignoring the way it shuddered. "Well, then. If we're to talk, let's get on with it."

"How can you…" Commander Rutherford shook his head, pacing a few steps away from her and then turning back. "Don't act like this is some burden to you. We're here because of you."

"Hardly."

"Excuse me?" He furrowed his brow, incredulity clear on his face. "I'm not the one who stole from someone I'm supposed to be working with. I'm not the one who knocked out my own subordinates!"

Finley took a step closer to Sister Nightingale. "I had my reasons."

"Had your reasons?" The commander shook his head. "By all means, enlighten us."

"What choice did I have? You wouldn't let me talk to him." Finley stood up straighter, squaring her shoulders. "You've had a week with him, and you've learned nothing." He didn't respond. "I had five minutes, and I know he's taking red lyrium."

Commander Rutherford's gaze narrowed. However, Sister Nightingale swept forward so that she was standing between the two, her posture still casual. Finley caught the glint of a dagger handle on her hip. "He was willing to speak with you?"

"He'd started," Finley argued, allowing her gaze to flit between the two. She settled on the sister—Leliana when it seemed clear that the commander wasn't going to dive around their mediator to attack her. "He believed me when I said I didn't want to see him hurt."

"You told him—" Commander Rutherford cut himself off as Leliana shot him a sharp look. Instead, he turned away, running his hands down his face. "Of course you did."

"Herald, if you would like to help us with the prisoner, then please speak with us before doing so," Sister Nightingale said, looking back at her.

"Cassandra wouldn't let me talk with him before," Finley muttered. "Not alone, anyway."

"We wouldn't have, either," Commander Rutherford hissed.

"Which is why I did what I did," she snapped back. "You're so bound with your world's rules and…" She trailed off, strangling a scream in her throat, throwing her hands up in the air and beginning to pace along the side of the war table. "He was talking to me. About red lyrium," Finley stressed, shaking her head as she looked back at the commander. "You're not going to get anything from him by threatening him." She looked toward the floor. "The red lyrium…I think it's a death sentence. He knows it. So he knows there's no point in talking to you. You can't do any worse than what he's going to face anyway."

"And just how much did you tell him to get that… It's not even information, is it? You've assumed things from a frown or…slouch. You're letting him play you." Commander Rutherford started forward. Leliana held a hand out to stop him from moving past her.

She crossed her arms again when she was sure he wouldn't move closer to Finley. "Cullen is right, Herald. You are inexperienced with interrogation. Whatever you think you've gotten from him, you likely gave him far more. He knows that we are divided in regards to his treatment now, which gives him strength in keeping his mouth shut. If nothing else, he knows that each injury inflicted upon him will further the rift between the Inquisition's leaders."

"So what did you tell him?" Commander Rutherford asked again. Both of his hands rested on the hilt of his blade. Even out of his armor, he still had that damned sword with him. "Other than you didn't want him to be hurt."

"He didn't think we were on opposing sides until you stormed in," she muttered. It wasn't entirely true, but Commander Rutherford had put on quite a show.

"Maker, help me." The commander closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Leliana was watching him, gaze narrowed. His shoulders slumped for a second before he regained his control. "The bastard's probably still laughing at us."

Their spymaster reached up, lightly massaging one of her temples. "If the two of you must have your little spats, then by all means. But you realize that the both of you have made my job harder with your antics tonight, yes?"

"I didn't—"

She glared at him. "If you actually ran down there and made a scene in front of our prisoner, then yes, you did."

"There was no need for such anger, anyway," Finley muttered, glaring his way.

Her words were kindle to his low burning rage, causing it to burst out again, his eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. "You unbelievable—" He somehow managed to stop himself. He stood there, breathing heavily, eyes wide, locked on her.

"You said it yourself, you wouldn't have let me talk to him. I did what I had to so that I could." She paused before adding. "I would have brought the keys back."

"I felt guilty," Commander Rutherford snapped, his voice a bark. "I felt guilty for not being able to get through to him, despite trying for a week. I felt guilty for having to even tell you we were going to hurt him. I felt guilty for giving you that burden to share with us, and you were using me." He began to pace behind Sister Nightingale again, throwing dark glares her way. "Using my guilt." He stopped, on the spymaster's other side. "It makes me wonder what else you're lying about, how else you're willing to manipulate us and to what ends. How can we trust you when you go behind our backs?"

Finley stiffened. She didn't know what to say to that.

It was such a logic jump to assume if she would lie about this, she would lie about other things. How had she not considered that?

She'd been too caught up with what red lyrium could be, with trying to find out what was wrong with it.

She felt like something was twisting knots in her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

What if he figured out she could do more than heal? What if he figured out there were others in the Wilds? He was too sharp.

Commander Rutherford continued to rant, though his words were little more than a steady drum of background noise.

Finley didn't know what to do, what to say. She couldn't breathe. They were going to figure everything out. Spots spilled forth across her vision, the world teetering slightly. Reaching out, she caught herself on the edge of the table, trying to keep herself upright as the world bucked and reeled.

"Commander," Leliana snapped, though her voice sounded like it was coming from down a long hallway.

Finley could smell the ash, taste the disgusting smell in her mouth. But she didn't hear the crunch of charred remains beneath her boots. Instead, she could hear the frantic, terrified chirps of injured birds. They drowned out the sister's words as she spoke to Finley, hands outstretched. Her knees smacked hard against the floor.

Just like then, she and her friends were going to die because she'd been out of line.

They were crying. Crying, crying, crying.

Her world went white.

She drifted, empty.

The song birds cried. She could feel their matted feathers against her fingers, covered in dirt.

This is your fault. If you'd just done as you were told…