The muffled conversation in the corridor beyond the guard post had died away; either the pair were now standing in silence, or they had left. The light in the small chamber grew dull as the wind nudged the door several inches closer to the frame. The many hearths of Redcliffe Castle had long been abandoned by the servants; they had more pressing concerns.

Now that Alistair's wounds had been mended and his strength restored, Flora abandoned her healer's professionalism. She pushed her face into the damp linen of the shirt until her nose met hard abdominal muscle. Waking to him white-faced and unresponsive beside her had stunned her to the marrow of her bones. She inhaled the heat of her brother-warden's skin through his shirt. He smelt like man's sweat, dried blood and the stale aftermath of combat, undercut with the sharpness of the oil he used to clean his shield. The scent of Alistair's body after battle had become as familiar to Flora as the coarse salt-limned air of the Waking Sea.

Half-hidden in the mossy shadow, she knelt over his prostrate body like a supplicant. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his undershirt, clenching into needful fists. Her eyes felt hot and itchy; when she blinked, her cheeks grew wet. Both nostrils were running and she lacked a free hand to tend to them.

He could have died. I wasn't there to shield him.

He had a shield.

That dinner plate! Flora shot a teary, hateful stare at the shield propped on the wall. That… useless… THING!

It weren't no substitute for meeeee….

To her astonishment, she found that she was grizzling as she had not done since her first night in the Circle. She could not understand it: Alistair's wounds had not been particularly bad compared to others she had healed. Even as Flora hiccuped into his shirt, she hoped fervently that he would not wake to see her so upset. She was not entirely sure how to shape the rawness of her fear in words, only that even the possibility of losing him had shaken her to her roots.

To her relief, Alistair did not wake in the midst of her distress. Colour was dawning in his cheeks; his breathing was measured and even. He was no longer unconscious, but in the tail end of a restorative slumber. Flora drew in a tremulous breath, willing herself towards calm. She wiped her running nose on her sleeve, and then dabbed at her cheeks. She hoped that nobody from Herring would ever find out about her lapse in emotional incontinence.

"So this is where they hid you both."

The voice was dry, acerbic and familiar. Flora - grateful that it was not the bann, the First Enchanter, or worst of all, Isolde Guerrin - shuffled around on her knees to face Morrigan. The witch was leaning against the bare hearth, arms crossed across her belly as though she were cold. Her rangy, cat-eyed presence was a contradiction to the rigid artificial geometry of the walls.

At the sight of Flora, the dark arches of Morrigan's brows met her hairline.

"Ha! And this is what our priestess calls, 'unpaintable beauty'!"

The witch extended a tawny forearm so that Flora could glimpse her reflection in a broad silver bangle.

She was immediately intrigued by how hideous she looked in the aftermath of misery: her cheeks were mottled, her eyes swollen and pink, with both nostrils leaking. She pushed experimental fingertips against the puffy flesh beneath her eyes, clawing in another unsteady breath.

"You are a repulsive weeper ," Morrigan observed, gleeful. "I like you the better for it."

"Mm." Flora hiccuped, wiped her nose on her sleeve and then returned her attention to Alistair, face falling into wistfulness. "Is anyone dying out there?"

Morrigan was quick to infer her meaning: do I need to move?

"Not presently," she replied, retracting the lean muscle of her arm. "This brawny oaf did a passable job in their defence, to his own detriment of course."

It was perhaps the first compliment that the witch had bestowed upon her nemesis. Holding her breath so as not to waken him prematurely, Flora smoothed a tuft of hair away from her brother-warden's perspiring forehead. The line of Alistair's jaw could have been hewn with a chisel; hollowed by a shadow of tawny stubble.

In the same moment she noticed that her nails had grown while she had been in the Fade; they extended, soft and brittle, beyond the tips of her fingers. Her gaze moved reflexively to her brother-warden's hand: broad and bare, the gauntlet removed. She had once offered to heal the calluses that ran the span of his palms and he had refused with a grin. The patches of hardened skin were a defence against blisters: a necessity for hours spent with sword in hand.

"Did you see what happened?" Flora asked in a small voice. "I didn't think you came up to the castle."

Morrigan's lip curled.

"'Tis true that I did not accompany your pack of borrowed mages on the road. But I was curious to see if this strange exorcism would work. Do not doubt that I have ways of moving unseen when I desire."

"Mm." Flora was certain of it. "Did the demon hurt him? Was I too slow in anchoring it?"

The witch wandered to the ajar door, dust stirring beneath her feet. She cast a yellow eye down the corridor in either direction, then returned her attention to Flora.

"No. You played your part well, though I'm curious as to how you managed to slay the foe in the Fade, given your magical deficiencies ."

Alistair's head turned a fraction to the side, the crease across his brow deepened. Flora held her breath but he did not stir.

"I didn't slay nothing," she whispered, watching his face like a hawk. "I caught an eel in a rockpool. I bashed its brains out. I weren't allowed to cook it."

When Morrigan did not reply, she glanced over her shoulder. The witch was watching Flora without speaking, face consumed in thought.

"Eh?"

Her attention was diverted once more by Alistair as a half-groan slid from his throat.

Morrigan startled as though tapped unexpectedly on the shoulder, then raised her chin and pursed her lips.

"Well, I don't wish to witness this reunion, which is sure to be nauseating," she replied tartly, side-stepping the pallet as she set her eyes on the exit. "Ask dear brother-warden for the particulars of the encounter with the demon. I believe you will find it enlightening."

The witch's trailing fingers caught the iron-ring as she passed through, tugging the door shut in her wake. Only a few inches of corridor was now visible between door and frame; a narrow band of light cut through the gloom.

Flora kept her eyes on Alistair's face, the breath held suspended in her throat.

Wake up now, she thought fiercely, you're mended.

I've fixed everything that was broken.

She decided to perform one last check to reassure herself that all was indeed healed within the barrel of Alistair's chest. The hollow chamber diffused as her mender's gaze slipped fluently beneath the skin.

Then Flora felt a broad hand groping her back; wool and linen gathered in a fist. Lacking patience to sort through the many layers of clothing, he went beneath them. His palm sought the small of her back and slid upwards along her spine, long fingers spreading over the flesh. It was a touch more intimate than any previous caress through linen: skin on skin at last.

When her pale eyes found his face, she almost did not recognise it; consumed as it was by the hungry stare of a man of greater years and less patience. It was as though the old king, bold and desirous, was gazing at her through the olive-flecked eyes of his son.

Her intake of breath seemed to rouse Alistair from the half-waking haze. He blinked and shook off his father's lusty ghost; once more Flora's cautious, courteous brother-warden. His lips formed her soundless name even as he drew her to him, curling fingers around her shoulders. She was a familiar armful by now: her head settling in the hollow of his collarbone. When Flora turned her face sideways, she could feel the reassuring lub dub of his heart against her cheek. Alistair exhaled a long slow breath, fingers wandering over the freckled flesh of her back. He was not surprised to wake free from injury. His sister-warden's mending was so potent that her repairs left no residual ache; he felt as though he had awoken from twelve hours of uninterrupted slumber.

"Flora," he repeated softly, and the name emerged spoken this time. "Maker's Breath, am I glad to see you."

Flora could not find words to express how much she agreed. Instead, she made an incoherent sound into his collarbone, fingers clenched tight into the linen. Alistair ran a slow, empathetic thumb down the curve of her spine; his breath shifting a strand of red against her neck.

"The next time someone suggests splitting us up in a fight - let's just say no," he murmured, parting the hair at the nape to surreptitiously check for swelling. As he had hoped, the lump caused by Isolde Guerrin's assault had subsided. "I can't handle any more of this, you go into the Fade, you stay behind. From now on, we stick together - in this world or any other."

She lifted her head just enough to nod emphatically.

"Mm. Yes."

Alistair surveyed his sister-warden closely: although she was not injured, she did not look well . Her face was white and waxy, save for two hot patches on her cheekbones. A flush discoloured her throat; a constellation of sweat beaded across her forehead. The pale rainwater eyes were lined with pink, and hollowed as though she had not slept in a week.

"Flo," he said, concerned. "Flora. Are you alright?"

He ran his hand up and down her spine, palm skating over the delicate ridge of bone. The linen of her shirt was damp with perspiration: the result of several unnecessary layers of clothing.

"I'm fine," Flora mumbled, her words half-obscured by the loose fabric of his collar. "I'm a repulsive weeper. "

The rhythmic stroke of Alistair's palm paused and his eyes darted swiftly downwards. He could not see her face, only the mass of crimson hair knotted recklessly atop her head. He took a deep breath; she felt the long draw of his ribs against her cheek. Despite his attempt at composure, raw hope sang through the question like the sonorous call of a bell.

"You were - you were crying over me?"

Alistair immediately regretted the question. He wished he could take it back, but the tremulous query now hung naked in the air. He wondered whether he should try and explain the motive behind his enquiry: that he had only seen his sister-warden - with her stoic Herring inscrutability - cry openly over their old commander, who had meant something undefinable to her, and who had been torn to meaty shreds on the valley floor below Ostagar.

Flora glanced at him from the tail of her eye."Mm."

She did not elaborate, but the single uttered syllable was explanation enough.

Muffled footsteps in the corridor outside seized Alistair's tongue: a reminder that their privacy was not permanent. Instead, he bowed his head until his face met her shoulder; inhaling the scent of her body through the damp wool. She mumbled something unintelligible, fingers curling in his shirt.

"What's that, sweetheart?"

Flora returned upright, sitting back on her heels and wiping her running nose on her sleeve.

"I would've grilled it," she said, distractedly and inexplicably. "Or fried it. Is the arl's son alright?"

Alistair sat up to join her, astonished at the seamless fluency of the movement. The physical exertion of the battle had melted away with the bruises: he felt fit enough to take on a whole host of demons.

"Connor is fine," he said, retrieving the memory. "Once the last verse of the litany was read, the demon - well, it slithered out of him. Clung to the ceiling like some great ugly bat."

Flora was half-listening; vaguely curious as to how her innocuous actions in the Fade had been interpreted by the waking world. She curled her fingers into her palms, bending each fresh growth of nail until it snapped.

"Then - and, Flora, it was only a moment later - this hook appeared in the demon's throat." Alistair's voice took on a distant quality as he summoned the memory: the demon's mangled shriek, the bone-white brilliance of the barb, the acrid stench of cauterisation.

Flora stopped biting her thumbnail.

"Then," Alistair continued, watching her face closely. "The hook yanked the demon up through the rafters and it just vanished . Blew away like smoke. It was all over in about… two heartbeats."

This was nearly all as the young warrior could recall; he had succumbed to unconsciousness immediately after.

"Hm."

Flora was grateful that she had only dealt with an eel the length of her forearm; she did not like the sound of the great ugly bat. Keen to eradicate all evidence of her weeping - Herring natives would choose drowning over public display of emotion - she pushed herself to her feet and wandered to the corner of the chamber. A bucket had been placed near the hearth to collect rainwater from a leaking tile.

"I think the old mage - what's his name again? The one in charge."

"First Enchanter Irving."

Flora shook her sleeve over her hand and lowered it within the bucket, watching the linen darken as it absorbed water.

"That's right - thought it was Erwin for some reason - he wants to talk to you."

A moan of horror came from the corner of the chamber.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news." Alistair shot her a wry, wondering smile. "I suppose you can't help what… what you can do."

Flora shot him a faintly appalled look through dripping hair: she had mopped her wet sleeve over her head. Any discussion involving her magic felt as though she were being asked her opinion on Orlesian court politics: she could plead nothing but ignorance. Her magic ran through her body like a vein of gold and it left in the form of aether rising in her throat. She was the scalpel in the hand of the surgeon; a tool used by an entity far more potent.

"I'm just going to say I fished it up, fished the demon up," she mumbled, hoping that the stagnant water would tone down her flushed cheeks. "We ain't got time to sit around talking ."

Each day that passes brings the Darkspawn closer to Herring.

And to the rest of Ferelden too, I suppose.

Alistair rose to his feet; at full height, he seemed to take up most of the space in the guard post. He glanced around for the missing pieces of his armour and could not see them; he guessed that they must have been removed to ease his transportation.

Flora wiped her face on the trailing linen of her shirt, damp strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. She still did not feel entirely normal - seeing Alistair limp and lifeless beside her had been a nasty shock - but the cold water had helped somewhat.

"Is the arl awake now that the demon is gone?" she asked, suddenly remembering Eamon Guerrin's existence. "Is the curse lifted?"

Alistair shrugged, glancing towards the inch between the door and its frame. Muffled voices were approaching from the far end of the corridor: a male and a female, both familiar.

"I don't know," he replied, wryly. "I hope so. We're about due for some good luck, aren't we?"

A childhood spent in Herring had carved out a superstitious streak within Flora, but she was more familiar with ill omens than favourable ones.

"Dunno. Suppose we'll find out."

She realised that they could not remain much longer within the guard post; hidden from the rest of the company and the weight of responsibility. She and Alistair had brought the Circle mages to Redcliffe; they were the ones who needed to win Arl Eamon's support to have any chance of countering Loghain Mac Tir in Denerim. Leliana had shaped it best with her bard's fluidity:

To win victory, you must win the Royal Army. To win the Royal Army, you must win the Landsmeet. To win the Landsmeet, you must win Arl Eamon.

Flora had not the first idea about politics, but this had been phrased simply enough that it made sense to her.

She set her face to the door and was about to step over the pallet mattress when Alistair made a low exclamation.

"I never thanked you, Flora," he said, gazing down at her with head bowed to avoid the low beams. "For mending me. I'm sorry - I woke feeling better than ever, and I don't remember much from the last part of the fight. I suppose I must have been hurt pretty badly."

"Don't need to," Flora replied in a mumble, averting her eyes to the light beyond the door. She wanted neither gratitude nor a reminder of her brother-warden's condition. The hot red patches on her cheeks had only just begun to fade; she had no desire to lose her composure for a second time.

The room grew several shades dimmer as Alistair stopped before the door, blocking out the sliver of light. Flora forgot to draw breath as he gazed down at her, almost meditative.

"Well then," he said softly, irises wide and black against green-flecked hazel. "I'll thank you properly later."

AN: Aww I always love writing a Flora-Alistair reunion! It's so interesting writing their relationship at the moment since they're caught in this weird limbo between intimacy and formality. They've come close to sleeping together twice (on the journey to and from the Circle) and yet they haven't kissed yet or admitted they have feelings for each other. Alistair uses "Flora" more than "Flo" so there is still that hesitation/formality there.

Anyway, this was fun to write! I like how Flora is an ugly crier, I think it's a nice counter to her usual state of flawless gorgeousness, lol. We're talking both nostrils running, swollen piggy eyes, blotchy skin... the whole shebang hahhaha