Ferelden's northern coastline was an ugly meander of shingle and coarse, dun-coloured sand; bordered with sheer basalt columns and bristling pines. The Waking Sea had gnawed out ragged bite-marks from the cliffs, strewing the shore with chunks of formless stone. The restless shallows seethed, flinging saltwater against the rocks in bouts of fitful rage. Everything was cast in various hues of grey: the sky, the sea and the shingle.
Flora's Fade-construct of the Storm Coast was a close cousin to its temporal counterpart. The sky had an olive pallor and there was no discernible tide. There was no dark line of the Marcher coast in the distance, but an endless horizon that stretched into a lurid green void. The reef that curved like a sickle through the shallows - known locally as the Hag's Teeth - protruded above the waves. As a child, Flora had whole-heartedly believed that the reef was the maw of some vast, primordial predator who dwelt on the sea bed. Now, in her mind's eye, the Hag's Teeth had become a caricature of itself: each mossy jut of rock was shaped like a fang.
Now Flora found herself flat on her back with the shingle pressed against her shoulder blades and the dull ring of a bell echoing in her ear. She drew in a breath - the air was salt tinged with the arcane - and knew immediately where she was. Most of her nights in the Fade were spent on her meticulously crafted coastline: her makeshift home away from home.
A gull yowled plaintive overhead; Flora opened her eyes. As usual the beach was empty, save for herself and her spirits. Valour stood on the coarse sand several yards away, glowering beneath the low brow of its helm. In the distance, flickering like a candle in a draught, was Compassion. It hung above the waterline, featureless face turned to the horizon. The silhouette of bone was visible beneath its diaphanous robes.
Flora sat up with a grimace, brushing her sandy palms against her knees. There was a dull throb at the back of her head, just where the skull met the neck. She reached over her shoulder and probed the skin with tentative, curious fingers.
"How did I get here?" she asked, her words tossed from side to side by a knifing breeze. "Did I…. fall asleep?"
She could not remember taking the sleeping draught that Wynne had mentioned. As far as she could remember the first concoction had curdled; the whole brewing process started again.
The spirit of Valour let out a derisive snort. It's face slid seamlessly from elder to youth as clouds moved over the pale olive sun. The furrows of age embedded themselves into the skin, then melted without trace.
"The noblewoman landed a blow to the head. A sound one: it sent you straight here."
"Oh."
Flora felt torn between various emotions. On the one hand, she admired the arlessa for delivering such a hearty punch - Isolde would have fared well in one of Herring's frequent mass brawls.
On the other - Flora reflected glumly - she had precious little brain as it was and could not afford to lose any of it.
There was a definite tenderness to the back of her skull. She decided to stop prodding at it - if she left it alone, it would mend - and turned her attention to her task.
"What do I need to do?"
Alistair had been right: his sister-warden had not been listening. Her general made a noise of exasperation and began to move across the sand, gesturing for her to come. Flora scrambled to her feet and followed, resisting the temptation to touch her throbbing skull once more. The boots of Valour left no imprint on the sand. The spirit moved forward in flickers and half-glimpsed pulses; time flowed differently around it.
Flora thought about her companions, whom she had left in the company of a demon. When she thought of Alistair in particular, she felt a cold clutch of fear in her belly. She had noticed that he had a tendency to prioritise the defence of others above self-preservation; placing himself in harm's way without a beat of hesitation. This was all well and good when Flora was there to shield him, but now - for the second time in two days - she was not.
There was a curving bank of rock near the tide-mark, rangy and covered in a crust of dried seaweed. In its centre was a liver-shaped pool of seawater. Valour came to a drifting halt and gestured for her to sit: Flora propped herself on the only patch of rock not knobbled with limpets. She noticed that nearby, curled neatly and set down with purpose, was a fishing line and hook.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the rockpool. The water was an unappealing brownish-grey, obscured by a fringe of algae drifting below its surface. Flora eyed it for several moments, fastening the line to the hook out of habit.
"Wait."
Flora was relieved that the first part of her task seemed simple enough. She crossed and then re-crossed her legs beneath her, shifting position on the sloping rock. Her weak knee throbbed a dull, predictable pulse. The leather strap binding it together in the tangible world had become a length of old rope, stiff with saltwater residue. The journey through the Veil brought about change both significant and subtle. In the Fade, Flora's hair was a ruddier, healthier hue of red; her coat was beige wool instead of navy. The dull brass ring around her finger was transmuted into a brilliant gold.
A seagull gave a piercing reply from the cliffs. She ground her teeth and tried her best to ignore it, focusing more intently on the rockpool at her feet. It seemed innocuous enough: pebbles clustered on coarse sand, the rock carpeted with a slick layer of seaweed.
"I don't want to fight a demon," she said out loud, eyeing the water suspiciously. "I hope you ain't expecting that. I don't know why they chose me to do this bit."
Valour made a dismissive sound in the ancient crevasse of its throat. The anemic green sunlight slid over its breastplate, illuminating the engraved laurel.
"I CAN'T fight a demon," Flora repeated, eager to make this very clear. "You know I can't."
In the distance, Compassion's skeletal shoulders rose and fell in sympathy. Its sigh, despite the twenty yards between them, echoed in Flora's skull as though whispered straight into her ear.
"You won't be fighting a demon." There was something close to amusement in Valour's tone.
"Eh."
Flora was unconvinced. She had been brought to the Fade to play some inexplicable role in the exorcism: surely, the demon would be making an appearance?
Heaving a deep sigh to communicate her misgivings, she looked around at her constructed beach. The buildings of Herring sprouted like a cluster of mushrooms in the shadow of a cliff; after five years spent away, the finer details of the buildings were obscure. She could remember the placement of each cottage in relation to its neighbour, but not its exact alignment; nor could she remember the precise number or nature of the windows. Her mind either filled in the gaps with imagined details, or left them blurred. Still, she was proud of her creation: it was not a bad emulation on the whole.
"Look."
Flora returned her attention to the rockpool with some trepidation. She half-expected a demon to burst through the surface, streaming seawater and algae. There was no such eruption and she exhaled in relief, focusing more intently on the silty water. A deft movement caught her eye and she leaned forward for a closer look.
A writhing creature was taking shape in the shallow depths. At first it was little more than a smudge of shadow, then the details became clearer: fins, gills, and a serpentine mouth. It was an eel, sheathed in dark grey-green scales and with strange, staring white eyes like robin's eggs. It swam the length and breadth of the rock pool, round and round, incessant.
Flora gazed down at the creature with suspicion: eels did not have scales. Then sharp and abrupt pain interrupted her musing: it felt as though something else had struck the top of her head.
"Ow!" She rubbed an indignant hand over the curve of her skull. "What's happening to me? My body?"
"You were dropped," came the curt reply. "Bait the line."
Flora was now convinced that she would wake up several degrees stupider. Gloomily, she dug her fingers beneath a nearby limpet and pried it away from the rock; spearing the glutinous contents onto the fishing hook with a thumb.
"Catch the fish."
"Can't I just grab it?"
"You must use the line."
Flora did as she was told. The fishing line had a resonant lustre to it, as though it were woven from gold thread instead of horsehair. She lowered the baited hook into the rockpool, watching the eel churn the water with its undulation. A heartbeat later, she felt the line tug: the fish gave a panicked writhe and jerked away in an attempt to tear free.
In this, if little else, Flora was a veteran. She twisted her hand to wind the line around her wrist; reeling it in inch by steady inch. The eel had surprising strength, but it was - by all appearances - only a fish.
It broke the surface of the water and its mouth opened in a toothless crimson yawn. Flora reached down to grab it, wrapping firm fingers around the scale-clad tail. Without hesitation - after all, she had done this a thousand times before - she smacked the eel against the limpet-studded rock. It died instantly, white eyes rolling back in the narrow skull.
"It is done."
Flora looked at the creature as it rested limp on the basalt, her brow furrowed.
"Is that it? It don't look like a demon."
"Much changes as it passes through the Veil."
"Oh."
She eyed the eel a moment more, her lips pursed. She reached out a finger and gave it a tentative prod. The scales felt like the skin of a lizard, cool and smooth.
"Shall I cook it?" Flora did not like waste.
Valour shuddered: a vestige of old humanity that it had not shed over the centuries.
"YOU SHALL NOT."
As if to ensure that she would not, the eel's corpse disintegrated into greasy black ashes; blown across the sand by a sudden gust of air from the sea. Flora watched the remains of the demon vanish, absent-mindedly twisting the fishing line around her finger.
"Am I done?"
She was conscious of those left behind in the mortal world, aware of the potential damage that required her attention. The imagined crunch of bone, the tearing of soft tissue and the ragged groan of the wounded echoed in her ear: she was certain that at least one patient needed her. She hoped fervently that Alistair was not amongst their number.
Once more, the sibilant, whispering sigh of Compassion drifted over Flora's shoulder. Her general shot her a swift, taut glance: pale eyes bright behind the helm.
"Before you depart."
"Eh?"
"It is time that you saw the fifth again."
"Fish? Fifth? Fifth what?"
Abrupt and without warning, the horizon began to darken. A storm was approaching: the cloud coagulating the sky overhead until her beach was shrouded in shadow. The air hummed with a visceral energy that lifted the hair on the back of Flora's neck. She could feel the vibration in her jaw and across the narrow breadth of her shoulder blades; reverberating right down to the bone.
"Oh no," she breathed in realisation, appalled. "No. I don't want to see it."
"What you want is irrelevant." The response was almost sympathetic. "You must learn to face it. To face it without fleeing, and without fear."
Flora looked around her, but there was no route to escape: the cliff had become a single, unbroken face of rock that hemmed the beach like a prison wall.
The water retreated to reveal the underbelly of the shore: corrugated sand, seaweed and the old bones of ships. There was no tide on Flora's beach: the sea withdrew as something vast and formless stirred in its depths.
"But I'm just a mender," she whispered, unable to move her eyes away. "I don't want to face it. It ain't my place. I don't fight - "
Valour's sympathy swiftly became impatience.
"Foolish child! You were not loaned power to lurk in a hospital tent at the rear of the field."
A scaled wing broke the surface like the sail of an impossibly large galleon; a dark and leathery triangle that seemed to scrape the underside of the cloud. Flora stared at it for a breathless moment, transfixed and horrified in equal measure. She could feel her heartbeat as a physical blow to the inside of her ribcage: a demand that left her breathless.
"But you must not run."
Flora did not realise that she was standing until her feet began to sink into the sand. Mired in place, she gaped across the receding waters; certain that she was about to be sick. The leathery wing was joined by a humpbacked spine, vast and undulating as a mountain ridge. Urthemial stole the light from the air as it surfaced; a leviathan from the oldest and most terrible mariner's tales.
In an instant, her nerve failed. Flora thrust herself violently back through the Veil.
The air was smoky from damp wood on a nearby hearth; it had the clinging dampness of stone walls and low ceilings. Flora inhaled a deep breath; and knew herself to be in the waking world once again. She did not open her eyes immediately, but took a second grounding breath in an attempt to slow her skittering pulse. The vast and leathery wing, streaming seawater as it emerged from the depths, was branded on the inside of her eyelid. She clenched her closed eyes tighter until the wing disappeared in a flurry of red and green dots.
Only once the last vestiges of the Archdemon were purged from Flora's mind did she turn her attention to her surroundings. She inhaled more of the hearth - wherever she was, it was small and lacked ventilation - and opened her eyes. She was no longer in the great hall, but in a small, square and windowless chamber. A hearth, hastily built, smouldered fitfully on one wall; empty halberd racks lined the other. The ceiling was low and divided by exposed beams; blackened from decades of drifting smoke. The chamber appeared to be a guard post, though neither weapon nor armour remained.
Beneath Flora was a lumpen pallet, haphazardly stuffed with straw and leaking at the seams. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, grimacing at the protest from her tender skull. Although the bone had sealed itself during her slumber, the flesh remained tender.
It was very quiet. The fire chewed its way pensively through the wood; hissing when it encountered a clump of green moss. Flora did not know where in Redcliffe Castle this particular guard post was located - she assumed a sizable fortress would have more than one - but she could hear faint conversation beyond the doorway.
It was then that Flora felt the pressure of her brother-warden's presence; the distinct rhythm of his taint-edged blood as a pulse in her own body. She sat up - swift enough that her vision faltered - and looked around.
The guard post held a half-dozen pallet mattresses; apart from that beneath her, only one other was occupied. Like the Highever giant felled by the blacksmith's tripwire, he lay motionless on the lumpen bedroll; his head tilted back and his arms limp at his sides. His armour had been removed for easier transportation and the linen undershirt clung to the steep terrain of his torso, dark with sweat and the residue of dried blood. His eyes were shut and his breathing laboured; each inhalation had a raw edge.
For a moment Flora thought that the floor of the chamber was giving way beneath her; the walls lurched and her heart seized in fright. The nausea she had felt at the sight of the Archdemon swept back like a returning tide. She put a palm on the tiles to steady herself, the stone cold against her skin.
Fortunately for Alistair, his sister-warden's mender-instinct was strong enough to override the initial torrent of horror. Her gaze slid beneath the skin as the aether rose in her throat; assessing the damage done to the ribs and the muscle, the puncturing of organs that she had never been able to name. The wounds were not immediately life-threatening; death would come within days from the sly, probing fingers of infection.
Flora's right palm now spread across his chest and she pressed her lips against his. This was not the gentle meeting of mouths that they had envisioned; it was an intervention of medical necessity. Her magic bloomed in his throat, soaring joyously down the veins and channels of his body. It restored with a pale and tender fury: wrapping gentle tendrils around cracked bone while simultaneously scorching the foul matter into oblivion. The damaged ribs found themselves whole and stronger than before; torn sinew melded seamlessly until no trace of damage remained.
The entire process of mending seemed to take an age, though in reality it lasted no more than five minutes. A breathless Flora checked her work twice, and then a third time: frightened that she had missed some subtle fracture or minor fleshy tear. Only when she was convinced that Alistair had been returned to full and flawless capacity did she shed her healer's mantle and drop her face against his linen-clad stomach.
AN: So Flora was chosen for this part of the ritual not because of what she could do, but because of what her spirit allies are capable of! The First Enchanter has finally twigged that Flora is aided by some very potent spirits - as demonstrated by their ability to transform the demon into a fish as it came through the Veil! Which makes it very easy for Flora to catch and kill. I really enjoy writing how her spirits indirectly influence events.
I like how her spirits also portray the Archdemon as some aquatic creature, like Kraken or Moby Dick - it's more aligned with the kind of 'sea monster' that Flora is used to hearing about from her childhood in Herring. So if her spirits are trying to train her to face Urthemial, it makes more sense to show it in that context.
Poor Alistair has taken a bit of a battering though! Flora is NOT a happy bunny hahhaa.
Oh and this seems an appropriate place to add a bit more detail about how I see her mending working (pure headcanon!) I envision the golden energy she generates as an accelerant for the body's natural cell division - so she's not really shaping new ribs, her magic is just encouraging the "rib cage cells" (lol at my D in A Level Biology) to multiply super fast. So the ribs grow back within minutes, automatically following their original shape/alignment. Flora still has to concentrate otherwise it'll fuck up (like when she messed up the healing of her knee), but it's not like she's an expert in sculpting every bone and organ in the body... her magic just hugely accelerates the natural healing process (so it takes seconds instead of months!). Anyway, I just wanted to elaborate on that!
Hope everyone is doing well and thank you for reading all my rambling!