A hesitant creak of floorboards broke the anticipatory hush. A steward, clad in stained Guerrin livery that showed more crease than crest, had made tentative entrance into the arl's bedchamber. Having been admitted by the guards, he hovered beside the doorway with an unspoken message on his lips. His eyes were set on the arlessa, waiting for permission.

It took Isolde a moment to gather herself: drawing a deep breath and summoning the dignity that befitted the first lady of the south. She turned to the steward, chin raised.

"How is my son?"

"Settled in his quarters," the man replied, eyes widening as he glimpsed the bed's gilded aura. "His old nursemaid is on her way up from the town. He was asking for her."

"Hm." Isolde pursed her lips. "Make sure his tutor is brought back too. I don't want him to fall behind in his studies."

A swift glance passed between First Enchanter and senior mage: there was a conversation to be had about Connor Guerrin's future, but now was not the time.

The steward tore his eyes from the bed and made a deferential nod.

"My lady. One of the knights you sent out in the autumn has returned."

Isolde's narrow shoulders lifted and then fell. After months of disappointment, she had learnt to guard her hope.

"Who?" she demanded, wary.

"Ser Ronald is newly arrived from Denerim and requests an urgent audience with you."

"Send him up. I will receive him here."

The steward retreated without delay and the door closed in his wake. Isolde gazed at the panelled wood for a time, as though a remedy for her husband's ailment was carved in the oak.

Alistair remembered Ser Ronald well enough: a laughing barrel-chested knight who rode his horses to lameness and drank until insensible. He had once saved Eamon's favourite Mabari from a vengeful stag, and had survived on the arl's goodwill ever since. Ser Ronald had called the ten year old Alistair Longshanks and Strawhead Bastard; both allegedly as a mark of affection. Unlike the other stable boys, Alistair had never liked him.

Grinding his teeth, he returned his attention to the five Fereldan lords. They peered at him through oil and pigment on two decades' old canvas; remarkably well preserved in spite the dampness of the air. The painting had drawn Alistair like iron to a lodestone since he had first set foot in the arl's chamber. Curiosity mingled with annoyance at his own interest: an odd convergence of emotion in his belly.

He was astonished at how young they all looked; these men who were now either dead or in their grey hairs. The brute physicality of Maric dominated the centre of the painting, all Theirins were built like stone bulwarks. The old king - perhaps thirty years here - had assumed a serious expression for the purpose of the painting, but the corner of a grin pulled at his mouth. After all, he was among friends and this was not intended as an official portrait for the palace gallery. One casual, friendly elbow rested on the shoulder of the dark-haired man at his right; whose scowl had not changed in two decades. Alistair diverted his gaze from the traitor, across the bright and hopeful faces of the younger Eamon Guerrin. He was seated beside his counterpart in the east, the arl of South Reach. Leonas Bryland had visited Redcliffe once; Alistair remembered only the pale green portcullis of his crest.

The final figure of the five stood at the edge of the group, one hand resting on the back of Eamon's chair. His face was still and watchful; the eyes cold as the first rain of winter. There was a cruel twist to the mouth that served as silent warning: this was not a man to cross. The pigment of the hair had faded to a ruddy smear. Alistair looked into the teyrn's haughty stare and felt as though his horse had stumbled beneath.

"I wasn't invited."

Teagan's tone was wry and amused : the bann desperate for some distraction from the plight of his dying brother. "Senior nobility only, apparently. Eamon values that portrait above his finest breeding bitch. I'm not surprised: it's evidence that he once had hair."

He came to stand at Alistair's shoulder, peering at the five painted companions. His eye was drawn first to the old king, gazing out with a bold humour from the centre.

"Well," Teagan observed drily, shooting a swift eye the length of the young man at his side. "There's no hiding it now. All Theirins are built like destriers and draught-horses."

"And you have his whole face," offered Leliana, who had the uncanny ability to hear murmured conversation from a half-chamber length away.

Alistair almost said but I'm not a Theirin, and then thought: what's the point?

He chose not to comment on Loghain - a month prior he would have punched through the canvas - and let his gaze focused instead on a figure who dominated the frame despite his positioning at the side.

"That was the thing about Bryce," Teagan murmured, and there was a note of grief in his tone that startled Alistair. "He had a look of severity - he had to, as the man who kept the wild north in check - but he actually had the greatest sense of humour. He could tell a jest like no other."

Alistair clung to the last part of the bann's sentiment - the greatest sense of humour, a jester - like a drowning man to driftwood.

Flora's got no sense of humour, he thought to himself, fiercely. I've never heard her tell a joke. She doesn't understand half of mine. The only time I've ever seen her laugh out loud in public is when a seagull flew into the mast.

The Cousland's cold eye met his and Alistair felt his horse stumble beneath him once again.

"Such a tragedy," Leliana added softly and explicably. "Do you think justice will be served?"

The bann gave a half-shrug, his jaw tightening.

"If my brother awakens, perhaps we might have a chance. I doubt the Landsmeet will side with me against Howe, though if it comes to it, I'll shout his crimes from the rooftops."

The conversation had moved beyond what was comprehensible for Alistair and so he looked back towards the bed.

The timing aligned: Flora was clambering off the blankets, having completed her task without ceremony or announcement.

"Hm," she said, noticing Alistair's attention. "I done it. Eeeh- "

This less-than-pleased ehhh was prompted by the close scrutiny of Irving and Wynne. Flora shot them a wary stare and retreated to her brother-warden's side; who - to her vexation - headed back towards the arl.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair said, a sentiment echoed by the bann.

Eamon Guerrin lay amongst his bedclothes, and the only clue that all was not well was the stillness of his slumber. In appearance, he was naught but a man asleep. His skin had a healthy reddish hue, the flesh creased but in appropriate nature for a man of his years. A shadow had appeared on his jaw where new hairs were sprouting.

"For the love of Andraste!"

Flora, who felt fraudulent each time that she received praise for the work of her spirits, turned her back on the bed and the astonished onlookers. She did not look at the portrait - she didn't care about the nobility - but wandered across to the only window built at eye-height. There were few ways for any malicious arrow or spell to find its way into the arl's quarters; this opening was barely more than a narrowing slit.

The lake was a wash of creased mid-blue, dotted with the occasional bird or break of rock. The town of Redcliffe was visible crawling up the base of the cliff; the maze of jetties and piers stretched into the shallows like interlacing fingers. A trio of fishing boats were returning in a line, their sails full with Calenhad's breath.

Flora wished that she was down on the dock, ready to greet them with rope and gutting-blade. She did not want to be in this stifling chamber in the company of arls and banns, and - worse - teachers. First Enchanter Irving was sidling towards her like a spider. She turned and hid her face in the arrowslit, the basalt pressing a vertical line into each cheek.

How long will you remain wedged in the wall? her general enquired testily.

For ever! Until the First Tormentor leaves me alone.

You are acting as would a child. You ceased to be one when you passed the threshold of Ostagar.

Eehhh...

Meanwhile, the arlessa had been attending to her husband, lips pressed tightly together. She adjusted the blanket over his chest, then positioned the bundle of rowan twigs so it lay straight. Her hands shook but she said nothing and her narrow spine was rigid.

"Alistair."

Alistair startled, glancing down. The First Enchanter was at his side, the clever and curious gaze fixed on his own face. The man, despite his venerable years, was alight with academic curiosity.

"You seem to have some influence over Flora," Irving began, with carefully restrained enthusiasm. "More so than we can boast. You have come to know her well in the months since she was taken from the Circle?"

A wry snort rose from over the senior mage's shoulder. Wynne did not inform Irving that the two Warden-recruits had spent the previous night together aboard the Circle ship. Alistair caught her knowing eye and looked away swiftly, hoping that the flush had remained below his collar. In truth all he and Flora had done was embrace entwined on the bunk, practising how they might move together if they were not wearing nightclothes. But Wynne did not know about the layer of linen between them; and any curious ear in the ship's passage might easily have misinterpreted the creaking mattress and muffled sighs.

Afraid of somehow betraying their fledgling intimacy, Alistair nodded.

"Could you persuade her to talk with me - or the Instructor Wynne, if she prefers - about her use of magic? I would be fascinated to learn more about these spirits she speaks with."

As Alistair gazed down at Irving's keen, expectant face he felt like saying, but you weren't interested when she was under your nose for four years, were you? You thought she was incompetent.

A small voice reminded him that Flora had not done anything to rectify their assumption: she had hidden her mending and drifted through Circle life in a daydream.

"I'll mention it to her," he said at last, cautiously. "But I wouldn't get your hopes up."

Flora had just managed to get her head unstuck from the converging stone. Slightly red in the cheeks, she turned to see Alistair standing beside the two senior mages. Her nostrils flared; he stifled a laugh at the naked disapproval on her face. In response, Flora narrowed her eyes at him.

Anyone else would have quailed at the glacial stare and he might have done the same several months prior. Now he had begun to understand the finely tuned orchestration of Flora's face. Instead of faltering, he strode across the chamber to join her beside the window. Briefly - aware of those pretending not to look - he let his palm settle on the nape of her neck. It rested there warm and heavy for a moment before dropping. Flora smiled up at him, a proper smile usually reserved for when they were alone; her teeth small and white.

"I could do with some breakfast," he murmured, then glanced at the height of the sun. "Or lunch. If you could have anything to eat right now, what would it be?"

"A pear," she replied immediately, surprising him.

He smiled back down at her.

"I thought you'd say… haddock . Or mackerel, or something."

"Not- " Flora lowered her voice in deference to their company. "Not fish from THIS WATER. Don't say nothing, though."

'This water' was Lake Calenhad: clearly nothing from its depths compared to a catch from the Waking Sea's salty maw. Alistair tried not to laugh and thought that perhaps his sister-warden was funny after all, even if it was unintentionally so.

"So, a pear for lunch. Is that all?"

Flora thought for a moment. "Two pears."

"Two pears. You're easy to please, sweetheart." he said, softly.

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards; she darted a curious eye at him.

"What would you have?"

Alistair laughed, glanced at her and didn't answer.

The doors opened, a shift of wood against stone that drew the attention of the room. The steward entered with a cursory incline of the head, then stepped back to usher through the new arrival. Gone was the laughing, barrel-chested drunk from Alistair's memory. The figure who shuffled in bore the dishevelment of weeks spent on the road: days on the saddle, nights on a selection of hard and narrow bunks. Ser Ronald was no longer in his prime and the winter journey had taken its toll. He seemed older than his five decades, crumpled and oddly faded: as though the sun had bleached the colour from his features.

"What news from Denerim?" demanded Isolde, advancing towards the weary knight with terrifying purpose.

"For the love of the Maker! Ronald, sit."

The bann swooped in with a chair, thrusting the wavering man onto it before he could lose his balance. Teagan looked about him, ready to issue an instruction, but Leliana - with her usual prescience - had predicted his command. She was pouring ale from a stoppered bottle on a sideboard; the liquid pouring from a bard's steady hand.

"Let the man have a drink," Teagan continued, watching the knight exhale a tremulous breath. "And get his air. Has the road been kind to you?"

"No, it's been bloody awful," replied the old knight bluntly, before remembering whom he was speaking to. "Forgive me, my lord - but it's delivered me nothing but bandits and cut-purses, beggars and foul murderers. The roads , Teagan - what's happened to them? It's as though the jails have spilled onto the streets. I wouldn't have my daughter walk out after sundown."

"Taking advantage of my brother's illness, no doubt," retorted Teagan, his even voice a contradiction to the angry flush forming at his throat. "I ought to be on the roads myself- "

"You're needed here," interrupted Isolde, tightly. "Until Eamon wakes, if he wakes- Ser Ronald, please tell me that you have good news!"

There was such pleading in her tone that the bann fell silent. The knight drained his tankard in a long gulp and then gave a slow nod.

"I had been in Denerim for a month and made no headway," he began, hoarsely. "Then - quite by chance - I was directed to the home of a certain Chantry scholar named Genvity, Gevitny - something Antivan, anyway."

Genitivi, mouthed Leliana, using her thumb to push the stopper back into the neck of the bottle. Her hand, which had been steady when pouring the ale, now had a near-imperceptible tremor.

"A man of renowned intellect and considerable wisdom," murmured Wynne unobtrusively. "I have read a few of his works."

"I didn't find the scholar, but I found his assistant - or, as it turned out, someone feigning as the chap."

The knight shook his head in bewilderment. "Anyway, I followed a wild halla chase over half the bloody Bannorn, and eventually - well. I found this."

Ser Ronald reached into a stained leather pack that was coming apart at the seams. He withdrew a journal in equally poor condition, the cover hanging off like a bird's broken wing. It was stuffed full of excess scribbling, folded into the pages on squares of parchment. Lines of faded ink crossed each page, erratic and incoherent.

Teagan took the offered journal, leafing through it with a creased brow.

"Looks like the ramblings of a madman," the bann said at last, tautly.

He was about to place the journal on the mantel when Leliana deftly interceded, extending a pale band to receive the spilling tome. The moment that the book landed in her palm, she turned her back to the chamber; immersing herself in the faded pages.

"It mostly is," the knight conceded, "but there is a passage within the pages that stuck with me. I could not get the words out of my head once I had read them. It was as though they had been branded on my mind with fire and iron."

The air became very still, as though the chamber hung within a suspended breath. The sound of returning servants and horses from the courtyard died away. Even the wild Calenhad wind stopped chasing its tail around the towers. The two senior mages glanced at one another; Isolde drew in a tremulous breath. Alistair looked at his sister-warden. Her brow was furrowed in three places, and she was listening to something that only she could hear. Beside the hearth, Leliana's eyes were closed.

"They rest within an icy cradle; old bones of stone and ancient flame. The mortal remnants of Our Lady: a panacea for a polluted age."

The knight spoke in a distant voice, the words memorised. There followed a long pause; broken only by the faltering inhalation of the arl. Alistair glanced at the bann, who seemed caught halfway between hope and frustration.

"Sounds like a nursemaid's rhyme," Teagan said at last, abrupt. "What does it even mean?"

"The Ashes of Andraste lie to the west, hidden in the depths of an ancient temple, deep in the Frostbacks."

Leliana spoke with deliberate steadiness, even as a feverish flush crept by inches up her throat. The others in the chamber looked at her: the bard had the journal open, one finger resting on an ink-stained page.

"The Ashes can restore sight to the blind and speech to the dumb. They can make lepers whole and lame men dance."

The bann was impatient: "A fairy story, nothing more!"

He was halted by a wavering hand from Isolde: the arlessa's eyes were fixed keen and unblinking on the lay sister. Her fingers twisted the Chantry icon at her throat until the chain bit into the flesh of her neck.

"Do they… these Ashes have the power to remove blood curses?"

"Some say they are potent enough to raise the dead from their pyre," Leliana replied softly, inclining her head.

"If they exist, why haven't they been looted before now? They'd be priceless. Every thief and bandit in Thedas would be after them."

This demand came from Teagan; raw and sceptical. The bann's jaw was set rigid; his scepticism rose alongside the high walls of the chamber.

Leliana had an answer for this too, turning a page with a careful finger.

"Brother Genitivi searched for the Ashes for two decades. It seems that a recent avalanche in the Frostbacks revealed a hidden entrance to the Temple. It lies just to the north of a village named Haven."

With a start, Alistair realised that he recognised the name. He had taken notice of the tiny settlement when pouring over a map with Duncan, plotting the swiftest route through the Bannorn. He had pointed out the dot nestled in the mountain, remarking that he couldn't think of anything worse than living in the middle of nowhere. In response, Duncan had laughed and murmured something about the rock salt plains of Dairsmuid.

"Haven is in the Frostbacks," he said, thumbing the ear of Eamon's hound affectionately as he approached the journal. "But it's in the foothills, not the highest peaks. It's probably three days' ride, if you take the kingsroad."

The old Mabari gave a whine and heaved itself to its feet, following in Alistair's wake. Dogs and horses had always liked him; he treated them with the same civility as he would a member of the Landsmeet.

"It says here that the Ashes are protected with ancient traps and defensive spells." Leliana held up the journal, a slight tremor to her finger. "Which may also explain why they have not been looted. A simple graverobber would have no chance against protective magic."

Fragile hope was burgeoning on the arlessa's face like a sprout of new growth. The bann's expression, in contrast, was caught somewhere between frustration and despair.

"I can't spare men on a wild halla chase, Isolde" he said, tersely. "I have to get my brother's arling back into some semblance of order or else Mac Tir will have good cause to swoop in and take control. Anyway, it sounds like a fairytale - magic Ashes? Ancient traps? Maker's Breath!"

Irving cleared his throat. It was the first time that the First Enchanter had spoken since the knight had entered the room.

"These are strange times, my lord," he said, quietly. "Did you know that dragons have been sighted above the Frostbacks for the first time in centuries?"

"And there's a Blight," added Alistair, suddenly keen to remind everyone of their original - and most vital - goal.

Irving inclined his head.

"We may have some way of confirming whether or not this is a wild halla chase, or whether is it - something more. Flora?"

Flora was tempted to stick her head back into the arrowslit. She managed - just about - to restrain herself.

"Eh?"

There was an expectant pause. The eyes of the chamber were on her: she gazed back at them without flinching. After all, she was accustomed to being stared at.

Are you going to make the man letter it out individually for you?

Mm.

She could feel her general's eyes roll behind the laurel-pattern silver of his helm.

"Flora, the spirits who aid you - they exist beyond the parameters of mortal time and understanding. Perhaps they might give you a hint, or some vague clue about the legitimacy of this journal - bearing in mind that all of us benefit if the arl awakens?"

"They said: go get it," she replied, bluntly.

The company gazed at her in astonishment.

That is NOT how we phrased it!

Mm, but it's what you meant though, ain't it? Sorry I don't speak like I exist beyond the parameters of thing and eh.

"Right," said the bann, a vein above his eye quivering. "Well, then."

Alistair glanced at his sister-warden, a question in his gaze; Flora hesitated and then gave a reluctant nod. Something unspoken passed between them: clear as day.

Leliana, who had been watching them both like a hawk, seized the moment.

"The Maker has brought us together for this purpose," she said, and a clear bell-like note of reverence rang in the words. "See how perfectly events have aligned to bring it about. Bann Teagan, you do not need to spare any men to accompany us to Haven - though we will gratefully accept provisions and horses. I have the knowledge to interpret this journal, Alistair the brute strength to shift any physical obstacle - and Flora's shield will protect us against these defensive traps and ancient magicks."

Will it? thought Flora, grinding her teeth. WILL IT?

The only traps she was familiar with caught lobsters. She also did not know if her shield could defend against ancient magick. She was, however, confident that it could defend against drunken Skingle villagers arriving in Herring for the monthly mass brawl. This was, after all, what it had been used for most frequently.

"So," said the bann, glancing around the chamber. "It's settled. You three to Haven, while I restore my brother's roads."

AN: A few things here - a destrier is a medieval war horse! Or, was. There's a few differences in my headcanon, namely:

Alistair is massive (like 6'4) and built like a castle bastion... I mean, I reckon he would be in game too if it wasn't for the restrictions of game mechanics!

I wanted a Dumbledore/McG vibe for Irving and Wynne. I've aged Wynne up and stripped her of her spirit healer status since that's Flora - sorry, Wynne, but I'm going to treat you a lot better in this version than my original XD

I love complex relationships and the perception of relationships! It's so fun to write, lol. So all Alistair and Flora have done is basically dry hump (par for the course for a pair of virgins, ho ho), Wynne thinks they're getting it on, Morrigan knows they haven't; Alistair and Flora are both deluded and think that nobody can tell that they have a 'thing'.

Omg and I almost forgot to add - the MOST IMPORTANT CHANGE TO CANON I AM MAKING IN THIS WHOLE STORY...

...

...

Bryce Cousland will NOT be dressed like fucking Coco the Clown in bright red and yellow?! How is anyone supposed to respect him when he's wearing what I dressed my toddler in this morning?! Lol fuck that, he's wearing BADASS BLACK LEATHER in my headcanon! Not in a Catwoman way tho