The company had reached the gates that guarded the promontory: a granite and wrought iron deterrent to anyone who wished to venture further. Beyond the snarled iron the castle rose from the fog like an island; connected to the ruddy cliffs by a single sliver of rock. The narrow spur - which had prevented more incursions than any moat or drawbridge - lay on the far side of the gates. Below was two hundred feet of empty air and then the cold grey depths of Lake Calenhad.
The gates had not coped well with the nightly assault of the undead. The foe had streamed across the rock-bridge and hurled themselves against the iron until it yielded. One gate lay flat on the earth and the other hung precarious from a single hinge. Such mindless destruction was an insult to the castle's legacy: it had never been taken. Ultimately, all its advantageous geography had proven useless against an enemy within.
Nestled within fog, the castle seemed more foreboding in obscurity: since the eye could not see, the mind thrilled itself with imagined horrors. Flora eyed it with some misgiving, pulling the loose folds of her coat across her chest. She was acutely aware that she was the only one present lacking armour and accessory. Alistair and the bann were clad in mail, Leliana and Sten in rigid hide. The thin robes of the mages were augmented by protective amulets and shielding rings. Naturally, Flora had forgotten her staff. She could see it in her mind's eye: propped against their pile of baggage at the Redcliffe dock.
The cart could not pass over the narrow stone span that led to the castle. The company waited while its contents were carefully unloaded: they would need to be carried to the castle entrance on foot. As the First Enchanter and his cohort of instructors clustered around the cart, Alistair occupied himself with the mangled gate. Shrugging his shield from his shoulders, he set it down and turned his attention to the panel of wrought iron lying flat on the cobbles. It had been hurled from its hinges by the nocturnal surge of undead, but appeared otherwise intact.
The broad reach of Alistair's arms easily encompassed the gate; his hands made fists around the metal bars. His face did not change as he lifted it in a smooth and seamless motion. Each step he took towards the gatepost was unhurried; once there, he took some time to ensure that the gate was properly set on its hinge. No grimace of exertion disturbed the nonchalant expression; nor did the steady rhythm of his breath change tempo. The gate weighed more than a full-bellied duke in stretched leathers: Alistair had lifted it like a babe in arms.
"He's always been strong as a Marcher plough-horse."
The bann, tired of watching the delicate unpacking of Circle paraphernalia, had rounded the cart to join Flora and Leliana. All three of them were watching Alistair with varying degrees of astonishment and admiration.
"At ten, he could bend the iron parts of a bridle back into shape without firing the forge. I'll never forget him pushing flat a dent in my stirrup with his thumb."
Teagan spoke with a familiarity that Alistair would have been gratified to hear, if he had been standing closer.
"Impressive," murmured Leliana, the corner of her mouth twisting in amusement.
"Aye," agreed Teagan. "Had the arm of a lad of fourteen, mind you."
Perhaps some fragment of his name had been carried past on the restless air after all; Alistair glanced over his shoulder at the trio. His gaze came to rest on his sister-warden. She smiled at him and he returned the same. The grin lit up his features like a lantern and suddenly a young Maric stood before them: broad-shouldered and rangy.
"Maker's Breath," observed Teagan drily under his breath. "Well, there goes any hope of subtlety."
"In Orlais, they have a saying: 'Le sang se révélera.' It means, blood will out. The old bloodlines always manifest in the flesh."
Leliana received a wary, yet not entirely surprised look from the bann for this contribution. Teagan Guerrin was not stupid, and it had not taken him long to deduce that the redhead was no ordinary lay-sister, nor merely an accomplished markswoman.
"They do indeed," he agreed, watching Flora wander towards the gate post. "Andraste, that's a fine looking girl."
Flora's attention had been snared by a glimpse of bone-coloured stone that stood out incongruous against the dull grey basalt. The wind flung her hair in her face as she navigated the gate and then came to an abrupt, astonished halt. A pair of marble statues flanked the beginning of the narrow bridge: grainy white and vast in stature. She could not understand how she had not noticed them on their departure from the castle after the first encounter with the abomination: they must have been wholly immersed in the plan to seek aid from the Circle.
One statue was a horse, rearing up and nostrils flared; flanks furred with mossy growth. In spite of the lichen, the creature was so realistic that Flora half-expected it to leap from its plinth and canter down the rocky spur towards the castle. She removed a stray hair from her teeth and eyed it with some misgiving. Horses did not care for her: perhaps they sensed that she was a little frightened of them.
The hanging dampness was growing in confidence; pressing clammy fingers against patches of exposed skin. Determined to ignore the dizzying drop to the lake, Flora turned her attention to the statue opposite. Her eyebrows rose to her hairline and then drew together as her brow furrowed. A vast, burly and naked man leaned on a spear, one arm tucked behind his back. He was heavily bearded, and his face bore an expression of mild aggravation. Not a single muscle or appendage had been left to the imagination: the sculptor's chisel picked out every sinew and tendon.
Flora eyed the stone creation in astonishment. There had been statues in the Circle, but they were all fully clothed and modest in pose. They usually had a book in hand.
"Isn't it dire?" Teagan's voice slid over her shoulder, dry and amused. "Isolde's influence, of course. Orlesians! She wanted her own small corner of Val Royeaux, I suppose."
"Is it Arl Eamon?"
Flora was bemused when the bann let out a laugh from the depth of his belly: an incongruous sound against the grey morning. Alistair, who had been recruited to lift the larger crates from the cart, glanced towards them.
"No. No, it's not my brother, much to his wife's regret. It's supposed to be Hermasto the Lionslayer. From the old Tevinter legend."
Flora had no idea what the bann was talking about.
What's a lion?
A cat. Her general sounded bored.
Why did Herm - Hermion - this man need such a huge spear to kill a cat?
Ha!
"I see he's been restored to his former glory."
Alistair had joined them, sliding his mail gloves back on. He surveyed the statue with a wry and familiar eye.
The bann snorted.
"After the Great Castration of 9:10? Isolde is still convinced that you were the culprit. The vandal who struck off his manhood."
"I swear to the Maker it wasn't me," Alistair replied, and there was a grin in the words. "I'm sure that was what got me sent to the monastery."
The two men gazed up at the statue, which gazed blind and triumphant out towards the ruddy cliffside. The wind snaked between them, through the open gates and beneath the cart: ruffling the long hems of the mages' robes. The sun had retreated and there was a strange, sallow light in the sky.
"Ah , Hermasto."
Leliana had come to join them: Sten had not returned her attempts to make conversation and the mages were preoccupied with their paraphernalia. The bard's short hair clung to her cheeks, the auburn strands vibrant against the skin. The restless air rifled through her quiver; the shafts rustled like insects.
Then a figure emerged from the bowels of the castle, obscured by heavy swathes of mist. Leaning determinedly into the wind, it set out across the narrow stone span.
As it neared, they could make out the finer details. The flesh had fallen inwards beneath the cheekbones; the shoulders were hunched around the ears in an instinctual defence. It was swathed in a cloak that hung far too large around a gaunt and angular frame. Isolde Guerrin had lost even more weight since they had seen her a week prior. Her physical deterioration was startling: she had faded like a painting hung opposite a mirror.
Despite the neglect of her body, the woman's eyes remained as keen as ever: her gaze moving from the bann, to the Wardens, and then beyond to the company of senior mages. Her nostrils flared as she surveyed the leatherbound Leliana.
"I expected you back sooner than this. I don't understand the delay."
Isolde spoke with the authority that her title bestowed:, second only to a teyrn in Ferelden's social hierarchy. She was the highest ranking of those present, and her words cut the air like a silvered knife at a banquet.
"Isolde- " Teagan's appeasement was ignored.
"My poor son has been tormented by this demon while you dawdled on the road," she continued, as though berating a servant for bringing a port-wine instead of a brandy. "My agony grows more unbearable with each passing- "
"We're here now," Flora said.
The words themselves were not notable: a triplet of abrupt monosyllables, presented with the usual northern bluntness. They did not erupt from her throat at volume, nor were they barbed in hostility. They were framed by a commoner's tongue, but this was surely only a disguise; a shabby coat draped over a suit of silverite armour. Each word cut through the air as though serrated: infused with a cold vein of command. Flora's expression remained impassive, her clear water eyes unblinking.
Isolde Guerrin's lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed almost disorientated, as if she had been struck over the head with something heavy. The arlessa - confident in her preeminence a heartbeat prior - was no longer certain: for reasons that she could not entirely explain.
Leliana darted a sly, knowing glance towards Teagan.
Le sang se révélera.
The platform of superiority that Isolde had set herself on crumbled. Shedding the superiority, she became merely a frightened mother: her stare darting between the Wardens and the approaching First Enchanter. As she caught sight of the manacled Jowan, she flinched and angled her gaze away; returning her attention to Irving.
"Please," she said, in little more than a whisper. "Please save my son. He is only a boy and it… it is all my fault. I will do anything to save him."
Irving was flanked by Wynne and another crimson-robed senior mage. If the old man was out of breath after the climb from the town below, he hid it well. He bent his head to the appropriate degree and then began to speak: aware that time was of the essence.
"My lady Guerrin. Do you know the current whereabouts of the abomination?"
There was a sudden glassy brightness in the arlessa's eyes. "He is in the North Tower, or… or what remains of it."
"Thank the Maker. We will need time to prepare the great hall for the ritual. Once we are ready, the demon must be lured into the trap. You must persuade your son to enter. Then, we will begin the first part of the exorcism- "
Despite the cliffs, the castle, and the overbearing fog; Flora felt suddenly as though she were back in a classroom. The First Enchanter's explanation washed over her like a foreign tongue: intriguing to the ear but utterly unintelligible. Her attention wandered past the ridiculous statue - Hermasto the Lionslayer indeed! - and towards the castle. She wondered which of the broad protrusions rearing from the fog was the North Tower. Like most Fereldan castles, Eamon Guerrin's ancestral seat was built as a fortress: squat and solid.
Is this the biggest castle in Ferelden?
To her surprise, she received an answer.
No.
There was a wistfulness to the response that Flora - preoccupied with the upcoming ritual - did not notice.
Then which -
Denerim boasts the largest. Then Highever, town of many towers. Then the hunchback: South Reach. Redcliffe falls in fourth place.
Ooh.
Flora gazed across the empty air to the castle's squat grey face. She moved her hands, feeling the aureate energy ripple and flex between her fingers. Although she could not explain how her magic worked, she was relieved that her shield now came as easily as her mending. The shimmering aether materialised beneath her bitten-down nails; contorting itself to whatever pattern had been shaped by her mind's eye.
"Then." Irving's voice broke through her distraction like a dart. "The most dangerous moment in the ritual will be upon us. The demon, extracted from the body of the boy, will exist in physical form within this mortal world. It will instinctively lash out in a fury, and none of us will survive it."
"So - we're all going to die?" interjected the bann: brittle and impatient. "Is that what you've come all the way from Kinloch Hold to tell us?"
"No." The First Enchanter continued in measured tones. "At that moment, the anchoring mage in the Fade must draw the demon through the Veil, and slay it there."
See, Flora thought to herself, faintly smug. This is why we bring in senior mages and First Enchanters. They know what to do and how best to do it.
"Flora, it is vital that you act without delay. Any hesitation will prove fatal for those in the mortal world."
Flora was confused: it sounded like the First Enchanter had said her name.
"Eh?"
"What?!"
Her incredulous brother-warden spoke at the same moment. It was as though Irving had struck him in the face with a lined, liver-spotted hand.
Flora felt the eyes of the others land on her like a swarm of insects. Their attention lifted the small hairs on the backs of her arms.
"Why?" she asked, mildly appalled.
"I suggested you."
Flora looked at Wynne; the senior mage gazed back at her without blinking. There was no measure of apology on the elder woman's face, just a keen and unrelenting focus.
"I saw what happened with Pride at the Circle. That shield of yours yielded to nothing ," she continued quietly, speaking to Flora as though they were the only two people present. "You have powerful allies."
"No," said Alistair, a vein of alarm running through his protest. "No. Not my sister-warden. How is she meant to kill a demon by herself? None of you would attempt it."
Irving began to respond and Alistair retorted over him, his voice brittle with fear. Flora's attention drifted back through the Veil.
Can it happen as he says?
Yes.
But I ain't killing no demon.
You need to do nothing except be an anchor within the Fade. We will do the rest.
An anchor…. like on a boat?
Yes.
Hm.
"I can do it," she said a moment later, though not with much enthusiasm. "It's fine."
She felt Alistair's sideways glance of alarm. Even though he had met her spirits - or one of them, at least - he could not begin to comprehend their capability. His memory of the realm beyond the Veil was already corroded, tattered as old sailcloth. Knowledge of the Fade was reserved for those of a magical persuasion; for others, it slid from the mind like a dream, present at breakfast and gone by lunch.
It's fine, she mouthed at him and saw his face crease in a way that was now familiar: two deep grooves above his eyebrows and a pair framing his tautened mouth. The scowl of worry added several years to his one-and-twenty.
"You may well be wondering how you will enter the Fade."
Wynne picked up the end of Irving's dangling sentence and continued with it.
Flora had not been wondering this - her mind did not work that quickly - but now she was curious. She wondered if she would be expected to somehow fall asleep on the threshold of the castle, amidst a crowd of booted feet and rustling robes.
The senior enchanter gave a small laugh, reading Flora's expression.
"Why, aren't you in the habit of taking a morning nap?"
The light-hearted comment did not go down well with Alistair, whose scowl entrenched itself deeper. Flora shook her head: she had never taken a nap in her life. To sleep while the sun hung overhead seemed both unnatural, and a poor use of daylight.
"The quickest way, of course, would be to knock you out- "
"By Andraste's ass you will- !"
" - but of course, we won't be doing that," continued Wynne measuredly, darting a calming eye at the reddening Alistair. "Once we cross the castle boundary, we will have entered the demon's territory. We will then formulate a narcotic tincture that will allow you to slip easily into the Fade. It should take no more than a quarter-candle."
Flora responded with a northerner's grunt. Alistair's lips folded inwards until they were a tight and disapproving line.
The journey across the narrow stone span was not a pleasant one. The breeze had graduated to a stiff wind. It snaked around the castle towers and shook the rain from where it had been hanging in the clouds. A cold drizzle soaked collars and cloaks; hair and beards clung to the skin. The castle expanded before them until it filled their vision: vast, squat and powerful, like some prehistoric beast curled tightly atop its rocky thrust.
The bann led the way, jaw taut and eyes set on the entrance. The mages followed him in a clump of damp crimson robes, weighed down by their arcane paraphernalia. Then came the two junior Wardens, accompanied by the bard and the Qunari. Of Morrigan, there was no sign. The lady Isolde trailed behind, weary and pinched. The past month had stolen the last vestiges of youth she had once fought hard to preserve. Her eyes were fixed on the back of Flora's dark red head.
AN: OK I wanted to do a bit of a parallel here! Hermasto is based off Hercules (who had to kill the Nemean lion as part of his labours) who's obviously a total beefcake, and then you have Alistair just lifting massive iron gates nonchalantly back into place!
Anyway, I thought Isolde would add a few Orlesian touches here and there: and what better than a pair of glamorous statues? Flora sees the statue of a naked man at the castle entrance and assumes it's a depiction of its owner :P
Poor old Isolde! I have a little bit more sympathy for her now that I'm a mother too.
Hope everyone is doing well and keeping healthy!