The rain lasted all night and into the morning. Finn had seen rain before, of course, in fact he was rather fond of the white noise it made on the Tower walls, but he found it much less agreeable when it was falling on his head and turning everything into mud. It sucked at his boots and drained the warmth from his body, and was overall just as much of a downer as the poets tended to find it.
They found a cave to weather the storm. It offered some shelter, but it was cold, and it leaked, and the ground was hard and damp and Finn woke up with a crick in his neck. He rubbed it angrily. Dagna stood at the mouth of the cave, staring out at the rain.
Finn went to stand beside her. A thick forest stretched out in all directions, as far as he could see, a sodden hinterlands of limp trees and brush. There were somewhere south of West Hills, he thought, if he was remembering the Fereldan map correctly. It was late Frumentum, and the oak trees had already gone to red and gold. In a few weeks it would be Satinalia, and the rain would turn to sleet, and then snow. Finn shivered.
"Maybe I should just turn myself in," he said. "Find a templar in West Hills and just throw myself at his mercy." Finn raised his hands in mock surrender. "Like, 'Help, help, I'm a mage. Please protect me from myself.'"
Dagna's eyes widened and she went pale. "Don't even joke about that. There's no Circle to lock you in now, Finn. What do you think a templar would do with you if he found you?" She shuddered. "I can't even bear to think about it."
"Oh, please, they wouldn't..." But Dagna gave him a look that stopped him cold. He did not think he had ever seen her so serious.
She might be right, he thought. His days of playing Wicked Grace with Hadley were gone. He remembered how upset he'd been when he'd found Hadley's body. He could only imagine how brassed off the templars would be now, with so many of their comrades dead. There were probably out there right now, looking for someone to blame. Finn looked away.
"You should leave me," he said. "No one is hunting you. You'd be safer without me."
"Finn, no. I couldn't possibly." Dagna shook her head. "And anyway, where would I go? You're kind of all I have left."
"Well, that's a little pathetic." Finn smiled, and he slipped his arm around her. "But thank you. I didn't really want you to go."
"It's a dangerous world for me, too," she insisted, and patted his hand that held her. "I don't know anything about the surface. We're better off together."
The rain stopped, and they headed out into the deep forest. Wild things Finn couldn't name scuttled in the leaves under his feet, black things with fur and green things with scales and other things he sensed or heard but couldn't see. Finn had never had any interest in zoology. Even the pictures in books had made his skin crawl, and back in his library he had avoided the whole section. Now flecks of life darted among the shadows. Finn wrapped his arms around himself and wished he knew a ward against the unknown.
They came upon a meadow, and both of them froze when they saw a monstrous, four legged beast. It was half a head taller than Finn, and built like a brick house, with horns like sabres and the black cloven toes of a demon. It chewed and chewed, endlessly, on what Finn could not guess.
"What is that?" Dagna gasped. She clutched his arm.
"I think... it's a cow," Finn said. It seemed as out of place as they were in the forest. It must have wandered off from some farm.
"Maybe it's friendly." Dagna swallowed. "Maybe we could eat it."
"People do eat them," Finn allowed, but looking at it in person, he thought he might have that backwards. The creature was the size of ten men. It stared at him with its big, baleful eyes, and Finn took a step back. It really never stopped chewing.
"Moo!" the beast roared. Dagna yelped, and they ran.
-o-
Hours passed, until it seemed they would never leave these woods. The canopy of leaves was a shroud over their heads.
Dagna stopped to catch her breath. Finn carefully pulled his robes around himself and sank to the ground. His body ached from his toes to his fingertips. He was cold and tired and hungrier than he had ever been in his life.
Dagna collapsed beside him. Finn lifted his robes off his skin, trying not to sweat. "If he ever meet Anders again," he said, "I am going to punch him right in the face."
Dagna looked at him sideways. "That sounds very physical."
"Well, a spell wouldn't work, would it? Anders knows wards." Finn shifted. "He was a good mage, you know. Talented. Everyone liked him." Finn remembered how the other mages were just so impressed by his bravado, his inane jokes, his stupid earring. Anders always seemed to know what to say. Finn had been jealous, really, if he was being honest. He picked up a twig and drove it into the ground. "I don't know why he was so determined to ruin everything."
"He must have been very unhappy." Finn looked up at her, and after a moment Dagna stood up. "Well, I'm going to scout ahead, see if I can figured out where we are." Dagna scurried up a hill to try to find their bearings, and Finn looked down at his feet.
The mud could not cling to his enchanted robes, but by now his boots were filthy. Finn scratched the caked dirt off the dragonskin. It wasn't any use without a proper brush, though, and after a while he gave up.
Finn sighed. He wondered if it had been like this for Anders, all those times he had run away. If it was, he really didn't understand the appeal.
But Finn had never wanted any of this. Others had chafed under the Circle's restrictions, but he had always been happy to play by the rules, more or less. He kept his head down and made the best of what the Templars allowed him. And for that, they had allowed him more than most. He could leave the Tower if he had a good reason, and he earned a semi-private room, one of the best in the Tower, with his own cot and one moderately sized window that didn't open.
Now all that luxury was gone.
Something landed on his arm. It was the size of a butterfly, but evil, and it bit into him before he slapped it. "Perfect," Finn grumbled, to no one in particular. He watched in horror as an angry welt welt rose on the bite site. He began to scratch it. "I miss the library. Nothing ever bit me in the library. I want to go home."
Dagna spoke from where she was on the hill. "Me, too, Finn. Of course I do, but it's gone and there's no point whining about it now." She sat down beside him and brushed off her skirts. "Look, it will get better, I'm sure of it. And West Hill is just over that crest."
He exhaled, and she looked him over before adding, "We'll need to sell your clothes. Hopefully we can get enough for them to pay for passage on a caravan to the coast."
Finn's hand went to his chest protectively. "Why do we have to sell my clothes? Why can't we sell your clothes?"
"Because you look like a mage, Finn." She was either entirely unaware, or didn't care, that Finn's clothes were the only thing he had left that reminded him who he was. Dagna waved her hand dismissively. "Kind of makes it hard to lie low when you're wearing a glittering magic robe and a pair of boots only a noble could afford."
"But..." Finn felt like he was being robbed. Those same boots were a gift from his father, and he had enchanted his robes himself.
Dagna sighed. "Unless you want to get picked up by the very first Templar we see...?"
"Fine. I'll sell all of my clothing." Finn crossed his arms. "And maybe if it's not enough, I can perform tricks in the square, and children can throw bits."
"Don't be silly, that would give us away." Dagna smiled blithely, and she held out her hand. "So if you'll just slip out of your-"
"No." The word came out much harsher than he'd intended, and Dagna looked a little stricken. He softened his voice. "I'm sorry, but they're my clothes and I'm not just going to stand her in my altogether while you go pawn them off to the nearest rube who doesn't understand their value." He jerked to his feet and headed towards West Hill. "Please, just... let me do this myself."
Dagna frowned. "Okay, if it means that much to you..."
Finn stormed off before she could finish. She shouted something after him, but suddenly he wanted to be alone, and away from her, and he was too busy feeling sorry for himself to hear whatever it was she was trying to tell him.
-o-
Finn had no trouble finding a tailor. When he entered the shop, the proprietor was briefly suspicious, but Finn managed to convince him he was not a mage, but actually a man in a dress, and then the tailor didn't ask any more questions.
They quickly got down to business. His first offer was one sovereign, some rather plain garments and a pair of sturdy but well-worn boots, but Finn could not really stomach the thought of putting his feet into the sweaty impressions of someone else's dirty feet, so he bargained for a pair of smart new riding boots, and a red doublet with ribbons, and a scarf, and the tailor gave him three silvers, which was more metal than a single sovereign, anyway.
With some reluctance, Finn forfeited his fine dragonskin boots, and his matching gloves, and the magnificent emerald robes that he had worn almost exclusively for the past seven years. He kept the amulet of Zazikel that he wore around his neck. It wasn't worth anything, anyway, as it was only a replica, and Finn didn't really want to part with it. Zazikel was the ancient god of chaos. It might be a good place to send his prayers, in these times. He tucked the amulet beneath his undershirt while he changed, so that the shopkeeper wouldn't see it.
He checked himself in the mirror before he left. He looked rather dapper, he thought, and he straightened his doublet, trying to adjust to the idea of pants. The tailor thanked him, and he went back out into the woods to find Dagna.
-o-
"Three silvers?" Dagna frowned. "Well, that won't get us a caravan." She glanced him over, and pursed her lips. "You didn't take his first offer, did you?"
"No, of course not." It did look like much less money, now that he was showing it to her. He shoved the trio of coins back in his pocket. "He offered me a sovereign first, but the clothes weren't satisfactory." Her mouth tightened, and he scowled. "I did have to buy clothes, Dagna. I couldn't very well make the trip naked."
"Right." Dagna exhaled. She looked like she was going to say something else, but then she just shook her head and managed a smile. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. It isn't very far, really. We can just walk."
"I did do it with the Warden," Finn reminded her. "It isn't a very difficult journey."
But this wasn't exactly true. They kept off the main roads, to be safe, and the path they found was flooded and overgrown. After several hours of slogging through the mud and underbrush, it was apparent they weren't making very good progress.
Even in good weather, the trip would have been daunting. Finn had thought he would know how to get to Amaranthine. He had been there before, after all, both as a child and with the Warden, but now that he was out on his own, all of Ferelden looked the same dull shade of brown, and the sun kept moving on them, making it hard to be sure they weren't going in circles.
"Do you think we're in Highever yet?" Dagna asked.
"No, we would have seen Castle Cousland, I think. It's hard to miss." Finn dabbed the sweat off his brow with his neckerchief. He then turned his attention to his doublet, but there was just too much dirt in this world, and the silk was already stained. "Ugh, I'm a mess. I forgot how this happens to normal cloth. I miss my robes."
"I like the pants, though." Dagna tilted her head, and gave him an appraising look. She smiled. "Nice to find out you have legs, after all this time."
Finn rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. I'm not." By then had decided he hated pants: they were very binding, and they kept riding up. He tugged at the waist. "Pants are a terrible idea all around. Frankly, I have no idea why they had caught on."
"I see," Dagna said, and tried to conceal a smile.
"Oh shut up, you're wearing a dress, you don't know!"
The only thing worse than the pants were the shoes. The soles leaked and the leather didn't breath, and it seemed like all the water in Ferelden was making a special pilgrimage to his socks. He couldn't bear to think of what his feet must smell like, and by the second hour he had blisters. "If I have to walk one more mile in these awful shoes," he groused, "I will turn maleficar."
Dagna glanced at his feet. "Well, the heel is only half an inch thick, and the leather isn't bonded, what do you expect?"
Finn stopped. "What does that mean?"
Dagna stopped too, and she turned to look up at him. "It means you were swindled, Finn. It's your own fault and you should stop going on about it." She sighed. "You really should have let me help you."
Finn scowled at her. "You think you could have done better?"
"I know I could have done better." She placed her hands on her hips. "I'm a dwarf, Finn, and smith caste besides. I've been bartering since before I could count. While you, apparently, do not know the difference between a sovereign and a silver."
"Well, it's easy for you to say that now, isn't it?" Finn crossed his arms. "Fine. You're a genius of mercantilism. I was wrong ever to think I could manage on my own."
"Please don't be like that, Finn." Dagna sighed again. "Look, I'm sorry. What's done is done, you're right. We just have to make the best of it."
Finn agreed that he would try, but the path grew more uneven, pocked and ribbed with roots, and in places there were puddles so deep Finn thought he saw fish swimming in them. Then they came to a footbridge whose middle section had washed away and left the path had flooded over.
Dagna hiked up her skirts and forged ahead, the muck and wet sloshing up to her knees. When she reached the other side she turned back to Finn and said, "What are you waiting for?"
"But..." Finn looked down at flooded path and wrinkled his nose.
"Don't be ridiculous, Finn," Dagna said. "It's just water."
But water was something you drank, Finn thought. It was clear and refreshing and clean. This was liquid mud, an unholy blend of sludge and excrement, he was sure, the kind of filth that grabbed hold of your soul and never let go. He looked at Dagna, with her dress brown to her knees, and his nose wrinkled again.
"Why can't we just take the Imperial highway?" he asked. "You made me change my clothes. We just look like people now."
"Finn, please. We're not at the Highway, we're here. Let's just keep going." But Finn made no move to join her, and Dagna put her hands on her hips. "Look, Finn, your oddities were somewhat endearing before, but out here... Well." She exhaled, loudly. "We don't really have time for this. We're not in the Tower anymore."
Finn looked at her, and then at little brown stream, and back at her. Dagna gave him a patronizing look, and Finn decided that he didn't care for it. He didn't care for it at all.
"You're right," he said suddenly. "We aren't in the Tower anymore. And you know what, Dagna? We made sense in the Tower. But all that's gone now and we have to accept that." He crossed his arms. "We should split up."
Dagna looked startled. "What? Finn, no... look, I didn't mean..."
"No, I can see now that I'm just holding you back." He glared at her and snapped, "If you think you can do so much better without me, then by all means!"
The words hung in the air like a tempest, roiling, inflicting even more damage in the silence that followed. As Dagna stared at him, Finn saw that there was no taking it back. He shook his head, huffed, and finally turned on his heel and stormed off, following the river, in the direction he thought was north. She did not follow him.
Finn didn't look back. He was better off without her, he decided. She was always second guessing him and telling him what to do, and anyway, her legs were very short, and he could make better time on his own. He resolved not to think of her ever again.
In a few hours he found the highway. He felt exposed as he stepped out of the woods, but he did not think how Dagna might have been right about staying off it. He headed due east. The hours wore on, he did not think how even her most condescending company would have been welcome. With every step his feet ached, and Amaranthine did not seem to be getting any closer, but he did not think about how sweet her voice would sound, if she were with him, and how warm her hands were, and how her smile could light up even these dark days. He wasn't thinking about those things. He did not thinking about them every waking moment since he left her.
And he definitely didn't think about her that night, when he found an empty meadow and curled up in the long grass alone. He wasn't dreaming about her, either, when he reached out for her in his sleep and woke up with a handful of cold mud. That certainly didn't happen.
He did not think about her when he was walking again, and he passed a merchant with a wagon full of oranges and carrots, dried meat and pastries, and his three silvers only bought him an apple and the stale heel of bread. And he did not think about her again, when after several hours his toe burst through the unbonded leather of his boot, and then later when the heel broke. Finn shoved his hands into his pockets, and he did not think about Dagna at all.
-o-
With the Warden and Ariane, this road had seemed a trip of hours, but everything seems longer when one is alone, Finn realized. Especially when one did not really know where one was going. It was several days before he reached Cousland lands, and two more before he crossed over into the arling of Amaranthine.
He picked fruit where he could; it wasn't stealing, exactly, these orchards obviously had more than could be picked. Or at least that's what he told himself. He did not think how much Dagna would have liked the juicy apples, or how she would have teased him about his dubious moral compass.
One day he got lucky and managed to kill a rabbit with a fireball. It was the first one he'd manage to hit but not completely incinerate; magic was never meant for hunting game. He did not think about how Dagna might have been impressed. Finn offered its blood to Zazikel before he ate it, because it seemed like the thing to do.
In Ferelden, he realized he should probably offer his prayers to Andraste; the only dragon cultist in Ferelden were crackpots who couldn't tell the difference between a drakeling and a proper god. Finn had no time for them.
In Tevinter, though. Finn had heard that in Tevinter there were still temples to Lusacan, cathedrals with gothic spires so grand they nearly blacked out the sun. That would be something to see, he thought. But it was hard enough just getting to Amaranthine, and Tevinter was so far away that it might as well have been on the moon, and in any case there was no point without Dagna, who he was not thinking about. He put it all out of his mind.
That night Finn slept on the ignoble floor of a barn, despite the fact that the hay made him sneeze and he was sure he would get fleas. It was still better than the ground.
He woke to an angry farmer prodding him with a pitchfork, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of smiting him with lightning, but he knew that Amaranthine was always crawling with templars, and so he only ran. The broken heel of his boot made for an uneven gate, and by afternoon his back was sore, and he was so hungry he was seriously considering eating the rest of the boot.
And then, finally, he found the old, creaking sign that said Radiant Highcrest Sheepshead Estates, his family steading, and beneath that the familiar winding footpath that led away from the Imperial highway toward his father's home. His steps lightened. Finn passed an old oak tree, crooked and cragged, and a half-forgotten memory flashed in his mind. He had climbed that tree, once. A lump formed in his throat: he was home. Everything would be right again.
He found the farmhouse where his family had lived. It looked different than he remembered. The front door was painted gray, not red, and a few of the old turrets had been torn down and replaced with gables. But it was still home. Finn took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened, revealing a stout woman he did not recognize.
Finn tried not to look disappointed. Of course they would have changed housekeepers by now, he thought. "Good afternoon." He bowed slightly. "I'm... I'm an old friend of Lord Guy. Is he in?"
The woman cocked her head to the side and scowled unkindly. "Must be a right old friend, not to know what's happened t' him." Her northern accent was strange; it had been so long since Finn had heard anyone talk like that. But it was not her accent that made it hard to understand what she said next. "Guy Aldebrant 'as been dead an' moulderin' for well on seven years now."
Finn felt as though the ground had opened up beneath him. "Dead? How? Why?" His nose wrinkled. "Did you say 'mouldering'?"
"Guy was a traitor." The strange woman spat on the ground. "Had the terrible sense to stand with Bann Esmerelle, 'stead o' the hero who ended the Blight, when it came time t' choose. Arl Faren rightly ended him, in a tuffle a' Vigil, and that was the end o' that. These are Sheffield lands now."
Finn stared at her. "The Warden killed my...?" The woman was giving him a rather unfriendly look, and Finn caught himself. She crossed her arms and scowled at him.
He cleared his throat and said, "Well, that is terribly disappointing," which might have been the understatement of his life. He slid his hands into his tight empty pockets. "Um, I... I hate to ask, but I have travelled a long way, and... might you have any room for me here at your farm, Lady... uh... Sheffield? I can't pay you, but perhaps..." and Finn tried to think of what he possibly had to offer her.
She didn't give him the chance. "There ain't no friend o' Guy's that's welcome here," she snapped. "Now get, afore I call the Wardens on ye."
And then she stuck out her round chin and glared daggers, in a way so profound that Finn thought her eyes might actually stab him. He was at a loss. She was a short, somewhat portly woman, but she seemed very spirited, and anyway Finn knew he couldn't risk using any magic. Resignedly, he turned, and he heard the door slam shut behind him.
He trudged back onto the highway, but he didn't know where he was going anymore. He had nowhere left to go.
The Warden killed my father. It didn't seem possible. It would have been long before Finn met him, and Faren hadn't mentioned it. Finn thought something like that would come up. Oh hello thanks for helping me find my apostate girlfriend, and all that, but by the way I slew your father, one time, sorry...
His shoulders slumped. Of course, it was possible Faren hadn't known they were related. Guy always went by his given name, and anyway, normals tended to assume mages didn't have family, that they sprang from the ground fully formed, like magical daisies. During their brief time together, Faren might not have made the connection between Finn and a skirmish that had probably lasted all of seventeen seconds in his rather busy life.
Well that explains why he stopped writing. Finn thought he should be sad, but his heart was racing, and his hands started to shake, and he realized he was angry. Angry at his father for being so foolish, for forfeiting their lands and dragging the Aldebrant name even lower than his magic had. And, less rationally, Finn was angry at Faren for letting himself be betrayed.
And then Finn realized he was also angry at the Circle. Why hadn't the Templars told him? Didn't a man deserve to know when his father died? But even Hadley, with all his overtures of friendship, had not thought he was worthy of that basic respect. Finn let out a long breath.
He trudged on. But by the time the sun went down, he hadn't found a single barn or shed or even a dog house where he could spend the night. He was weary to the bone. A carriage passed him on the road, too close, and he tripped and fell into a ditch. He could not bring himself to get up.
Dust swirled over him as the carriage rode on, but he didn't bother to brush it off. There wasn't any point: he was already dirtier than he had ever been in his entire life. He only stared up at the cold, dark night sky.
And he thought of Dagna. That Sheffield woman never would have slammed the door on her. She would have taken one look at Dagna, with her sweet smile and round cheeks and relentlessly adorable eyes, and she would have had to have taken them in right there. And then Dagna would have fixed his shoes, and maybe baked cookies, and Finn couldn't guess why he had ever left her behind.
He had no idea where she was. Finn couldn't remember the last time he didn't know where Dagna was. The two of them had spent almost every evening together for the last seven years. He would probably never see her again. The thought left a hollow ache in his chest.
Finn fell asleep there by the side of the road, his arms folded over himself, and he dreamed that Dagna found him. She had brought food, and his dragonskin boots and emerald robes, and Vera, somehow. She handed him his beautiful staff, and when he took it, it shone so brilliantly that it woke him. But when he opened his eyes it was only the harsh, unshadowed sun of morning, and he was still alone.
