Cullen had been resolved.

He'd been more than resolved, though he couldn't think of a word strong enough to attest to his dedication to his task. He was going to talk to Herald Finley about the Green Witch and find out if there was any truth to the stories, if there was any truth to the connections being drawn between her and that…apostate.

He still couldn't bring himself to consider this fairy tale character to be a real witch, even if that word was in their title.

Witches simply weren't real.

However, the mages who claimed to be so were, and if Finley proved to be one of the ones who declared herself as such, it would be…

Disappointing.

The mages who donned the mantle of powerful beings tended to be so…self-serving.

While Cullen had never met any 'witches' himself, he had heard more than a few stories, both from templars who had had run ins with them, and from incredibly bitter mages returning to the Circles, who cursed the damnable, Wilds' mages for their callousness.

The sentiment in the Wilds seemed to be that no mage ever truly need outrun the templars so long as they could outrun the mage beside them.

Cullen had always thought it so bizarre. When he was a recruit, he hadn't been able to understand why mages would want to live in such a hostile environment, where the templars couldn't keep them safe from angry villagers and monsters and demons. After Kinloch Hold, he'd figured they were all blood mages or abominations, having long since succumbed to those malevolent whispers in their heads.

Now…

When it came to Herald Finley, he was always left guessing.

Guessing what her motivations were, if she was safe, if she was thinking of him, how her lips might taste against his—

His first dream of her had not been the last, and they had gotten progressively…detailed as the nights went on. In most dreams, he found her in the gardens, hair sparkling with dew and a mischievous smile beckoning him closer. Sometimes she stood beside him in the war room, just the two of them, when her hand would wind around his arm, tugging them closer as she whispered things that made his ears burn bright red at the mere thought of.

If he could help it, he would have let his mind wander elsewhere, but he couldn't say that he was truly sorry for those dreams. They were better than most of the memories that haunted him.

Far better.

It was just…

Maker, help him, but sometimes he even woke up feeling like someone had been watching his dreams with a most disapproving countenance.

It had to be his guilty conscience. He didn't even know if Herald Finley would accept any sort of advances from him, and yet he continued to savor those dreams—he could not deny that he often woke up replaying those events, his body tense and longing for her, even through his guilt.

And after all, she was a mage, and he had been a templar for almost his entire life. He'd heard of trysts and love stories between the two, but they rarely ended well.

And anyway, just because she didn't shy away from him as she used to didn't mean she'd want to hop into bed with him.

He'd originally taken to burying himself in Ser Ross's recounts of the Green Witch's adventures, but now…

He thought he could see the places where hyperbole had taken hold—most of the stories were like that, really—but every now and then there would be some simple detail that would remind him of Herald Finley, and he couldn't help but think that if she had really done even half of these things, he might love her more.

Well, not love. Such a word was not to be lightly thrown around, especially when he was thinking of her the way he was…

But the point was, the Green Witch seemed to go against the standard rules—for lack of a better word—that the Wilds' apostates adhered to. She helped people, even saved templars on a few occasions, though no templar was willing to come forward with such a story themselves. He had to wonder if the templars had feared being kicked from the Order or having a manhunt for their savior more.

Ser Ross had postulated between stories that she was a good soul, kind and gentle, as the tales reinforced. He seemed to think he'd known her from somewhere—he'd slipped up in two personal dialogues where he mused about her origin, implying he'd known a mage child who'd disappeared—though it was hard to tell if that was something legitimate or if it was merely the ramblings of a lyrium-addled mind.

However, if Herald Finley had really wandered so vast an area, tending to nature and the like…

He wished he could have seen her before the Conclave, away from prying eyes, just the two of them…

Such thoughts always had to be nipped rather quickly, for such ponderings were pointless, and they generally led him back to his dreams of her.

It had been such a blessing to hear from the scouts that Herald Finley was returning.

As soon as he'd received word, he'd begun going over in his head how he might bring up the issue of the Green Witch to her. It had been a welcome distraction from his boyish pining. Over and over, he'd considered opening lines and ways that he could ask without sounding too accusing.

And then he'd learned that she was bringing the rebel mages with her and had been thrown a little.

Clearly, the reason she'd been so eager to get out of Skyhold was to gather her fellow mages. He should have seen that.

Why, though, had she not simply told them? He hadn't been fond of the idea of allying with them, true, but at the same time, he had told her he would work with them, hadn't he? Why had she felt the need to keep her goals a secret?

Whenever he began to think he understood her, or that he'd discovered something that shone a bit of light onto who she was beneath all that nervous fretting, something came along and upended what he'd pieced together.

He really was always guessing.

When he'd found her in the stables, his annoyance had fled his mind the second he'd seen her, namely because as soon as she'd turned to him, every dream he'd had of her while she was gone had come flooding back.

He'd been tongue tied, and he'd found himself struggling not to think about one of the more recent ones, where he drew her to him, feeling her heartbeat against his chest as their lips…

Maker help him, but how was he going to ask her about the Green Witch when he could barely keep himself from wondering what it would be like to help her out of her clothes and into his bed?

Worse still, after he'd somehow managed to say something that didn't have to do with all those thoughts running rampant in his head, she'd asked him how his dreams were?

Did she know?

It felt like she knew, somehow.

And then she'd been tugging him along to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona, and he'd barely been able to focus on introductions with how he wished his shirt wasn't in the way of feeling her touch.

He'd wanted to hug Leliana when she came up and interrupted their conversation. The more people were there, the more people talked, and it was at least a little easier to keep his mind from wandering to inappropriate places.

And then things had wound down, and they'd been alone and…

He'd all but forgotten about the Green Witch when she'd brought up that he'd wanted to talk to her.

So much for his resolve.

He felt like a young boy again, barely able to contain himself or focus.

Well, he was focusing, just not on the right things.

Then they'd been alone in her room and…it had been a mercy that she'd wanted time to herself. It had given him the time he so desperately needed to gather himself and refocus his attention. He hadn't told anyone else of what he'd read in the book yet, though he was sure he would need to.

He'd just…wanted to talk to her about it first.

Though, if he was going to get tongue-tied and awkward every time they were alone together, that was going to prove to be quite difficult.

Even as he wondered if he might ought to just go to Leliana with the book now and let her deal with the mess, that soft, gentle voice was interrupting his thoughts.

"Commander?"

His heart damn near leapt from his chest as he turned to see Herald Finley walking across the battlements to him. Her hair was free for once, hanging wet over her shoulders and down her back, and she was in a simple tunic and breeches that looked little awkward on her, like they'd been made for someone else. Considering the seamstress likely hadn't had a chance to get Herald Finley's measurements yet, it wasn't that surprising.

Still, when she walked, he could see hints of her figure beneath the fabric, and it set his blood on fire.

Turning to let his gaze wander as though he were inspecting the progression of their fortifications, as he had been, he took a moment to think of more mundane things to calm his nerves.

Witches came to mind, and he felt both annoyed and relieved by that annoyance. It was a blessed distraction.

"I was hoping…" He hesitated, glancing around. When his gaze happened upon the nearest tower, he motioned toward it and looked back at her. "Perhaps we could talk in there?"

She'd seemed curious by his need to get out of the open, but simply plodded along beside him, fingers tangling and untangling in her hair as they went.

Though he'd intended to speak on the bottom floor of the tower, once they were in there, with the doors closed, it felt like those stone walls were too close, the un-cleared debris littering the floor somehow taking far too much space from the already small room.

He could feel a headache threatening to form at the edge of his consciousness, whispers of screams in his ears.

He jumped when he heard a noise and turned to see Herald Finley was climbing the ladder up to the next floor. Without thinking, he followed her up until they were in the open air at the top of the tower. He gulped down a few breaths before realizing she was watching him.

Shame slithered through his mind. If it wasn't one distraction, it was another…

A thought that had been slowly building in the back of his mind whispered hatefully at the edges of his consciousness.

How was he going to keep things together here when he could barely keep himself together?

He felt a touch of magic and snapped from his thoughts to see Finley setting a small light to hover just above the latched door leading down. The second his gaze swept toward her, she was peering back at him, that light casting odd shadows across their surroundings. "A ward. To let us know if anyone is coming up." She hesitated, brow furrowing slightly as she glanced back at her spell. "You seemed to want privacy."

"Yes," he said a bit hastily. Taking in a breath, he looked down at the little orb. "What…exactly does it do?"

"It'll flare if anyone other than us comes into view," Finley replied, walking over to him. She stopped when she was beside him, glancing back. "If you don't want it—"

"It's fine," Cullen murmured, glancing at the little light one more time before forcing his focus back on Finley. "I need to talk to you." When she simply nodded to him, a surprising patience in her stance, he felt like someone had kneed his stomach. "It's about…witches."

He'd never seen someone's eyes glaze over so quickly. She turned away, walking over to the battlements overlooking the valley and then turned back to him, leaning against the stone. "Commander Rutherford. I am embarrassed for you. That a grown man could believe in witches—"

"I don't," he said, darting over to her despite himself.

He could swear he saw her tense as he approached, and it made that growing pit in his stomach all the larger. It had been some time since she'd seemed afraid of him, and that hurt him surprisingly more than he would have thought it would.

To think he'd been daydreaming of bedding her when she still recoiled from him so…

Pushing past his own wounded pride, he moved to lean near the battlements beside her instead of standing directly in front of her. Let her have a clear shot away, if it would make her feel better. Safer.

However, when he finally allowed himself to look at her again, half expecting that wary expression he wasn't particularly fond of, instead he found her appraising him with care.

Her brow was arched, skepticism plain in her eyes. "You claim not to believe, yet you bring them up."

"I've never believed in them," he insisted, taking in a deep breath. The subject had been breached. There could be no going back. "However, when I was training to be a templar, I was told that there are mages who…pretend to be them…witches." Her eyes had begun to narrow as he talked, and she shifted a little away from him. The movement nettled at the hurt already stirring in him. Blinking past it, he shook his head. "There are rumors that you are a witch." Even as she fixed him with a stern look, he closed his eyes and asked, "Are you the apostate known as the Green Witch?"

When he opened his eyes, he was met with an eyeroll.

"I have never claimed such a title."

Relief was the first thing to wash over him.

It was short lived.

If he took her words at face value, it was a good thing. However, with the way Finley was always so…distracting with her words… "Have other people given you that title?"

Her mouth twisted to one side as she frowned, inspecting him with more care before she finally let her gaze wander. With a shrug, she played with one of her cuffs. "If you have learned nothing else in your time with me, it should be that I, your Herald of Andraste, cannot control what others call me."

Whatever answer he'd been expecting, it hadn't been that.

For a moment, he forgot about why he'd drawn her away, instead really focusing on what she'd just said. "Does it bother you that much to be called the Herald?"

"I would prefer most anything else," she replied with another shrug.

Glancing down only to have his eyes drawn back toward the ward, he hesitated, unsure whether to believe her or consider this a new distraction tactic. When he looked back at her, he could see the honesty in her expression, a slight vulnerability, as though she worried she'd said too much. He swallowed. "You should have said something sooner."

She was playing with a lock of her hair, winding her hair around her fingers and then letting it slip away. "It's not so bad when you say it."

"H—" He cut himself off. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, if I can help it. I've never wanted to make you feel ill at ease."

"You're a good sort, Commander," she offered, pushing away from the wall and beginning to saunter toward the ladder.

Truly?

Honest as she'd been, she was going to use her declaration as a distraction tactic.

"Finley," he called softly. He was surprised how quickly she stopped, glancing back at him. "If you're the Green Witch, we need to know."

She crossed her arms, back still to him. "What makes you think I could be this 'witch'?"

Cullen walked slowly toward her, giving her what he hoped was enough space as he circled in front so that he could see her face. Her expression was guarded. "I know she's a healer with nature magic. She helps people who get lost in the woods. She saves injured animals. She mends trees struck by lightning. All in all, if we had to have a witch for Inquisitor, I'd say she's the best one we could get."

Finley arched her brow. "Are you flirting with me, Commander?"

"I, what?" He stammered. "I just meant…" Shaking his head, he frowned at her. "Please stop changing the subject. I only meant that—"

Reaching out, she lightly patted his arm. "That if you must be subject to the rule of a wicked witch, better one with a shred of kindness in her heart?"

"Not at all," Cullen replied, catching her hand without thinking as she lowered it. He squeezed her hand gently. "I just mean that most people who pretend to be witches—or find themselves referred to as such," he amended when she looked ready to argue, "tend to be less…altruistic. They care for themselves and little else, and they don't…save the day." He paused, growing a bit bolder. "The Green Witch isn't like that, though."

With a huff, Finley carefully pulled her hand free and crossed her arms again, fingers drumming against her sleeves. "If you must give me more titles, I suppose I can be this Green Witch for you."

"Are you saying you aren't already?" Cullen wasn't sure why he'd thought she would just tell him. If she was an apostate who claimed to be a witch, then from her point of view it would be foolish of her to admit that in a castle full of templars. And yet, he'd somehow thought—hoped, really—that she might trust him. Mostly, it was because being a 'witch' led to considerably more questions. Before he realized what he was doing, he was reciting part of what Ser Ross had written in his findings. "'There is no binding name for the Green Witch, but you will always know her when you meet, for she has fire for hair and stars in her eyes that are unmistakable.'" He paused. "No name, red hair, and your eyes are rather unmistakable."

There was another huff, and then she turned fully toward him, stepping closer and leaning up on her toes. "If you already had your answer, why pester me for it?"

"Because…" Cullen suddenly found himself lost. He'd never been able to explain it to himself, so how could he put it into words for her? Why had he wanted to talk to her about it? Why had it mattered so much to him that he be on the same page as her before he went to Leliana and the others with the information? "Because I wanted to hear it from you," he finally offered.

It felt like an excuse. Maybe it was.

Maybe he just wanted her alone or to be in her confidence or…

She dropped back onto her feet, frown in place. "Well, if you need a confession for your accusations, you're going to be disappointed because you shan't get one. I don't believe in witches. And even if I did, I couldn't be one because I have no blood relation to the great and powerful Flemeth. I'm neither she nor 'one of her many daughters'."

Cullen felt his heart sink a little. All his practice in how to ask these questions, and he'd still fumbled spectacularly. "Witch or not, I won't let anyone hurt you." He leaned forward a little. The evening light was dimming, and it was a bit harder to see. Her ward still cast enough light for him to see her well enough up close, however. "I swear. …So long as you don't go running in red templar arms when I tell you not to, anyway."

He tried to smile and felt a small wave of relief wash through him when some of the tension in her shoulders eased up. "Don't suppose it's really your fault when I go rushing off into danger, is it?"

"I'll still feel guilty about it."

Her lips twitched into a brief smile before she schooled her expression. He thought she was going for indignant, though it didn't quite hold. "There may have been some who mistook me for a Green Witch, on occasion, I suppose. I did not encourage it, nor do I now."

"Well, I will need to speak with Leliana and Josephine about this."

"Do you really?" Finley asked, her earlier bravado wavering as she hesitated. "Need to? Perhaps this could stay between us?"

There was a hope in her tone that Cullen wanted to do anything to please. However, he was the commander first, and she would be safer if everyone was on the same page. He started to reach out to her, but stopped himself, not wanting her to feel too crowded. He knew how uncomfortable that could be. "I do."

Her gaze was downcast, expression hard to read. It made it all the more surprising when she reached out and took his hand, swinging their arms a little. "I trust you, so don't…" She trailed off for a moment before glancing down. "Don't sell me off."

Her miswording of the saying made him smile a little, but he squeezed her hand. "I won't."

They stood there a moment before Finley bit her lip, attention drawn to the way he was still holding her hand. He could have sworn there was a light dusting on her cheeks as she pulled her hand away. "So then."

"So then," he echoed, watching her carefully. Maker, but she was beautiful.

And he was a fool.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he shrugged, glancing around. "Seeing as you aren't fond of most titles, what are your feelings on Inquisitor?"

"I don't have that one yet," Finley retorted, arching her brow. "Though, that's the only one I've ever actually accepted."

"Well then, Inquisitor," Cullen offered. "Shall we rejoin the rest of the castle? If we stay up here much longer, people might get the wrong idea."

Tilting her head, she eyed him. "And what wrong idea might that be?"

He felt his cheeks burning instantly. "That is, that…that we…you and I…we wouldn't want people to think…we were up here…being intimate or…"

Finally, he just stopped talking, not sure that there were any words he could say that would make what he'd been trying to say better.

However, even as he tried to muster his voice back so that he could apologize, she straightened up a little, her earlier smile back. "Would that be so bad?"