A/N: Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading for me, and to everyone who reads! I've been filling prompts for side drabbles for AW over on tumblr, and if you'd like, I can post them up here, too. If you'd like me to, I can add them to Always Something, so that I'm not making a million stories to keep track of.

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Ever since her walk with Commander Rutherford the day before, things had changed.

For starters, Finley had noticed the way he was watching her, the way his smile stretched a little wider when he was talking to her, and sometimes if their conversation even dared to sweep toward a more personal note, he would stumble over his words and ramble, often changing the subject altogether to something else, like work. Finley couldn't bring herself to mind. She liked listening to him talk. He had somewhat of a boyish charm to him. His laugh was adorable. And just this morning she'd caught herself smiling at the mere thought of him.

This was the part where one of her friends back home would either tease her about seducing the poor, unsuspecting fool, or warn her that things rarely worked out well when mages fell for templars.

But did he really count as a templar?

She'd mused over that for a little while, or had tried to.

However, it was more than the way she saw her dear commander that had changed overnight.

In fact, foolish as it was, it seemed almost as if the whole world had shifted somehow.

And not because of the throes of romance.

Rather than her world shifting because of one person, it was quite a few. More than that, even. It was as though everyone had just noticed the apostate with the strange eyes and mark on her hand.

Well, not quite.

Back in Haven, she and Sera had made a point of wandering around and helping here and there, but people had always still kept a bit of a distance, so to speak. There was always some reservation about coming up to Finley when she was alone, and Finley had been fine with that.

Alright, not fine. She'd been annoyed because she figured she knew why they were keeping their distance. Despite everything, she was still a mage and still had her unsettling eyes, and the mark had to be intimidating. Often times, she wanted to run from it herself, though it being attached to her somewhat ruined that.

It crackled as though to voice its disapproval with her line of thinking, and she rubbed at her wrist, at the tingling that overtook her whole hand for a few seconds after the mark's initial crackle. It had been quite some time since she'd closed any rifts, and it seemed to be off put by that fact.

So many were quick to denounce the idea that it was blood magic, but Finley wasn't so sure. Commander Rutherford had said that it clearly didn't require blood to use, but Finley had a sinking feeling that blood had made it, and that tainted it in her mind.

She didn't want to be a blood mage.

She didn't…

She'd figured that other people had come to the same conclusion, especially quite a few of the templars. She'd figured that they kept their distance because they were biding their time, waiting for accusations of blood magic to come to the surface so that the good people could denounce her and express that they'd never fallen for her act as she was dragged off to face retribution for her crimes.

Even though that was still a fear, it didn't clutch at her lungs the way it used to. She had people who would help her, she was sure. Whether that meant they'd simply be executed with her was another matter—a horrifying one—but she wasn't alone anymore.

It was such an odd concept.

She wasn't alone.

Stranger still, all the people she'd figured most likely to turn on her—mostly everyone—had changed.

Since her walk with the commander, people had been coming up to her, asking her questions. It had gotten to the point that she'd had to step away from the infirmary for a little while, if only to keep the foot traffic there to a minimum. The other healers didn't need all of the extra people milling about, and she couldn't very well heal anyone with so many people distracting her. She'd nearly wrapped someone's bandage too tight before realizing she couldn't multitask.

People were thanking her for saving them—that made her uneasy, and she kept waiting for the 'but' that was inevitably attached to their praise, yet never came—and just giving her updates in general. A woman whose arm she had healed the day before was glad to tell her that it was working good as new. Another man had let her know he'd found some whisky while exploring, and he was more than willing to share, if she was a whisky girl. A small group of hunters had stopped to ask if she knew any spells for hunting or tracking, as they hadn't had much luck on their last outing.

Finley had dealt with villagers and the like stumbling across her once in a while in the woods, and without thinking, she'd fallen back on one of her usual methods for assuaging their fear of her and making sure they didn't run to the templars. She'd pulled three small seeds from her belt—she'd managed to keep hold of one, though she'd lost the other in the blizzard—and handed them to the nearest man, telling him to plant them at their first camp or after their first successful kill.

She'd been ready to explain it further, but they'd been ecstatic enough that they hadn't needed her usual spiel about how giving back to nature made it more willing to part with pieces of itself.

Though she'd wondered if they'd still be impressed when they went to plant the seeds and saw that they were just regular plant seeds, she hadn't had much time to think about it. An older chantry sister had gleefully come running back to the infirmary, arms full with half a dozen of a flowering plant from the garden that she'd mistaken for elfroot.

Finley wasn't sure how, but she managed to convince the woman to plant them a little ways from the infirmary, out of the way, so that they could 'use' them later. While she wasn't complete sure, she was fairly certain that the plants were akin to ones she used in itching powders, and so she cast a quiet heal on the sister as she scratched at her forearm and then asked her to go find Mother Giselle and see if the woman didn't have something for the sister to do.

Truly, it was all so odd.

It was almost as though they'd forgotten she was a mage, somehow. Like seeing her wandering quietly with the commander had somehow made her more…human.

She didn't understand it, but the resulting attention was far more taxing than just expending her magic on the ample injuries of those still being brought up to the keep—while the castle was big, it was apparently not big enough to house their entire forces, and a base camp was already sprouting up near the river. The injured were still brought to the keep, and some of them returned down to the river once they were better. While she was dealing less and less with frostbite, there were a good number of people getting dragged over with newer injuries sustained from their attempts to clean up Skyhold or set up camp below.

It seemed like their work would never end.

Especially when Finley could barely set foot in the infirmary without half a dozen people following her.

She'd looked toward Commander Rutherford's post to see if he might save her when it had first started, but he'd been entrenched in his own following, though his were more uniformly clad than hers. She'd decided going over to him would be a bad idea, as their mobs might somehow merge into something truly horrifying.

Cole was the one to come to her aid, of all people. Or not…or…she wasn't sure that spirits were people in the same sense that most used the word, but he certainly seemed like one. And she was quite certain that even if she didn't know what he was, he wasn't a demon.

His help actually helped.

As another sister marched up to Finley, suddenly Cole intercepted her, taking her hand and gently leading her to the side, talking about a wishing well and pennies not wasted. When the sister nodded, a little stunned, Cole looked back at Finley and motioned with his head toward the nearest stairs. "You should check on the ramparts for a messenger who's lost. He could use a Herald's help."

She'd hoped against hope that maybe that had been some sort of code for a message for her, from home.

Instead, when she found the messenger, he really was just a lost soul who'd dropped a report in a rather hard to reach place. The wind had caught it around a rather hard to reach flag stand on the outer part of the ramparts. Finley nearly gave him a heart attack—as he'd said multiple times—when she dangled herself over the wall to reach the paper with her toes. She offered to take the message to Josephine in his place so that he could calm down.

Even with a task, as soon as people saw her, they flocked to her, walking along with her, stopping her occasionally, and she felt like she was drowning in words and pleasantries.

It was confusing.

Varric was her next savior, calling off the mob as he stressed that Josephine wanted to see Finley. It was a fortunate thing that he could read situations so well…or so she thought until she saw the scout from earlier sitting near the fire the dwarf had taken up residency at. Apparently her offer to take the message wasn't as efficient as she'd thought.

While none of those seeking her attention followed Finley to speak with Josephine, again she found another cluster of people around their dear ambassador, bringing reports of noble support and promises of aid. She was content to wait her turn and give herself a rest.

Even as Finley considered that almost everything she'd heard was good news at least, one of them realized who was standing beside her, and the elf startled as though she were seeing a ghost. Finley's apologies and the elf's insistence that she needn't do so distracted everyone else in the room, though it wasn't until Josephine had come over and asked if everything was alright that they realized they were the center of attention.

"I startled this poor woman," Finley started, though the elf shook her head frantically.

"No, no, no. I was just…I haven't slept much and...no, I mean, that is to say I wasn't paying attention and…it could have been anyone beside me. It wasn't because it was you, it was…"

As she floundered, Josephine politely took both of their reports and suggested that the elven lass could sit beside the fire and rest for a while if she'd like, as she did seem tired.

She sheepishly accepted the offer. While Josephine offered it to Finley, she just motioned over her shoulder.

"I should get back to the infirmary."

She made it four steps out of the main hall when Reinald intercepted her with a cheerful grin. He was a happy man, all in all, and Finley could see why he'd been sent to represent the Rebel mages. It was hard to feel ill at ease with such an amiable laugh.

Pity he hadn't ended up the Herald of Andraste.

She scolded herself at the thought as she followed after him. Especially considering that would mean she'd be dead…and he'd be the one having the nightmares about burnt corpses.

They hadn't been as bad since the blizzard really, but most nights she was so exhausted that she just hadn't had time to dream at all. It was surprisingly nice. Especially considering what and who had been in her dreams before the blizzard.

But Reinald, he took Finley to the side, and at first she wanted to wish blessings upon him for finding a way to slip away from the rest of the world.

That was, until she saw the other eleven mages who had come with him to help sustain the frost wards. Dorian was with them, as well, and he grinned at her as they entered into the old, falling apart tower that they'd gathered in. "Oh good, we were beginning to think you wouldn't be able to get her away from the templars."

A few of the other mages looked like they weren't quite sure what to think of Dorian, even after all this time. She wanted to defend him from words that hadn't been spoken, but was not allowed the time.

"I caught her free of them," Reinald laughed, triumphant, interrupting her building indignation.

Even as Finley took a step away from him to eye him suspiciously, Dorian sauntered over and slung an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to the other mages. "Come then, don't dawdle. None of us will bite."

Finley rolled her eyes toward him and then scanned the crowd again to note that Solas, Dalish, and Vivienne were all missing from their gathering. Reinald hurried to her free side. "With the castle in the condition that it's in, we're having a bit of a debate about whether or not the rest of our people should come here. On the one hand, it's more people to help piece things back together."

"On the other," another of the mages said, a shrewd looking woman with a crooked nose, her voice clipped, "it's more mouths to feed and more strain on the people already here."

"More people to clutter up the place," another mage mumbled. He was sitting a little way away from everyone, and idly tossing a small ball of lightning from one hand to the other.

Narrowing her eyes, Finley looked back to Reinald. "You wish for my opinion?"

"It would be nice."

"I…" She tried to think of how to answer. She struggled with it for a moment, starting a few times to tell them to stay where they were or to come to Skyhold now, as her mind kept flipping like a dying fish. Finally, she just shook her head. "I have a mark on my hand that makes the templars think twice about trying to hurt me. Of everyone here, I am easily the safest, so I don't know that it would be wise to have me deciding what is alright for you to do. The vast majority of my experience with templars is just to outrun them. It hardly applies in this case for me or for you. My advice for dealing with people who don't have magic is to avoid them which, again, does not work in this scenario." She tugged on one of her sleeves, frowning when her finger popped through a fresh hole.

As she wriggled it free, a faint laugh caught her attention, namely because no one present was laughing.

Even as her mind went to demons, one of the mages held out a small glimmering stone. An older, yet kind voice followed the laughter from within the stone, a voice tinged with an Orlesian accent. "We appreciate your honesty."

Finley eyed the stone, slipping out from under Dorian's arm and stepping closer to inspect it. The spell was old, far older than anything she'd seen before, except for maybe whispers of broken spells in old ruins…or the temperature spell in this valley. Whether it was from the same source was lost to her, but it was old magic.

When the mage holding the trinket offered it to her, she carefully took it from his hand. "I have never been one to send another mage to a templar's blade," Finley murmured.

Just as she wondered if she had spoken too softly, the stone sent a tingle through her, its magic swirling. There was another faint laugh and then, "If I may introduce myself before we go any further, I am Grand Enchanter Fiona, leader of the Rebel mages. I apologize for not speaking with you earlier, but we would rather the templars not know we still have some of the communication stones from the towers. They tried to destroy or capture most of them, but…" She trailed off for a moment. "That is not important. For now, please know that I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Herald Finley. I would have rather this been done in person, but you can see our dilemma."

"Yes," Finley murmured before adding, "And just Finley is fine. Preferred, really."

That conversation wound on for well over an hour as they'd discussed the pros and cons of the mages coming to Skyhold, as well as other less impending matters. Dorian's friend, Felix, got ahold of the stone when it was decided that the mages would be coming now rather than later. He expressed a gladness to meet Finley, even if it was just via an enchanted stone, and then explained that he was going to go back to Tevinter to bring the Venatori to the attention of the magisterium. Surely, they would not openly support such a radical faction from their country.

Dorian seemed disappointed when Felix said he wouldn't be coming to Skyhold, but he didn't harp on the subject. Once the meeting was finally over, Finley dismissed herself to wander back to the infirmary. She'd partially hoped someone would go with her so that she might look busy enough to not be bothered, but the other mages had their hands tied with their own tasks about the castle.

And it was after dark by the time she'd left them, too. Most of the castle was asleep, and Finley couldn't figure out for the life of her where her day had gone.

Even as she started to consider finding some nice, quiet nook to curl up in for the night—now that they were in the castle and free of tents, she liked to switch up where she slept, so that no one could surprise her while she let herself rest—a pair of hands wrapped around her head, covering her eyes.

"Guess who!"

It was with great effort and the fortunate timing of that familiar voice that Finley found herself able to keep from whirling around and kicking at Dalish.

After sliding out from her fellow apostate's grip, she turned to see that both Dalish and Krem were behind her, both looking immensely tired, and yet still ready to cause some mischief.

"Boss's got a keg over at the back of the inn," Krem offered, pointing over his shoulder. "Figured if anyone could use a drink, it would be you."

Considering her day had seemed to go on forever, part of her wanted to reject the offer just so she could get some sleep. However, a larger part of her wondered if she wouldn't simply be caught by more people looking for her, even in the dead of night.

If that was the case, she might as well just go with people she enjoyed to be around, people who didn't put her up on a pedestal.

Just as Finley opened her mouth to accept the offer, a soft clink caught her attention. The sound of something hitting something, like stone on stone or, no. Stone on…

Without thinking, she forgot about the offer of a drink and wandered closer to the edge of the upper courtyard so that she could see what was going on.

She hopped the ledge, bypassing the stairs all together, when her fears proved true. "What's going on?" she asked, despite having a damned good idea.

There were half a dozen worn looking men and women spread out throughout the main courtyard, and they'd started moving the cobblestones away from the tree roots and from the looks of things, they'd just started to dig up said roots.

"Ah, Lady Herald," one of the nearer women started, though another young man who Finley vaguely recognized from earlier lightly thwacked her on the arm.

"She just likes Finley."

Well, that was new. It was a little pleasant to have someone else correcting people on the title for a change.

"Herald Finley," the woman adjusted, looking a little embarrassed. She motioned around the courtyard. "I'm sure you're aware, with all the healing you do, but this courtyard is an accident waiting to happen."

"More like accident after accident," Dalish offered from where she still stood up on the ledge of the higher courtyard. Krem whistled his agreement.

It was true enough. Just this morning, Finley had treated four sprained ankles from people tripping over the cobblestones on their tasks to and fro the castle.

"And so you're tearing up the tree roots."

"We," the woman caught the disapproval in Finley's tone and hesitated, glancing to the others as though for support before finally shrugging when no one offered to take up the discussion in her stead. "Yes. We're going to even out the courtyard."

Didn't they know what destroying so many roots could do to a tree? Damage to the tree itself aside, if it became lopsided enough in its base, it would topple over, and Finley didn't doubt the trees had roots under the castle that would tear up floors and walls.

Before she could really think about the implications or ramifications of what she was saying, Finley had already waved a hand, dismissing them. "I will handle the courtyard."

The workers didn't move, though gazes did snap toward one another, confusion and worry plainly visible. Crossing her arms, Finley tried to stand up a little straighter. How was it that Commander Rutherford always inspired confidence? "I'll see to it that the tree roots won't be a problem, so you can go get some sleep."

One of the workers further back leaned toward another, whispering, "Can she do that?"

A nearer one caught what he'd said—and that Finley had heard—and bowed her head respectfully. "We were given orders by Commander Rutherford."

Speak of.

She was too tired, however, for that to give her pause. "And I'm overriding his orders. I will handle this. You may go."

There was a silence followed by yet another, "Can she do that?"