A/N: Thank you for reading!

...-...

Cassandra could not believe what had happened here. The General of the Inquisition's Armies, the current highest ranking officer in the Grey Wardens, and the infamous Champion of Kirkwall had gotten into a brawl.

A brawl, in the middle of the desert, not nearly far enough from the camp to make sure that no subordinate officers found them. It had been a scout who had reported it to Cassandra as she made her rounds, attempting to locate those who had gone into the Fade so that she could find out exactly what had happened.

There was talk that the Inquisitor had been pushed out again by glowing hands. That she'd been delivered back to them, once more.

More than that, Dorian had mentioned the Divine to in passing and now everyone was saying that the spirit of the Divine had guided them to safety. When they weren't saying it was Andraste herself, of course.

Cassandra told herself that she wanted to know which it was—if either—for historical sake, but part of her just wanted to know that the Maker really was guiding their hands.

She'd actually had Warden Blackwall in sight when the scout had stopped her.

Over a brawl.

She'd say it was so far beneath all three of them, but from the stories she'd heard of the Champion, she had a feeling he had started this. In the tales, he had a tendency to drag everyone down with him—never meaning to, of course.

Ser Yorric had seemingly materialized beside her as she stocked forward, a half smile slipping when he saw how serious she was. "How can I help?"

"Make sure no one follows me."

And then she was there, looking at three grown men covered in bruises and cuts with Varric and the Champion's lover, Isabela, playing damage control.

This was not good.

Then, before she could even attempt to ask what in the world was going on, Alistair looked past her and pointed, furious. "You!"

Cassandra wasn't sure what she'd expected to see when she turned, but it certainly hadn't been the inquisitor.

Finley stood stock still, staring with an unreadable expression at the badly beaten trio before them. Her pupils were almost pinpricks, and the gold in her eyes was more pronounced than usual, as though the very flames of Andraste's pyre were burning there, casting judgment.

With a shrug that quickly ended in a wince, Garrett nursed his arm and then pointed over, past Alistair. "Cullen started it."

In a heartbeat, Cullen was smacking Garrett's hand away as he hissed that Garrett should have stayed out of it. Whatever boyish anger had taken him, it died quickly as he looked up at Finley.

The little mage was stock still, lips dipping ever so faintly into a frown.

Turning back to the battered three, Cassandra's gaze swept over them slowly before she finally spoke, ignoring Garrett's adamant insistence that he'd just been trying to split the other two up. "I assume there is a good reason for this...brawl?"

"I wouldn't call it—" Cullen cut himself off as her gaze directed toward him. He tried to get up and then cursed as his hip protested the sudden movement, muttering that Garrett always had been one for cheap shots. "I lost my temper," he finally said, gathering himself and meeting Cassandra's gaze evenly. "Alistair was trying to turn Garrett and the others against the inquisitor."

For the first time, Finley's expression shifted. For a split instant, her brow pinched together, though it quickly smoothed out, and she stood there, stoney as ever.

"She's a witch!" Alistair snapped. "A real one! One of Flemeth's daughters!"

"I don't think—" Garrett started, stopping briefly when Alistair whirled on him, ready to argue. "I don't think she's one of Flemeth's daughters."

"I'm not." Finley's voice was eerily calm, with a hint of disbelief that she was even being accused of something so foolish. She was so still, almost like a doll. Cassandra couldn't help but wish that she would fidget.

"She is a witch. I can prove it—"

"Enough!" Cullen snapped, lurching toward Alistair like he might start the fight anew.

A sharp reiteration of the word from Cassandra ended that before it could begin. "Warden Alistair, we appreciate your concern, but—"

Alistair let out a laugh of disbelief. "She's got you all wrapped around her little finger, hasn't she?" With rueful shake of his head, he motioned toward Finley. "Maker, I was even buying into it!"

"But," Cassandra repeated firmly. Despite presenting herself as sure, she couldn't help but wonder what had happened. The warden had seemed friendly enough with Finley before the Fade. "We are already aware of the stories of the Green Witch. Cullen brought it to our attention some time ago."

Rather than deflate that his information was already known, Alistair's eyes simply widened as he stared at her and then looked at Cullen in disbelief. And then he looked at Finley. "You have a title."

Cullen sucked in a slow breath, as though he was dealing with something that had been gone over many a time before. "People make up legends when they don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand," Alistair interrupted. With a scoff, Alistair took a step toward Finley, pointing again. "I know Flemeth. I heard you talking to her. Garrett knows her well enough to know her voice too, so don't try to deny it. She's the reason you were at the Conclave."

Cullen made it to his feet with a bit of a wobble and moved to intercept Alistair before he could reach Finley. "There are dozens of mages that claim the title Witch of the Wilds. Maker's breath, Alistair. I thought you learned when we were younger not to believe everything a scared apostate says—"

"I'm not talking about a scared apostate," Alistair replied, straightening up as best he could. He looked like he'd taken a good hit just under his breastplate. "I'm talking about Flemeth. The Flemeth." He looked back at Finley. "Your mother."

"Flemeth is not my mother."

"Don't even try to hide it!"

There was such conviction in his voice. Such surety. Objects started from all around, every person present trying to defend their inquisitor from such ridiculous accusations.

An admonishment for such absurd notions was on the tip of Cassandra's tongue when Finley's voice interrupted, somehow silencing every one of them.

"She's not my mother, Warden Alistair. She's...more of an...occasional mentor."

With those simple words, the world seemed to crack and split. All gazes snapped to Finley as she stood there, still staring at Alistair with that unreadable expression, still far too still. Garrett had been making his way over to stand between Alistair and Finley as well, and in the silence, he slowly reached out and poked Finley's arm.

When she gave him a cross look, he moved back to Alistair's side. "Just checking."

"Cullen is right," Finley said, though when Cassandra looked at him, the inquisitor's words hardly seemed reassuring. Instead, he stood there, mouth partially open, looking quite the fool. Cassandra felt a twinge of pity for him, though she had not time to act on it. Finley continued. "There are many, many apostates who claim to be Flemeth or her daughters to try to scare others into leaving them alone." She hesitated and then motioned toward Alistair. "But I do know the one you're talking about. Not that she necessarily goes by Flemeth. More, she takes the names that people give her, or at least, that's how I've always seen it."

Just like Finley, apparently. Had that not been similar to what she'd said of herself? No real name, just whatever people chose to call her?

The inquisitor fell quiet after that, and the silence that fell over them was stifling. After what felt like an eternity, Cassandra took in a slow breath. "Warden Alistair said this...Flemeth," it felt foolish to even say the name, "sent you to the Conclave."

Finley looked mildly offended at that, pausing to eye Cassandra as she spoke. "I told you the truth about why I was there. A friend told me that Enchanter Pernice would be there, that she could help me with my healing spells."

"You said a spirit in the Fade told you," Cullen murmured. His gaze flitted, not staring at anything in particular, as though he was trying to work something out in his head. Cassandra had a feeling he was trying to do the same thing she was.

These were not minor details to be left out. These omissions were lies.

What else had she been lying about?

"Would you have even listened to me had I named her?" Finley stood a little straighter. "If I had just fallen out of the Fade and told you that Flemeth had sent me to the Conclave for help on my research into curing the Blight, would you have believed a thing I said?"

"The Blight." The words escaped Cassandra's lips before she could stop herself.

Mankind's hubris had brought the Blight upon the world. How could the mage in front of her not see that attempting to rid the world of it was just as much folly? The Maker would...

"She has a point." Garrett interrupted Cassandra's thoughts—everyone's thoughts, judging by the glares in his direction. "I don't know about the lady seeker, but Cullen would have tossed her back into the dungeons in a heartbeat."

"I would not—" Cullen cut himself off, glowering at Garrett.

Finley, however, didn't seem to care about the argument ready to start again there. Instead, she focused on Alistair. "I've shown you my notes on the Blight. We went together to collect them. You've seen what it did to the Wilds. All I wanted was to help restore some of what we lost, because we lost so much."

For the first time since Cassandra had found them, some of Alistair's anger seemed to waver. The man stood there, torn, appraising Finley with an expression that said he didn't know what to do.

The harden expression that took hold of him looked forced. "Flemeth was good at sharing the details that made her cause sympathetic. So was her daughter."

"You met Morrigan?" Finley asked, tilting her head. "No wonder you don't like witches."

"Don't even try that...I see through you," Alistair snapped. Despite his words, his voice was calmer, kinder. Likely unintentional. "Flemeth taught you well."

"Look," Finley hesitated. Her breath was a bit quicker as she stood there, like one of her panic attacks might be coming on. However, she steeled herself against it, swallowing hard. She took a short step away from Cassandra, back from Cullen, like she expected fallout for whatever she had to say. "When Flemeth found me, she already had a daughter and wasn't interested in having another." She shrugged, glancing toward her feet. "It's hard enough keeping oneself safe from templars, I can't imagine trying to protect a child as well, much less two. Most mages I know end up stabbed more than once, assuming they aren't outright killed and their children stolen away."

"So you want us to believe that the Great Witch of the Wilds found you, and decided to occasionally drop by and teach you things, while leaving you to otherwise fend for yourself in the wilds?" Cassandra asked.

"Our paths crossed on occasion. She was impressed I'd survived." Finley paused before adding, "And you're the one calling her the Witch of the Wilds, not me. To me, she was just a senior woodlands apostate."

"You said you didn't believe in witches." Cullen's voice almost broke as he spoke.

"I don't. Not what you're talking about. When I first met Flemeth," Finley said, turning to him, "she wasn't...young, but she wasn't ancient, either. She had some streaks of grey, but she was a mortal woman. I've seen her age over the years."

"She possesses her daughters to keep her life going," Alistair said, voice flat.

Even as Cassandra let out an indignant scoff at the ludicrous idea, Finley looked surprised.

"She...no. That would be blood magic. She does plenty of things that the Chantry wouldn't approve of, but she doesn't use blood." There was a panicked edge to her voice as she added, "I don't associate with maleficar."

Abruptly, Cullen was stalking away from them, despite his limp. Cassandra reached out toward him, but he jerked his arm out of reach, ignoring the look that she gave him. "I have work to do."

Turning back to the others, Cassandra let out an exasperated gasp. "Where is Finley?"

As she looked around, wondering just how the inquisitor had slipped away in the miniscule time it had taken Cullen to storm off, the inquisitor had seemingly disappeared. There were no tracks in the desert, no figure disappearing into the darkness.

Varric started back toward the camp as well, pausing beside Alistair to glare up at the warden. "Just what we needed. Another mess. Good going, Warden."

And for once, Cassandra felt like Varric was right.

This was quite the mess.