Before they left the cloistered quiet of the guard-chamber, Flora took a moment to study her reflection in the side of a tarnished pewter tankard. The vessel was lying toppled on the mantel, dented in three places as though frequently dropped by its previous owner. It was a poor substitute for a mirror - the curvature was not kind to the proportions of her face - but she felt a strange compulsion to survey her appearance.
This was so rare an urge that it took her by surprise. She had glimpsed herself only on rare and fleeting occasion during her childhood in Herring; the saltwater was rarely still enough to reflect a true likeness. By the time she reached the Circle, she had developed a total ambivalence towards her appearance. She could not remember the last time she had seen her reflection in a mirror.
While Alistair checked the chamber one final time for any stray piece of his armour, Flora studied her counterpart on the pewter curve of the tankard. The sensation was jarring: yet again, she was reminded that - due either to chance, or some sly jest of the Maker - her exterior did not align with the way in which she saw herself. In Flora's mind, she possessed tender eyes and a curving smile; modest, welcoming features that suited a healer.
Instead, Flora's reflection gazed back at her with disdain, the irises cold and pale as a glacial spring. Her face was impeccably carved; the rawness of her beauty evoked something primal, but it was neither kind nor approachable. Her mouth was full and cruel: the lips curving with contemptuous sensuality.
Flora eyed herself with mild resentment: no wonder she had never made any friends in the Circle.
For reasons she could not articulate, she took down the bird's nest pile of hair from atop her head, raking through it as best she could with her fingers. The fresh growth of her nails that had survived her teeth were soon sacrificed to the cause. With the help of some water from the bucket, she managed to coax the hair into some sort of cohesion. Still not entirely sure of her motivation, she herded the dark red mass into a ponytail atop her head. It streamed between her shoulders like a wine-red banner; for the first time in her life, no errant strands broke free of the leather band.
Flora eyed herself in the tankard for a long moment, aware that she would not bother seeking out her reflection again for some time. The styling of the hair suited the haughty imperial stare below it; for some reason, she felt a little disconcerted.
I need to keep it out of my face.
And I need these people to take me seriously if they're going to help defend Herring.
They won't take me seriously with a sea monster on my head.
Flora crossed her eyes at the cold and lovely creature in the pewter, then turned back to face her brother-warden. Alistair had given up on locating his cuirass; he hoped that it had been set aside somewhere safe. Few breastplates were crafted to fit the broad and lofty proportions of his build; when he found one, he hung onto it.
Alistair's gaze landed on her and he startled; almost imperceptible unless one was looking for a reaction. He blinked twice in rapid succession, and then released the air in his throat in a slow, measured exhalation.
"I've not seen your ears properly until now," he said, his tone carefully casual. "They're sweet."
As Alistair spoke, he reached out an arm; the length of the limb and the difference in height made such a gesture effortless. His thumb found the curve of her earlobe, pale and pristine as a whelk-shell, and followed its contour with lingering slowness. He squeezed the flesh of her earlobe gently between his thumb and forefinger. The air thrummed with potential: a plucked lute string between them. Flora felt her body bend, bow-like, towards him; his fingers slid along her hairline to cradle the nape of her neck.
Then the door groaned as it yielded and the moment blew away like leaves in a draught. Alistair blinked and dropped his hand; Flora stepped back inadvertently into the empty hearth.
"At last! Les belles au bois dormant awaken at last."
The reference to a famous Orlesian nursery tale echoed around the guard's chamber. As befitted a bard, Leliana's voice was clear and sonorous. She appeared in the doorway: by some miracle, her battle-leathers appeared as fresh as they had done when first donned that morning. Not a single auburn hair had dared to escape its meticulously woven braid.
"It is good to see you both on your feet. Have you been awake long?"
Leliana darted them a swift smile, her eyes curious.
"Not long," Alistair replied, looking past her into the corridor beyond. "Have you seen my breastplate?"
"Fear not, Alistair," the bard reassured, lightly. "Your armour is well-looked after. It was necessary to remove it from you, otherwise there was no hope of moving you to a quiet place to recover."
Meanwhile, Flora had retrieved herself from the fireplace. Leliana drew back to allow her through the open doorway. What Flora had believed to be an enclosed passage was actually an alley between two stone walls; grey sky and the bare bones of old rafters overhead. The curtain wall of the castle lay to the south, identifiable by its crenallated crown. She was not familiar with the layout of Redcliffe Castle, but assumed that the alley ran alongside the flank of the great hall.
The wind chased itself down the narrow juncture of walls; Flora's hair streamed out like a flag at full mast. Shoving the ponytail down the collar of her coat, she turned away from the playful gusts and came face to face with Eamon's brother.
Teagan Guerrin wore victory like a faded family heirloom: proud and weary at once. He had removed the more cumbersome pieces of his armour, his helm and gauntlets carried by the silent squire at his heel. There was a deep gash between the thumb and forefinger on his right hand, crusted maroon with dried blood. Apart from this, the man appeared uninjured.
Even in the aftermath of battle, old habits died hard. A swift eye travelled Flora from head to toe and then back: the pupil wide with appreciation. Then - self-conscious - the bann composed himself and his earnest Guerrin gaze found hers.
"Name your reward," he said, "and you shall have it. I cannot thank you enough - you and Alistair both. My nephew is restored and no worse for wear."
"Is he alright?" Flora asked, wanting confirmation.
"Confused, mostly," replied the bann, stepping back in the narrow alley to allow Alistair and Leliana space to join them. "He remembers little of the past month, for which I'm grateful. He's with his mother now."
Flora remembered the blow to the head that the arlessa had dealt her; judging by his simultaneous grimace, Teagan recalled it too.
"I'm sure she'll relay her apologies for - for ambushing you ," he said, contrite. "Isolde was - she's a very... well. Connor is her only child and she was driven to take desperate measures."
Alistair muttered something beneath his breath: the words obscured but the resentment simmering. He had clearly not forgiven the arlessa for her underhanded assault on his sister-warden.
"Eh," replied the pragmatic Flora. "It got me in the Fade quick enough."
What's in my skull anyway? Flotsam and jetsam.
"The maleficar responsible for this mess is back in the dungeon," Leliana interjected as though she were the Guerrin seneschal, intimate already with the castle's workings. The bard had an uncanny ability to familiarise herself with new environments in no time at all: she spoke with the confidence of one who knew where all the secret passageways ended.
Flora curled her fingers into her palms, struck by an odd pang of melancholy. She did not understand exactly why she felt sorry for Jowan - his selfishness had led to the suffering and death of hundreds. On the other hand, he also had been a Circle prisoner for four years. Flora had reserves of Herring stoicism to draw upon: Jowan had been wrenched from a life of privilege and chafed more at the restrictions than she.
"Aye," Teagan confirmed, "when my brother awakens, the sentencing of the blood mage will fall to him, as is his right. This is his seat and the crime was done to his family. If he awakens."
There was a somber silence. Somewhere above them, the arl lay suspended in a state of half-death; the blood moving sluggish in atrophied veins.
The bann paused for a moment, then shook his head swiftly; banishing the frown that had settled across his brow.
"Anyway. Until he wakes, I'll stay in Redcliffe. Try and mend relations with the townsfolk, get the debris cleared - that sort of thing. And of course- " here, he inclined his head towards both Warden-recruits. "As I said earlier. The Guerrins owe you a great debt. Whatever is in my power to give you, is yours."
"Give us your vote," Flora said bluntly, before Alistair could reply that no reward was necessary,apart from perhaps a hot meal.
Teagan looked at her; the corner of the bard's mouth flickered.
"At the Landsmeet," Flora clarified, her clear grey gaze set unblinking on him. "Give us your vote."
She remembered Leliana explaining it once over breakfast: to gain the support of the Royal Army - and Ferelden in general - you need to win the vote at the Landsmeet. If you lose the vote, you lose the war.
The lay-sister's words rang around her skull like the chiming of Lothering's Chantry bell.
Teagan stared at her for a long moment. Beneath the curiosity was a slow, astonished realisation: a raw flicker of understanding that could not be shaped into words.
"Well, then," he said, in a voice not quite his own. "You have it."
She gave a short nod, her attention snared by a movement from the open air overhead. It was a scavenging grey-headed gull, usually, the courtyards and alleys of Redcliffe Castle yielded good pickings. Flora, eyes narrowed; she followed it several yards down the stone passage. She then reluctantly turned and retraced her steps to the bann's side without comment.
"Right," Teagan said, nonplussed. "I'll take you to see my brother now. The family quarters are still intact, thank the Maker."
Alistair drew a long breath, a maelstrom in his belly. He and Arl Eamon had not parted on the best of terms. He had been ten and frightened: the fear had manifested as anger, laced with a brooding resentment that curdled the air as they spoke. He had not listened to Eamon's patient explanation, nor had he responded to the letters that the arl had sent to the monastery; though he had kept each one. Even a decade later, the memory of Eamon Guerrin brought a sour taste to his mouth. Still, Alistair was not looking forward to seeing the old man suffering: he worked tirelessly to improve the lot of those in his arling, he was a keystone of the Landsmeet and - more importantly - he was a father.
His thoughts were interrupted by his sister-warden's soft, flat northern cadence.
"Ain't there anyone injured?"
The bann looked startled: he had not expected the question. His brow furrowed as he recalled the scene from the great hall.
"A few - nothing serious," he said at last. "Shattered knees, flesh-wounds - that sort of thing. It's more important that we see the arl -"
His sentence withered in the air. There was a heartbeat of silence and then the nearby door returned to its frame with a groan, closing in her wake. Flora had recognised it as a lesser entrance to the great hall, the quickest way to reach her patients.
The bann's mouth remained open in astonishment. He could not recall the last time that he had been defied in such a blatant manner. The girl had turned her pale and fathomless eye on him; then proceeded to ignore him completely. He felt somewhat disoriented, as though the flagstones had dropped a few inches beneath him. The strangest part was that he was not confused by her disregard for his instruction, but moreso by his belief that he had the right to command her at all.
Leliana, aware of the breach of protocol, interceded deftly.
"Flora is from a very isolated little village," the bard said through a placating smile. Despite the ingratiation, her eyes were sharp: her mouth did not mirror her thoughts. "And from humble peasant stock. She didn't mean to offend."
"And it won't take her long to fix a broken knee and some cuts," Alistair added, glancing in the direction of the main hall. In the back of his mind, he knew that theoretically, Grey Wardens were set apart from a nation's social hierarchy and were subject to no rank - they had an ancient right to defy a king, if the situation called for it.
However, Alistair was acutely aware that he was only a very junior Warden - and Flora a mere recruit - and he did not feel comfortable claiming such a venerable prerogative before a man whom he had idolised in childhood.
Teagan let out a distracted half-laugh, eyes distant and mind working rapidly.
"Ah, I'm not offended, lay-sister. My brother has lain in this state for some months now; a few minutes longer won't hurt him."
There was a pause; the bann appeared to have finished speaking and the matter passed. Leliana smiled, her eyes lifting to a fringe of delicate frost on a nearby gutter.
"Twenty-three days until Satinalia," she said, her words reverberating between the narrow walls. "Then we will cross into the next year, the coldest day will be behind us and warm days await ahead. I look forward to this spring more so than any in the past."
"You know who she reminds me of?"
The bann's sentence punctured Leliana's pleasantries like a leatherworker's needle. Teagan Guerrin's face was a maelstrom: his voice wondering.
"Qui?" Leliana did not blink.
"Celene Valmont."
Alistair waited for the laughter: the Empress of Orlais?! It was an absurd suggestion, surely -they were speaking about his sister-warden , with her dirty fingernails and her flat northern vowels.
No laughter came: from him or anyone else. Instead, the air seemed to hum with a static charge: as though it held a strange and potent energy.
"I have spent many years in the masqued court of the Lioness." Leliana spoke softly, her mind drifting westwards. "In the company of the greatest noblewomen of the land. And yet, when they take off their jewels and their silken gowns, when their painted faces are stripped away: they appear as the wives of merchants, or bakers. Pleasant to look at, oui, but nothing extraordinary. One would not pay attention to them if they called out in the street. And then - "
She paused, shielding her eyes from a ray of white and watery sunlight that had found its way into the dim alley.
"And then, there are those who have power carved into the bones of their face; who radiate authority clad in coarse wool and sackcloth. They say that the purest blood in Ferelden - the blood of the ancient clans who founded the nation - still runs in the veins of the old families."
What a load of rubbish, Alistair thought fiercely; his belly twisting like a chained prisoner. Typical bard's flowery nonsense. Flora is a fisherman's daughter from Herring. Just because she looks the way she does - doesn't mean that she's anything else.
At the same time, a small and sly voice whispered: it's not just how she looks though, is it?
The bann phrased it more bluntly.
"If that girl is from common stock, I'm Divine Justinia."
Alistair tilted his head back: up to where a faded remnant of Guerrin heraldry still clung to the stone wall. The sky above it was a diluted wintery grey, scudded with dark streaks that promised rain. A black-feathered bird winged it's way to the south and he wondered if it were the witch. He had not seen Morrigan since departing the boat at Redcliffe dock: it had been a welcome break.
Just then Flora announced her return with a shapeless northern " Eehh ." She did not look like a scion of power, she looked tired, grubby and vaguely curious about the prospect of lunch.
"All healed?" Alistair asked, wanting to dispel the strange feeling in his stomach.
Flora nodded, biting at the fresh growth of thumbnail. Conscious that she had botched the mending of her own shattered knee in the aftermath of Duncan's death, she had focused especially intently on the senior instructor's damaged limb. It was so thoroughly reinforced that it now resembled the joint of a twenty year old: the venerable mage had almost bounced to his feet.
"Mm. We going to see the arl?"
They were. Teagan led them from the alley and back into the castle itself: entering through a side door in the barbican. The corridor was wide enough to walk three horses abreadth, though it too bore the signs of recent neglect. Cold ashes sat in the bottom of iron sconces, while cobwebs made a silver tapestry across the ceiling. Various doorways lined both sides of the passage: some shut fast and others gaping ajar as though flung open in a hurry. Teagan's squire sneezed as he inhaled a lungful of dust: the walls threw the sound back at them.
Flora lost count of the number of rooms they passed; but was certain that it was more than twelve. Some were unfurnished, others contained an eclectic array: a desk, a few benches and some assorted shelving. She wondered what the point was of building twelve near-identical chambers.
"How many eels do he pay? A stick of 'em? Two sticks?"
Sometimes Alistair was convinced that his sister-warden spoke in a language other than Kingstongue. He shot her a sideways glance - she was a few paces behind him, head swivelling back and forth between the doorways - and raised an eyebrow.
"What's that?"
"How many eels," repeated Flora, patient. "Do he pay in rent for this place? The arl."
"I… I've no idea." He gazed at her, nonplussed; then deflected the question. "Perhaps the lay-sister knows?"
"Oui?" The query was a formality: few exchanged words escaped the bard.
"Eel-rent?"
"Ah." Leliana smiled. "Flora, the arl does not rent this castle. He built it himself."
"Why did he build so many useless rooms?"
"Ssht!"
AN: I wanted to show two contrasting elements of Flora in this chapter - the hints at her heritage and the dawning realisation of those around her, in contrast with her childhood spent in a fishing village. Eel rent is an actual thing and it used to be super common esp in the early Medieval period when there weren't many coins in circulation. Landlords would often accept goods of comparable value as rent, and eels were a common currency - for example, one particular village owed their liege 75,000 eels a year!
The adoption of the new hairstyle is also an important step for Flora in her journey; despite it seeming relatively minor! She's acknowledging that maybe, in her position, it would be a good idea to not look like she's been dragged through twenty hedges backwards :P also, I love that she has a major case of resting bitch face! I also suffer from this lol
Anyway, in other excellent news - higher education institutions are back today! I'm back on my commute! 45 minutes of uninterrupted writing time three times a week! Woooooooo