The sun had hidden itself, a lone white eye behind a cataract of cloud. A long shadow fell over Redcliffe Castle and the town huddled on the shoreline below: the temperature slunk down by several degrees. All the bright wintery promise of the morning had faded into a sullen midday that seemed more like evening. Rain fell in elongated angles, pooling on the ground and turning the red dust to clay underfoot.
The thrust of stone that served as the castle's foundation was high, but not broad and the fortress paid a price for its prized location. Space was in short supply and - out of necessity - everything had been built in an overlapping tangle. The four towers loomed close overhead like a quartet of disapproving tutors, casting the courtyard in perpetual shade. Noise and movement spilled from the doors and flowed through the courtyard. In happier times, the clamor of Eamon's stables would have competed directly with noise from the kitchens; while steam from the laundry would mist the windows of the great hall.
Yet these were not happy times, and the castle had an unnatural stillness: like a grave after the departure of mourners. The company passed beneath a precariously balanced, sharp-toothed portcullis. The cobbled courtyard was littered with the debris of hasty abandonment: overturned buckets, a pile of linens, a broom set at a drunken angle against the wall. Three sweeping steps led up to the iron-studded entranceway to the great hall. The only sound was the sibilant drumming of raindrops against stone.
They came to a halt in voiceless consensus before the steps. The Circle mages began to fuss over their apparatus. One of the lanterns had been dented on the journey up, prompting a volley of muffled accusations. Intimidated by the funereal hush, they sparred in hisses and whispers.
Flora inched away from the cluster of senior instructors in case one of them tried to talk to her. She did not want to be spoken to by a teacher - least of all the troublemaker Wynne, who had volunteered her for the role of Fade-anchor. Only the reassurance of Flora's spirits had prompted her to agree: she still had no real idea what she was expected to do.
A spot had emerged on her chin sometime during the night. Flora licked her finger and pressed it to the pimple, her brow creasing. This was the first time that she had surveyed the castle properly; the towers, the turrets and the serrated stone of the walls. For some reason, the sprawling battlements had ignited a flicker of nostalgia in some murky reach of her memory.
Did Kinhold Hold have ramparts like that?
There was the briefest pause, then: No.
Huh.
Flora judged the towers to be lesser in height to the cliffs that flanked Herring: vast and sprawling hexagonal columns of dark basalt. Undercut by the perpetual bite of the sea, they rose upwards from shore to sky; loftier than any Chantry spire.
The blemish melted away beneath her fingertip but she could feel another one throbbing beneath the skin on her forehead. Cramp gnawed at her belly: Flora's magic had never alleviated the discomfort associated with her monthly courses.
A splintered wooden buckler caught her eye, discarded near the base of a nearby wall. It was the sort used for practice by squires and play by idle children.
If I'm in the Fade, I won't be able to shield Alistair.
This realisation made Flora's heart sink like an anchor. Duncan's last instruction to her had been, look after your brother-warden on the battlefield. She did not want him to rely on the mundane piece of steel strapped to his back, which seemed to offer as much protection as a dinner plate.
Likewise, Alistair harboured his own concerns about his sister-warden. He still could not understand why she had to be the one venturing into the Fade when they had gathered a collection of veteran mages from the Circle. The contrast between the senior instructors and Flora was astonishing. Garbed in uniform crimson, armed with staves and enchanted accessories, the experienced mages radiated capability and wisdom.
His sister-warden, clad in so many ill-fitting layers that she resembled a sentient pile of laundry, bore a mindless stare and was inexplicably poking at her face.
"Flora," he said quietly and she looked across at him, brow furrowed.
The distance between them shrank as Flora picked her way over the damp cobblestones. The deep red of her hair stood out like a spill of paint against the bland stone.
"Mm."
"The last time you were in the Fade," he began, then hesitated. "The last time- "
Flora could read the tail of his sentence on his face. Duncan's face rose in her mind's eye; the careworn charisma melting away into a demonic snarl
"It won't be like that," she said, not wanting him to voice it. "It's different."
Alistair blinked, then glanced up to the sallow wash of sky. When he spoke next, there was a melancholy edge to the words.
"You need to stop going to places where I… where I can't follow."
Flora caught his eye with a swift and practised adeptness: she knew well how to snare a man's attention. Sure enough, his gaze snapped back to her, the scattered flecks in the irises standing out sharp and green.
"I'll always come back," she replied in her soft, hoarse northerner's cadence. The curious gazes of others prickled her skin like a rash.
"Promise?" His jaw was rigid.
"Swear so."
"Swear on- "
Alistair cast about for something that Flora valued highly enough to set her oath on. It was no use asking her to make her promise to the Maker, since she was not particularly devout.
"Swear on Herring," he said at last, self-conscious and earnest in equal measure.
"I swear on Herring," Flora repeated obediently, solemn as a young nun taking her vows. "CRABS EAT ME if I lie."
He exhaled, then twisted the corner of his mouth at her in a rueful smile. The events of the previous night - when he had knelt before her and kissed her neck - nightgown slithering down the pale flesh of her shoulder - seemed little more than a half-remembered dream.
There came a murmur from the group of mages. The dented lantern had now been inspected and judged to have no negative effect on the ritual, and Irving's head was swivelling in their direction. There was a brittle, nervy expectancy in the air: breath hung suspended in the throat and eyes darted like prey forced from the undergrowth. The senior instructors were not cowards , but they had recently suffered a terrible ordeal at the hands of an abomination; now, they were about to walk into the presence of another. Wynne alone appeared serene, as though she were at the front of her classroom instead of on the threshold of a demon's lair. She stood with her eyes fixed on the northern tower, as though she had glimpsed movement through a narrow window. Teagan Guerrin was nearby, in the midst of a hushed and irate exchange with the arlessa.
Flora realised that time was short.
"You be careful too," she breathed, suddenly anxiously. "If I'm asleep, you won't have a shield."
Alistair smiled, not understanding.
"But I've got a shield, sweetheart."
She shot the silvered disc a look that veered between contempt and disbelief. In her mind, it barely qualified as a tool of defence; unless one's attackers were children.
"It's silverite," he protested, seeing her brows furrow. "The Templars at the Circle gave it to me. For what it's worth, they said it's magic-resistant."
Flora did not fully understand what silverite was. Given the name, she assumed it was a close relative of silver. The Waking Sea spat out metal flotsam onto Herring's shore: bronze candlesticks, gilded lanterns, iron rings and railings from various unfortunate ships. Silver was not a strong metal: it arrived on the shingle salt-stained and bent beyond recognition.
She gazed at Alistair's shield with new disdain, lip curling. It seemed fit for nothing useful, except perhaps for repurpose as a dinner plate.
Her contemplation was interrupted by Leliana, who seemed oddly eager to venture into the demon's lair. The bard already had her bow in hand, rain bracing along the length of curved beech.
"Bann Teagan is about to try the door. Are you both ready? Why are you wearing two coats?"
This was directed at Flora, who had found and clad herself in a discarded woollen jacket.
"Layers is best when it's raining," she replied, shaking the sagging sleeves away from her hands.
"You are the shape of a ball. Come on!"
The bann hesitated on the threshold, then pressed a shoulder to the iron-studded door. It was not locked, and gave way with a groan of old wood. Beyond was a widening view of a stale and abandoned hall. The high windows, filmed with a fine layer of dust, let in a mean amount of light; much of the space was cast in a dull and shadowy murk. The furniture - long oak tables and accompanying benches - lay in a broken tangle at the far end. It was as still as a tableau from an Orlesian play: a held breath awaiting their arrival.
They could not avoid making noise as they entered the hall: after all, there were over a dozen of them in total. The bann led the way, striding forward with a boldness borne from both fear and anger. The mages followed like a herd of crimson geese, nervy and close together; arcane paraphernalia in hand. Sten took up a position near the doorway: he had chosen the spot with the best vantage point.
Then, suddenly and without warning, a growling snarl rent the air. It seemed to come from all directions simultaneously : a dozen voices converging as one on the company as they entered. It spoke with a rasp like an old man gargling small pebbles: each word louder than the last until it was shrieking.
getoutgetoutgetOUTGETOUTGET OUT GET OUT!
GET OUT! G ET OUT!
The mages contracted into a rigid huddle on the threshold; heads swivelling. Leliana, quick as a dart, had extracted and nocked an arrow in the time that it took Alistair to reach for his sword-hilt. The voice withdrew from the ball with a petulant hiss, slithering back through the doorways like retracting tentacles.
"Maker's Breath," muttered the bann, taking a steadying breath. "So much for our stealthy entrance."
His face had a newly greyish tinge, the flesh in stark contrast to the ruddy auburn of his beard.
Alistair exhaled, letting his sword slither several inches back into its scabbard. He glanced sideways to his sister-warden, and was startled to see nostalgia settled like morning mist across her fine-boned features.
Flora noticed his surprise and tilted her face towards him, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"Reminds me of when you enter a house in Herring," she whispered.
"What, the owner shrieks ' get out' at you in a demonic wail?"
"Mm," she replied, wistful. "I miss home."
The more that Alistair learnt of Herring, the less he liked it. He found it hard to believe that his soft-spoken sister-warden had originated from such a loathsome hole.
The company waited with baited breath, but the abomination did not make an appearance. It occupied itself instead with gutting the northern tower from cellar to turreted roof; a great and muffled cacophony.
Time was in short supply. Swiftly and with a deliberate calm, Irving issued a set of instructions. The ritual equipment would need to be set up at the perimeter of the chamber; the apparatus for brewing the tincture could be assembled near the door. There followed a flurry of movement as the senior mages hastened to obey. Nobody wanted the demon to arrive before the proper precautions had been made.
Flora did not venture far into the great hall: she could not contribute to the alchemy nor the ritual preparation. Alistair had ventured forward to speak in lowered tones with the bann; her gaze slid past him, to the tangle of furniture at the far end of the chamber.
That was me, she recalled with mild interest. I did that.
The abomination had attempted to crush the interlopers with a cascade of falling furniture. Her shield had netted the avalanche of oak as it plunged from the rafters; letting it loose in a cacophonous tumble at the southern end.
Huh.
Flora could feel the eyes of the Circle mages on her as they worked. Their stares were a chimera of curiosity and guarded wariness. They looked at her as they would a previously blank notebook that had filled itself with writing overnight.
I preferred it when they thought I was useless, she thought to herself, gloomily. At least they just ignored me.
Not wanting to catch anyone's eye in case they approached her - there were a few not occupied with setting up the apparatus - Flora turned her back on the hall. From behind, she heard a collective groan of dismay. It seemed that the first mixture of the tincture had curdled in the early stages of brewing. A second mixture would need to be formulated,delaying the ritual further.
There was a tapestry hanging to the left of the door that was still mostly whole; a mass of woven fabric in muted autumnal hues. The border was a pattern of three-pronged leaves; the subject the aftermath of a battle. Silhouetted figures limped from the field, their bodies bent and broken. The dead lay in a ruddy tangle underfoot, trodden down by wandering, riderless horses. There was no clue as to the context of the image. It seemed to be the last of a series, its companion-pieces had fallen victim to the general devastation.
Flora eyed one meticulously stitched figure no taller than her smallest finger. It was bent double, one leg dragging behind it. She could emphasise: her weak knee ached from the steep climb to the castle. The reminder of the rushed and thoughtless post-Ostagar mending appeared to be permanent.
Is there any way I can fix it?
Yes.
How?
Break the limb. Then mend it. Properly this time.
This was out of the question: Flora dismissed it immediately. She had a fear of injury that exceeded natural human wariness: she was not designed to get hurt.
"It depicts the aftermath of the Siege of Briathimlond. One of the most terrible events of the Crusade of Twelve Lances."
At first, Flora assumed that one of the senior mages had ambushed her with a history lesson. Then she realised that the words were shaped by a foreigner's tongue, lilting and melancholy.
"The other hangings are beyond repair," the arlessa continued, wistfully. "A great shame. They were imported from Val Royeaux and the craftsmanship was exquisite ."
Flora offered an indeterminate grunt in response. She could not think of an excuse to extract herself: Alistair was still knee-deep in conversation with the bann; Leliana was showing Sten the arrowhead she had cut by her own hand that morning. The Qunari's reluctant approval was betrayed by the neutrality of his expression: for once, free of contempt.
"Fortunately I have others spare, though they are not as fine. Did you know that they take the wool from the lamb at three weeks old?"
The arlessa heaved a sigh that seemed to come from her stained silk slippers. One of them was peeling upwards from the sole, in sore need of repair. Flora, darting an eye sideways, noticed that she was holding a dull bronze candlestick in both hands; fingers running restlessly over the carven shaft.
"You have some skill at - at healing the sick?"
"Mm." Flora felt a sneeze building in the back of her nose: the wall hanging seemed to hold the same quantity of dust as it did gold thread.
"Will you be able to heal my husband?"
The question was brittle and resigned. The forlorn arlessa seemed to have given up hope of any return to normalcy. Flora hesitated before responding, summoning the memory of Jowan's words. They came to her like scraps of torn parchment: she assembled them as best she could.
"The arl is under a blood curse," she replied, hoping that Isolde would not demand further explanation of how a blood curse worked. "You can't mend curses. They need to be lifted properly. Through magic. Not my sort of magic. I think maybe a priestess might have better luck."
The arlessa was not happy with this response, her lips tautening to a thin and angry slash.
Flora glanced over her shoulder. The Circle mages were still concocting the second batch of the tincture that would send her drifting through the Veil. Her eye meandered over the grey heads and sloping shoulders, to where Alistair stood beside Teagan. The two men had just finished their conversation; her brother-warden nodding in response to the bann's final comment.
"I'm sorry."
The arlessa's apology was in an undertone so soft that Flora barely heard it.
"Eh?"
She returned her attention to the melancholy wall hanging; noticing the tiny figures strewn at the foot of the woven walls. She wished that the arlessa would go away.
"Once you're a mother," Isolde continued, the pitch of her voice rising until it was high and strange; wavering like the call of a bird parted from the flock. "Once you're a mother, you'll understand."
The blow came from behind, swift and without warning. The base of the bronze candlestick swung in a resolute arc, striking Flora square in the back of the head.
AN: So poor old Flora has been knocked upside the head! I tried to give a little more background as to why Isolde decided to do this - the first tincture that was supposed to send Flora into the Fade didn't brew properly, so they had to start again - and the arlessa didn't want to delay. To be fair, I'm a little more sympathetic to Isolde now that I'm a mother - if it was my daughter in danger, I'd be knocking Flora upside the head too to get the situation resolved sooner!
Anyway I hope everyone is doing well and is staying healthy!