A/N: Double chapter update with this one and 82, because this one was so short.
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"I do believe our dear Commander wishes to speak with you," Dorian drawled as they rode forward. Finley's continuing ineptitude at riding horses had left her riding with others, and while she did enjoy talking to Dorian, he picked up on things a bit too well. "He's been watching you with the look of a lost puppy."
Finley bristled as she dared a glance the commander's way to see that he was busy ordering his lieutenants to do something. Of course he wasn't actually watching her.
Though, damn near everyone had made some implication that he wanted to approach her or talk to her in the last week, as they traveled toward Adamant Fortress.
Part of her wanted nothing more than to believe. She wanted to run up to him and wrap her arms around him, to crush him to her as best she could. She wanted to pretend that he hadn't looked at her with that fear, that he…
"He made it quite clear that he's not interested in anything I have to say."
The words stung, even as she said them. She felt like she was reliving his betrayal. That fear in his eyes as he looked at her, so ready to believe that she could be something wicked in hiding. That standoffishness that he'd developed after, barely even looking at her when she tried to talk to him. And when he did…
There was a hardness there.
Worse than when they'd first met.
There was pain and anger and…
And she knew better than to trust a fucking templar.
Even if he wasn't technically one anymore, even if his gaze was softer, he was still bound with those awful notions that seemed to be ingrained in every templar's mind.
Magic bad.
When he'd made it clear that he wasn't going to talk to her—to look at her like he had before—she'd made a point to be scarce. It hurt too much to look up at him and see that distance, and so she put enough between them that it felt appropriate.
The days had been a blur since their falling out.
She'd met Dorian's father and was coming to the conclusion that parents were simply not pleasant for anyone. None of her fellow apostates in the Wilds had ever spoken highly of theirs, and to see it repeated so often…
Why did people even have children?
The train of thought always led to worse moods, and Finley tried to cut it off.
Dorian had been so hurt by his father, and so she had dragged him with her back to Ferelden to clear rifts, and even into the edges of Orlais, to help keep his heartbreak at bay.
Or so she hoped.
It seemed to work, for both of them.
Though, when the nights were long, it was hard not to think of what she'd lost when—no.
No thoughts like that.
She hadn't lost anything. From the start she'd known her time with Cullen would be little more than a dalliance. She'd just let herself get too wrapped up in it all, in the closeness, the warmth of another person beside her.
Of Cullen beside her.
If only she could just pretend he wasn't there.
What hurt more than any idle comments, any questions about their 'fight', was that every time someone said something about it, this pathetic little bubble of hope would well up inside of her, and Finley would find herself quietly glancing toward the Commander, just to see that he was always looking elsewhere.
Whatever the others thought they saw, it wasn't longing gazes toward her.
That much, she was sure of.
And yet her dreams twirled toward tumbles she wanted to forget, warmth and safety she wished she didn't know.
After all, what good did it do her now?
Despite a few more attempts at conversation with a few other subjects, Dorian finally gave up and let Finley stew in her mired emotions, allowing himself some playful banter with Varric instead. The dwarf was not particularly fond of riding on horses, either.
When they could finally see the Warden's fortress, Finley felt a pit open in her stomach. She could feel the thinness of the Veil, feel the creatures on the other side, trying to push through. It reminded her of Kinloch Hold.
She shuddered.
The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere near a place like that, and yet…here she was.
It was decided that they would attack at night, after the winds had died down. The two moons would be sufficient lighting, and…
She didn't keep track of all the details. Her part was to go in and convince the Wardens to lay down their weapons, to stop this madness—this demon army Alistair and Garrett had learned of.
That anyone would do something so foolish as to summon an army of demons was…beyond stupid.
That the Grey Wardens would do so was even worse.
They were supposed to be heroes. They were supposed to be so much better, smarter, more than this.
To see them digging in, ready to defend their insanity, made her wonder if perhaps all of her hopes and affections weren't ill placed.
She'd always thought she was just terrible with romance, but now…
How many of her heroes simply weren't?
The assault itself was horrifying. She'd heard again and again that there would be high casualties, but somehow it hadn't sunk in. Like her surprise with the sheer number of people that could be at the Conclave and then throughout the world, like the intricacies of social interaction that still eluded her, this had been something beyond her grasp.
And now that she was faced with the reality of it, she was sick.
More than once a companion had to grab her arm and drag her away from a set of soldiers she'd focused on, trying desperately to ward them and make sure they would be fine on their own.
This was worse than the attack on Haven, namely because they were there by choice. Her choice. It had been her word that had brought these people out here.
Out to die for her.
"Inquisitor?"
Tearing her gaze away from a mutilated body that had just been tossed over the ramparts, she stared up at Cullen, already cringing into herself. His hand rested on her shoulder, his brow pinched together with worry.
How did he always manage to sneak up on her so easily?
He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he set his jaw and fought back a shiver as a terror demon screeched overhead. When he spoke, his voice had that detached formality to it. "With the mark, you can stun the demons. If you can get to the ramparts and fight them back, our people can get a foothold."
Finley nodded, a little too quickly, though she didn't move.
Cullen leaned toward her, peering into her eyes with concern. "Remember to breathe. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't win."
The gentleness in his words caught her off guard, and for just a second she was looking at the Cullen she'd grown so fond of.
He squeezed her shoulder and then turned away, barking orders to a few of the nearer soldiers, blade drawn and ready.
Without thinking, she cast a ward on him. He stilled at the touch of magic, though he paused to glance back at her and nod.
A little lost, she nodded back.
"Finley?" Alistair slipped up beside her, gaze lingering on Cullen a moment before he finally motioned toward the steps leading into the keep. "We need to move."