For generations, the old Tevinter fortress of Ostagar had guarded against an untold number of Ferelden's enemies. It had repelled Chasind incursions, best Wilder rebellions and thoroughly quashed other malign forces who wished to do the folk of southern Ferelden harm. More recently, it had served as a shield against the Darkspawn massing in the Korcari Wilds. An engineering miracle that builders of the current Age would be hard-pressed to recreate, the fortress stretched out in a stone span across a narrow wooded valley; the twin spires of Asher and Ishal rose like silent guardians out of the crags.

Yet those who called the Hinterlands home also looked upon the old fortress with suspicion, making the Chantry symbol every time that the distant crenellated turrets caught their eye. Too many battles had taken place there, the farmers and traders muttered as they deliberately turned their backs on the Southron hills. Sure to be restless spirits wandering around, caught on the border between Ferelden and the Wilds. Ghosts with rotting faces patrolling the battlements, empty eye sockets turned in suspicion towards the Wilds.

Several of these rumours had made their way to the forces encamped in the fortress itself. These consisted mostly of the professional core of the Royal Army, led by experienced commander Loghain Mac Tir; King Cailan and his personal guard; a handful of Circle mages, and several hundred Grey Wardens. Although few soldiers came from the Hinterlands themselves, gossip and rumour had inevitably made its way up from the lowlands.

Flora of Herring, Warden recruit of just two weeks, had overhead a particularly dire tale as she collected her silver and blue striped tunic from the laundry tent. One young soldier– northern, from his accent – was gleefully recanting how he had seen a ghostly Mabari strolling through the tents the previous evening. Flora had frozen in place, near-paralysed with fear, until a nearby Templar had shot her a dirty look and instructed her not to block the tent entrance. Almost dropping her clean tunic in the mud, Flora scuttled off through the haphazard scattering of tents towards the recruit quarters.

Evening was beginning to fall; a typically damp and dreary Fereldan autumn night was drawing in. Shadows were starting to creep down the mouldering walls and decrepit spires of Ostagar, and a wide-eyed Flora fancied that she could see ethereal hounds around each gloomy corner. As a fisherman's daughter, she had a superstitious streak the width of the Waking Sea; and harboured a particular terror for ghosts.

At last, she scuttled beneath a stone archway draped with ivy and the Warden quarters sprawled out across the courtyard before her. These consisted of a number of large canvas tents, austere and mildewed; each one housing up to forty men on simple bedrolls.

Flora's tent was the one on the end, closest to the smaller tents that housed the senior members of the Order. Grateful that the grooms had already lit the braziers in this part of the fortress, she made her way towards the last tent and ducked inside the canvas flap.

There were about a half-dozen Wardens inside in various states of dress; some sitting on their bedrolls attending to their weapons and others conversing idly with their brethren across the narrow aisles. The inside of the tent smelled of pungent sword resin, unwashed man and mildewed canvas.

Flora bowed her head and tried to enter as unobtrusively as possible. Her bedroll was located at the far end of the tent, laid out neatly beside that of her fellow recruit, Alistair. Yet her attempts to remain subtle were in vain: she had not taken more than three steps across the soggy rush matting before a loud whinny echoed across the tent.

"Here, it's the one trick pony!"

Flora was no stranger to being mocked for her limited talents – she had experienced four years of derision at the Circle. Without responding to the snickers and jibes of her brother-wardens she wound her way around the bedrolls; feeling the prickling heat of their stares. There were some that looked upon her with a guarded lust – she was the only female present within their Order – but the majority merely narrowed their eyes with suspicion.

She's a spirit healer, Duncan says. I don't like the sound of that.

Aye. Spirit is just another another name for demon, if you ask me.

Ah well, the Templar boy is keeping an eye on her. Those Chantry lot don't need much of an excuse to stick their swords in a mage.

The mutters and narrowed stares washed over Flora like water over a fish's scales.

Ignore them.

I am!

Good girl.

Finally, she had passed through the gauntlet of their mistrust; reaching the spot beside the canvas wall where her bedroll rested beside that of her brother-warden, Alistair. There was a clear four foot of space between their sleeping mats and the other Wardens, who had clearly rearranged their bedrolls when they learnt the credentials of their new bunkmate.

Alistair was sitting on his own damp bedroll, meticulously sliding a grindstone along the length of a sword resting in his lap. He gave a polite grunt of greeting as Flora approached, flashing a small half-smile as she dropped her fresh-washed tunic onto her own bedroll.

"Alright, Flo?"

"Mm."

Flora pulled a little face as she reached up to unbutton her shirt. Alistair had returned his attention to his sword, but noticed the slight, unhappy nuance of her reply. He glanced up again, eyebrows rising.

"What's wrong? Have the other Wardens been doing that horse-thing again?"

"No- well, yes, but it's not that," Flora replied, continuing to unbutton her shirt.

Alistair coughed and pointedly directed his attention to the ceiling, a flush rising to his cheeks. Flora dutifully turned her back on him as she shrugged her arms free of the loose shirt.

"Do you think there are ghosts in Ostagar?"

"Ghosts?"

Alistair let out a derisive snort, wondering if she were joking. Flora shot him an anxious look over her bare shoulder, unfastening the buckle that tied her breeches together.

"I heard some of the soldiers talking about them earlier. Do you think the fortress is… is haunted?"

"Possibly," Alistair replied, giving a mild shrug as he returned his attention to the sword in his lap. "I don't really know if I believe in such things myself, but… if spirits and demons are real, why shouldn't ghosts be real, too?"

His answer sounded a fraction distracted, since he was trying his hardest not to look anywhere near his sister-warden's mostly-bare body. Although it was clad in smalls and turned away from him, there was still a lot of naked flesh on display. Risking a quick glance upwards he caught a glimpse of navy leggings being hauled up over slender thighs; and hastily dropped his stare to his sword.

"I hope there are no ghosts here," Flora said glumly, more to herself. "This is… this is just the type of night when they'd be roaming around!"

"How can you be more scared of ghosts than you are Darkspawn?" Alistair demanded, risking another glance upwards.

Flora was now pulling on her boots, fully clothed from the waist down but bare from the waist up. Alistair caught a glimpse of a scattering of freckles across her pale shoulder blades, before swivelling his head away so quickly that he heard his neck give a click of protest.

She was about to reply belligerently that Darkspawn could not get through her shield but she was pretty certain that a ghost could; when a shout came from across the tent.

"Oi, Alistair!"

It was one of the other Wardens, standing with a small group of his brethren. The man who had spoken gave a wave of his hand, which swiftly turned into a beckon.

"If you've finished playin' nursemaid, come up to the fire with us. Gethin's got a bottle with your name on it, if you're interested in takin' the ritewine."

Alistair sat up rigid, resembling nothing so much as a Mabari hearing a kitchen door open in the distance. The look of hope on his face was palpable as he cleared his throat to respond, trying to force some nonchalance into his tone.

"R-really?"

"Aye, lad. Just leave the mage – she'll be fine – and come up with us."

Flora had no idea what ritewine was – she assumed some Grey Warden tradition that Alistair had hitherto been excluded from. She blinked at Alistair, who was quite visibly torn between desire and obligation as he sat on the bedroll.

The opportunity to finally gain some measure of acceptance with his brethren was too tempting for Alistair to miss. Scrambling to his feet, he shot an apologetic and slightly guilty look towards Flora.

"I'll see you up at the Warden campfire, Flo. It's not far."

Flora, feeling her heart throb harder in her chest, responded with an anxious little nod. Then Alistair was vanished with the other Wardens, still grinning in mild disbelief at the invitation.

She finished fastening her tunic, smoothing the thick, striped weave over her thighs. The wind gave a mournful howl outside, testing the strength of the canvas tent walls as it whistled past.

Don't be so cowardly, Flora told herself sternly as she crept between the abandoned bedrolls towards the entrance. There aren't really any ghosts here. It's just an old fishwives' tale.

It was a truly miserable autumnal evening – not quite drizzling, but definite damp in the air. The moon was an anaemia disc hidden behind a sulky veil of cloud, and the entire fortress of Ostagar crawled with shadow. The ruins were too erratic and the darkness too deep for the strategically placed braziers to have much effect.

Flora ducked her way out of the tent flap and cast a slightly tremulous look around at her surroundings. Night-time transformed the innocent into the malevolent as skilfully as any illusionist; crumbling statue became ghastly apparition, broken pillar turned into a long-dead soldier clad in full armour. Each shadow was a possible hiding place for the supernatural to lurk; every soft nocturnal sound a potential warning of something advancing closer.

Heart in mouth, Flora crept through the rows of Grey Warden tents. The senior warden quarters were dark, and she assumed that they too must be up at the bonfires.

One of the braziers on the far side of the stone courtyard had blown itself out, and a well of shadow massed across the cobbles. Flora lifted her hand to summon the golden light to her fingers; and was immediately ordered by a passing Templar to extinguish this wanton and errant display of magic!

Clasping her fingers together, she made her way up the crumbling terraces towards the main encampment. The fortress of Ostagar was far more sprawling and extensive than the two spires visible from the Hinterlands would suggest; and Flora knew from experience that it would take at least ten minutes of walking in the shadows to reach the heat and light of the campfires.

Inhaling unsteadily – trying to channel the braveness of her indomitable fisher-father – Flora lifted her chin and continued onwards, clambering up a set of decrepit stone steps beneath the tower of Ishal. As she reached the top, something caught the corner of her eye and she took a reflexive step backwards, almost toppling down the stairs.

It turned out just to be a fragment of sacking blown about by the increasingly gusty wind. Flora clutched at the ivy covered balustrade and swallowed a gulp of damp air, trying to calm herself.

It's not a ghost. It's not a ghost. Ghosts aren't real.

Are they real?

Echoes of the dead do exist, yes.

Finding her spirits deeply unhelpful, Flora steeled herself and continued onwards towards a row of tents marked with a Chantry banner thrust into the mud.

Jumping at a stray guy-rope, caught by the wind and flapping loose, Flora let out a small, involuntary sound of fear. Alistair had not quite been correct in his observation earlier: she was afraid of Darkspawn (who wouldn't be?) but she also had absolute faith in the spirits who channelled her own shielding abilities. For as long as Flora's Fade-allies were aiding her, no Hurlock's rusted blade or Genlock's poisoned arrow would penetrate her barrier.

A ghost, on the other hand…!

The Fereldan clouds began to unleash a miserable, thin drizzle; too half-hearted to drive anyone back into their tents, more irritating than anything else. Flora trudged onwards, un-bothered by rain, the corners of her mouth turned unhappily down.

A figure manifested suddenly out of the darkness before her, and Flora cringed back against the damp canvas of a Chantry tent.

"Aah!"

"Relax, Flo- it's only me!"

Alistair stepped out of the shadows, rubbing at the back of his head, slightly awkwardly. His conscience had surmounted his desire to be accepted by his brethren just as they had reached the campfires. Muttering under his breath, he had turned around and trudged back down in the direction of the crumbling terraces to retrieve his sister-warden; who, after all, was a year younger and fresh out of a Circle.

Flora blinked at him, feeling the frantic beating of her heart gradually slow. Alistair smiled at her, and she offered a slightly forlorn and insincere grimace back.

"Flora, are you really scared of ghosts?"

She nodded, sadly; self-conscious at displaying such a personal fear in the midst of the far more crucial stand against the Darkspawn.

Alistair let out a little sigh, then reached out his gauntlet towards her. Flora took it, her fears immediately assuaged as her leather-clad fingers wound together with his.

"Right, let's go."

Hand in hand, the junior recruits made their way up towards the main level of the Ostagar camp; where the rest of the Wardens were gathered about their fires, laughing and drinking in defiance of the darkness.

Alistair glanced back at his sister-warden of two weeks, and thought off-handedly that she was a pretty girl, but smiled far too seldom. There was an air of gravity about Flora of Herring that did not meld well with his own light-hearted levity.

"You didn't need to be afraid of ghosts in that particular section of the camp," he offered, squeezing her gloved fingers gently as they passed the old temple where the Joining ceremonies took place. "The Chantry Mother sleeps in that tent, and her face is terrifying enough to frighten the Archdemon itself out of the sky!"

OOC Author Note: Oooaaaaa, a wild one-shot appears! Lol look at me making Pokemon references like it's 2016. Anyway, this is just a one-shot that I wrote because I wanted to expand more on the Ostagar chapter of Flo's story. I'll probably do a couple of these chapters, mostly because it's a chance to revisit a time that I covered pretty quickly in my main story (The Lion and the Light). Also it's a time to write about Duncan again, whom I love, haha. So hopefully these little one shots might tide people over while waiting for TLATL sequel! I promise to keep them all SFW, all NSFW will go up on my AO3 account. BTW, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter of my big story, I appreciated them so much, thank you! I replied in the reviews.