Someone was reading one of her stories. Their voice wavered every so often, and sometimes they interrupted the story itself to let loose a string of curses. Colorful ones that damned everything and everyone, from the storybook characters to the Inquisition to the Maker himself.

That made Finley grin, despite the pain in sent through her.

Moving in general seemed to have that effect.

She was cold again. It had settled in a bit too much, but a good walk would help shake it from her limbs. Though she made an attempt to move, to sit up and tell Sera—she recognized her voice—that cursing the hunter in the story wouldn't make him act any differently, the words never quite reached her lips.

When she finally did open her eyes, it was quiet. Sera hadn't been through with the story already, had she? Rather than that Maker-forsaken pattern of whorls and grains in the ceiling overhead, Finley found herself staring up at a tarp.

She blinked a few times, slowly, trying to remember why she would be in a tent.

Fire flickered near her. It was warm and…

She blinked again, lifting her head enough that she could look around. There were dozens of little fires hovering in the air around her bed, which she had been tucked into so well that she could barely get her arms free. As she managed to get one loose and reached up to hold her head—she already had a bit of a headache from watching the bright flames flicker—she heard a short, pleasant, yet unfamiliar laugh from beside her.

"Oh, good. You're alive."

The accent was off, but vaguely familiar. She closed her eyes and lay her head back down. "What… happened?"

"Do you not remember?" The voice came again, a bit nearer.

When she turned her head, opening one eye, she found a man she vaguely recognized sitting next to her. He had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and the oddest moustache she'd ever seen, curling up on either side. His smile was broad as he leaned his chin on his hands, his elbows resting on some old book, nestled in his lap—not her book. It took her a moment before she realized he'd asked her a question.

She rubbed her head again. "You…"

"Dorian of house Pavus, of Minrathous, at your service, Herald of Andraste." He spoke so quickly. When she blinked again, he laughed. "Feeling a bit sluggish, are we? I suppose you should, nearly freezing to death as you did."

"I didn't…" Finley frowned. She would never freeze to death. She liked the cold too much. "What happened?" She vaguely remembered something about birds and a lion.

That didn't sound right at all.

"Well, after you went toe to toe with a darkspawn's pet archdemon?" He paused for effect, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his book. Her gaze followed him slowly. "You rose from the dead, or so the rumors say."

"I didn't die," she mumbled. Her tongue felt heavy.

"You didn't do a lot of things, it seems," he gave her a crooked grin, then held up a finger, rising out of his chair. "I should get your devoted followers. They'll be thrilled to know that magic, once again, came through." He let out a dry laugh at that, walking to the tent's entrance and poking his head out, calling, "No mobs, please, but she's awake."

As he stepped back in, she looked around the tent again, realizing that the reason she couldn't smell anything burning was because every fire there was magical. The hovering should have given that away sooner.

More importantly, however, was that it was his magic.

That must have been at least a little of what he'd been talking about.

Cassandra was the first through the tent flap, half tripping to a slower pace as she hurried over to the bed. Dorian barely managed to step out of her way in time. She darted into the chair, reaching out and lightly taking Finley's hand. She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn't seem to find the right words.

As Leliana slipped up next to her, standing beside the chair with a relieved smile in place, the seeker simply nodded. "It seems the Maker is truly watching over you."

"Finley!" Sera's voice was sharp and very, very loud.

Even as Finley looked down to see that Josephine and Commander Rutherford stood near the tent flaps, Sera squeezed in between them, running forward and launching herself into the air before any of them could stop her. She landed on top of Finley, and the mage coughed as the wind was knocked out of her. Stars sparkled across her vision.

"Sera!" A chorus of voices snapped.

Even as Commander Rutherford started forward, gripping Sera's arm and dragging her to her feet—with a few low, harsh words whispered in her ear that Finley couldn't make out and Sera outright ignored—Sera pointed accusingly at her. "The frig is wrong with you? You're supposed to run from the archdemon, not play with it!" When he didn't let go of her, she kicked at his leg. "I've had to deal with this friggin' prig since you decided another nap was in order."

Finley reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to laugh and finding that she still felt like Sera was there, crushing her lungs. Her hair was too neatly done to let her fingers get far. "I do…sleep a lot, don't I?"

"Wouldn't be so bad if you were just lazy," Sera muttered. She finally jerked her arm free from their commander. "But no. You have to be all Herald-y. Stupid shite…" She mumbled a few other curses, crossing her arms and glaring at the nearest floating fire.

Finley's relief at seeing so many familiar faces faded as her memories finally began to untangle themselves. Parts were still muddled, but she could remember enough. "I'm not…a Herald." The mark tingled against her skin. "The mark isn't Andraste's blessing." She lay back on the bed, already hating the tarp as much as she'd hated her ceiling. "It's blood magic." She brought her unmarked hand up and pressed it over her eyes. "I apparently stole it from a darkspawn magister who breached the Golden City."

~"~

Dreams of demons and impossibly ancient monsters coming for her blood chased her back into consciousness, though the terror that ran through those winding nightmares faded away as she stared up at the tarp overhead, her mind collecting itself much more quickly than before.

She'd told them of the mark's origins, her little audience standing quietly around her while she'd felt like she'd been sewn into place. It was a good thing that her mind had been so scattered, she supposed. Otherwise she never would have told them the truth, for fear of repercussions.

And regardless of her concerns for her own safety, they did deserve to know just what they were up against.

As it was, smiles had faded, and questions had spilled forth and…

Had she fallen asleep during their questions?

She couldn't remember them leaving, or even an end to the conversation.

"Awake again?"

She carefully moved so that she could shove the blankets down and sat up slowly, frowning at the neat braids that fell over her shoulders. Looking at them made her feel like she was in someone else's body.

Even as she baulked at the idea, she remembered that she wasn't alone, and her gaze snapped up toward the other mage. His magic curled inside him quietly, like embers simmering, ready to burst back to life at a light gust of wind.

It was curious, Solas' magic was old, Lady Vivienne's was meticulously structured, and Dalish's felt most akin to Finley's, though it had strands of something old—echoes of something forgotten perhaps—wound within it. Dorian's magic was different. Archaic and structured both.

"You were the man who warned us when the Venatori attacked."

His smile returned as he gave her a half bow from where he sat. "I am glad to be remembered. With the way your memory is, I was half expecting to have to reintroduce myself."

"My memory is not usually so spotty," Finley replied, glancing around at the little fires that surrounded her. It was a pleasant whisper of magic curling inside each, though… those spells were not alone. She could feel magic skimming across her skin.

It felt…clunky.

Even as she frowned down at herself, Dorian let out a pleasant laugh. "You can feel the frost ward, can't you?" He smirked after recapturing her attention, leaning into his hands, much as he had before. "I'm sure you've been told before but your eyes are quite striking. In Tevinter, there are rituals and gatherings where mages draw themselves closer to the Fade, in order to bolster their magic for the more important spells, so when I heard the rumors of the sunburst eyes, I figured I'd know what I'd see, should our paths ever cross." He paused, head tilting to one side. "And yet… I've never seen the Fade quite so prominent in a mage's eyes. Perhaps you caught a piece of the Fade in you when you took your stroll through it, hmm?"

Finley didn't reply at first. Her head hurt.

Her head hurt, and the spell they'd cast on her was wrong. It was poorly pieced together, and it felt so much. Apparently subtlety hadn't been an important factor in its creation.

Any templar would sense it in a breath.

Dorian's eyebrows arched as she dispelled the ward with a flick of her fingers across her skin. "You know, it took us quite a while to come up with that. It may not be perfect, but I thought it would be sufficient for now. Lady Vivienne mused you might not approve of it, but I didn't think you'd get rid of it so quickly."

"You made that?" Finley asked, trying not to snap anything more. She didn't like his attention to her eyes. It was one thing for people to just be afraid of her because of them. It was another to have someone who might have comprehensive knowledge about how and what sort of magic made one's eyes like hers. The templars knew vague details, but if Dorian explained it to them, the wrong conclusions would be drawn and…

She wasn't sure she could outrun templars at the moment.

"If Lady Vivienne knew I wouldn't approve, it must take a long time to cast."

"A seven second cast time is hardly—"

"Worth wasting magic on," Finley muttered. She tried to conjure her own magic to implement her own spell, but stopped when she heard part of a spell on Dorian's lips. She looked pointedly at him. "If you interrupt my casting, we will have a problem."

"Then I'd wager you might not want to cast," Dorian grinned as she scowled. "You may be capable of a decent conversation, but you came very close to death. I would suggest letting your magic rest until you're a bit stronger, assuming of course that you don't want simply keel over now and leave your heroes' valiant rescue to have been a waste of time and resources."

Finley had a feeling this man had spent very little time fleeing from templars, if he thought one could just sit about waiting for mana to regenerate. Though…

"Do you know what the templars plan to do?"

Puzzlement settled on his features as he cocked his head. "About what?"

Rolling her eyes, she wondered how daft he could be. "About me."

"Well, it's not exactly like they've taken me to the side and shown me the secret handshake, but I'd assume they intend to protect their dear Herald."

"I'm not a Herald."

"So you said," Dorian leaned back in his chair abruptly, crossing his arms and then bringing one hand up to drum his fingers against his chin as he inspected her. "You know, you're hardly what I expected."

"I'm good at disappointing expectations," Finley muttered, glancing around the rest of the tent. It wasn't very large, with little room for more than the two of them and his fires. As she reached into herself, feeling her magic stirring faintly, she grudgingly conceded that he was probably right about waiting to cast anything herself.

She felt that abomination of a spell curl over her again and glared at him. He didn't even bother to hide the twinkle in his eyes. "We'll have to work on refining that ward, but in the meantime, it wouldn't do to let you freeze to death."

"I won't freeze."

He looked ready to argue, though quite abruptly, he shrugged, that amusement still glimmering in his eyes. "With the ward in place, it's a moot point." He paused, his smile slipping for a second as he leaned forward again, arms braced against his knees. "I've been told a little about the Inquisition in my time here, though I have to say, you being the Herald—whether it's true or not people still call you by that title, and you seem to hold a great deal of power here—"

"You overestimate my sway."

"You disbanded an eight-hundred-year-old organization with a word, did you not?" He arched his eyebrow. "I think perhaps you underestimate your power."

She was too tired to try to argue with him. She was surprised at how little it seemed to take to exhaust her. "If there is a point, please do get to it."

"We may have found a way to ward against the cold, modeling the spell after your fire ward you showed the others, but the truth is we haven't the magepower to keep it going across everyone who survived the attack on Haven for very long." When he was sure he had Finley's attention, his smile slowly curled his lips up again. "But I have an idea of how you could get some help, if you would be interested, of course."