For several reasons, Flora found herself unable to settle after Alistair's departure. He had folded the leather strap carefully and placed it on the mattress beside her - she did not wear it at night - and then hesitated as though unsure how to part. He leaned forward and she thought that he might kiss her; then his hand somehow ended on top of her head. Her brother-warden gave her hair a congenial ruffle, as though she were a child, a true younger sibling, or a Mabari. He then left hastily, a flush rising from the collar of his sweaty shirt.
The hearth in the antechamber was devouring the freshly-split wood. Light spilled into the three adjoining bedrooms; the heat mostly escaped between the rafters. Flora could not hear beyond the gnawing flame and hissing tinder, though she assumed that both the senior enchanter and the lay sister had gone to sleep. She felt as though she ought to join them: it had been a long and eventful day. Dropping anchor at the Redcliffe docks felt like an age ago, though it had been only that morning.
Flora rolled onto her belly, the blanket caught beneath her. The mattress smelt of mildew; it reminded her of Herring. It also felt like the Bannorn in bedding form: a shrunken replica of hills, ridges and valleys. She did not mind the discomfort; like the damp odour, it brought back fond memories. It was not her surroundings that kept her awake, but an ache both physical and mental.
She turned to face the ceiling once again; then blew out her cheeks and exhaled slowly, the air gleaming like dull brass before her. A bell rang somewhere in the deep parts of the castle, signaling either a late night prayer or the change in watch.
The worst thing, Flora thought darkly to herself, pushing strands of loose hair away from her face. Is when you're tired, but you can't sleep. In Herring, she had to complete a set of daily duties before she was permitted to rest:
Tie up the lobster pots
Untangle the lines
Mend any holes in the net
Prepare the bait
Why can't I sleep? What haven't I done?
She sat up in the darkness, palms flat against the rag-stuffed linen. The doorway into the antechamber was cast in flickering hearth light; a restless orange aura that writhed and gesticulated like a lost spirit.
I hope this castle ain't haunted. It looks old.
Flora had a profound fear of ghosts; she was convinced they could penetrate her shield. This theory had never been put to the test, and she hoped it never would.
She swung her feet onto the bare floorboards, careful not to put her sole weight on her weak knee. Her socks were balled inside her boots; she retrieved them and pulled them as high as they would go. One toe protruded through the fraying end. Once she had donned and laced her boots, Flora shuffled around the bed; holding her breath so as not to wake her sleeping companions. An unfamiliar snore must have belonged to Wynne, but she could hear no sound from Leliana's chamber.
Flora had left the rest of her layers in an unceremonious pile near the open door. Excavating her coat from the tangle of leather and linen, she pulled it on over Alistair's shirt. The heavy dark wool hung to her knees; she reasoned that this made her decent enough to venture beyond the confines of the room.
The stillness of the antechamber was broken by the spitting and hissing of the hearth. Buttoning her coat, Flora trod as gentle as possible across the boards. Her unsupported knee gave a twinge of reproach: it had been anticipating at least six hours of uninterrupted rest.
Maybe I should break it so I can mend it properly.
Argh! No. No!
The snoring from Wynne's chamber trailed Flora as she wrapped her fingers around the iron ring, hoping the door would come quietly. It did, to her mingled surprise and relief; she shut it without exhaling.
The narrow stone passage was empty save for a lone guard falling asleep on his polearm. He wore crumpled Guerrin livery and a helm that did not belong to him; it was too large and sat at an angle. He startled and looked at her, then gave another rattle of iron; eyes widening. Flora wondered briefly if she should smile to compensate for the glacial imperiousness of her natural face.
"My lady?" The word wavered from his helmet.
Assuming that Leliana or Wynne stood behind her, Flora glanced over her shoulder. The door remained shut and still in her wake. Perplexed, she returned her eyes to the guard.
"Where does the arl's family sleep?"
Earlier that evening they had descended from the arl's bedchamber to the kitchen, then from the kitchen to the guest bedchambers. Flora doubted she could navigate from the last location to the first unaided; especially within the labyrinthine stone bowels of the castle.
"Do you want me to escort you there, my lady?"
Flora eyed the guard, made wary by his choice of word. Escort brought to mind Templars and Circles; two parts of her life that she had believed were behind her.
Until we had to go and get their help. Ha!
However, the alternative was spending many candle-lengths wandering interchangeable stone passageways; shadowed and uncharted. She might end up in Irving's chamber, or the quarters housing the Templars. She could not decide which of these was the worse outcome.
"Show me," she said, trusting that her soft northern growl wouldn't betray her departure to her sleeping companions. The hoarse edge to her voice was the outcome of a decade of mending through her throat; the only physical toll that extensive magic use had taken on her body. It was a penance that Flora did not mind suffering; a small price to pay to be a conduit for such potency.
The guard swallowed; his helm quivered atop his head.
"As you command."
As Flora followed him the length of the narrow corridor, she felt vaguely bemused: she had not commanded him, she had made a basic request. Herring folk spoke simply and without the embellishment of the educated.
The shadowed tile was divided by bands of moonlight piercing through the arrowslits. In a more peaceful time there would have been torches lit and fresh rushes strewn across the floor. The thick walls held the cold in; the mildness of the winter night made no difference. Redcliffe Castle would shiver in its basalt shroud until the rest of its servants had been brought up from the town.
They passed through a door and the wind blew Flora's hair back from her face. A tower rose like a chess piece behind them; another lay a short distance away, accessible along the crenellated battlements. The sky overhead was a muddy swirl of grey and black like a painter's water; the moon a lone white eye. No stars were visible, lost in the mire of cloud.
The guard shuffled ahead of her, shoulders hunched and head down. The walled route along the rampart was narrow; two could walk abreast but he went several yards before. The wind buffeted him as he went, and several times he had to place a steel-clad palm on the battlements. Flora drifted in his wake, her attention snared in one direction and then another. The courtyard below was still and dark as a rockpool, the cobbles lost in shadow. Looking up, she wondered if Morrigan had secreted herself in some crevice or ruined nook, or perhaps settled in the sawdust with the other birds in the rookery. Something writhed in the corner of her eye; alarmed, she spun her head towards it, only to see a Guerrin banner twisting and snapping against the wall.
"Careful, my lady." The guard's voice, muffled by the helm, drifted over his shoulder. "It's icy up here."
Flora wished that he would stop addressing her as though she were the arlessa. It reminded her of when her peers in the Circle called her Mistress Scholar , a nickname which often made the rounds along with the Vase. Although she was reasonably sure that she would not slip - she had spent her childhood clambering over rocks slick with mossy green seaweed - Flora did not want the guard to lose his balance. She opened her fingers to reveal the gilded aura of her palm; the stone pathway painted in an auric wash. The guard shot her an appalled glance over his shoulder - MAGIC! - and Flora hastily closed her fingers again.
They passed beneath an archway, below which an unlit lantern hung. The Guerrin family tower, framed by the bowed stone, rose at the end of the rampart. the slate roof gleaming with recent rainfall. The structure had an air of intimidating desolation: the walls were vast but crumbling, a scattering of tiles were missing and a spread of ivy obscured many of the arrowslits.
A pair of sentries stood in vigilance at either side of the doorway. Gloved fingers tensed around the wooden shafts of their lances as they noted the approach of late-night visitors. Guerrin retainers were notoriously loyal; their ailing arl lay unconscious within, along with his wife and child.
The guard escorting Flora cleared his throat as he approached, the sound muffled within the helm.
"The lady war- war- Warden? Lady-Warden? "
He clearly had trouble reconciling the yawning girl in an oversized coat with the grizzled military order of Ferelden's past.
"The lady wishes to gain access to the tower," he said finally, the words emerging weak and unconvincing. "To the Guerrin quarters."
Flora was not pleased. Voiced by him, her request sounded vaguely ominous. She was not surprised when the response was a wary one; the sentries bristled within the hard shells of their armour.
"Tell her to come back on the morrow with the bann," retorted one, belligerent. "It's the middle of the bloody night."
Flora had not laced up her boots and crept like a mouse from her chamber to be turned away at the threshold. She felt a great, mule-like defiance swell inside her. Not bothering to prepare an argument - after all, eloquence had never been a strength of hers - she stepped out from behind the hesitant guard.
"I'm going to see Connor," she informed them, each word falling like the headsman's ax. "Please show me to his room."
Although she had said please, the unspoken meaning emerged as now. Even this blunt command-veiled-as-request paled beside the compelling intensity of her face: the steel of her pale eye and the odd, unfathomable authority that swept those before her like the tide.
Ow, my knee, Flora thought vaguely to herself, relying on the strange, haughty power of her exterior to urge compliance. I wish I had ten legs, like a crab.
Then I could confuse my enemy by walking sideways.
Loghain mac Tir's scowl rose in her mind and she brushed it aside impatiently: not you.
The amphibian features of the Archdemon replaced it: fanged and scaled like the strange, vast creatures that dwelt in the very deepest parts of the ocean. Sometimes, fragments of these leviathans washed up on the stony shores of Herring: parts of an ancient skeleton, swathes of petrified leather equal in size to a ship's mainsail.
You.
Shivering, Flora dismissed it; she was not sure why she had even summoned the monster's face in the first place.
Her attention returned to the damp castle ramparts, the sealed Guerrin door and the pair of sentries. The clouds were threatening to release the weight of rain within them; the moon had concealed itself behind the highest tower.
"My lady?"
She realised that the door was now open. Torchlight from within spilled over the cobbles like ale across a tavern counter. One guard was keeping the door open with an outstretched arm, he had removed his helm and his eyes were lowered, humble and deferent.
"I will show you to the young lord's chamber."
Flora was pleased, convinced that her blunt Herring candor had been the crucial element to changing the sentry's mind.
She recognised this part of the castle now; they had arrived via some other, concealed route within the walls earlier that day. They passed a set of steps that writhed upwards like a snake around a post, wide enough for only one. Fortunately, Flora was not directed to this stair: she was not sure whether her knee could manage it in its current weariness.
They passed the embalmed Antivan tyger; she remembered how the bann had assumed that she had taken his hand out of fright. Flora had never taken anyone's hand for reassurance, even as a child. It was not that she was never scared, but that the most potent defence against threat came from within her and not from others. She was glad that she had not summoned her barrier against the moth eaten creature; she was still teased for shielding herself against rogue sheep in camp.
Another pair of sentries were posted at the foot of a wide staircase that folded back on itself and led to a stone balcony. It was lined with wall hangings and yet more portraits; including several grinning-faced Mabari. The light was inconstant; slivers of the moon darted through arrowslits, the amber spillage of the hearth pooled beneath the odd doorway. Much of the tower was still shrouded in damp and gloom, and had a melancholy cast.
Flora took her time on the stair, one hand on the stone. Her knee bit into her leg with each step, and she was struck with a sudden, last-moment doubt.
What if he's asleep? He's a child. What time do children go to sleep?
If the boy is sound asleep after all that has passed today, he has more iron in his soul than any warrior we've met.
Flora thought that this was unlikely to be the case, and felt reassured.
The sentry came to a halt outside another closed door, illuminated by a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Another liveried guard stood yawning beside it: the arlessa was taking no chances with the safety of her son.
"The lady wishes to see master Connor. Is he abed?"
Flora ground her teeth but did not bother to correct him: it was not worth the effort of explaining why the term was not suitable. For Leliana, without question - but not for a native of Herring.
There came a taut shake of the head in response; restless eyes glanced at the riveted wood.
"I don't believe so."
The door opened into a high-ceilinged chamber that seemed too large and lonely for a single occupant. The corners were wells of shadow, while the remnants of a hearth smouldered on the eastern wall. There were few signs that the owner of the chamber was a child: the portraits on the wall were disapproving and the general decor austere.
There was a silhouette before the hearth; a small figure sitting cross-legged on a threadbare mat that had more years than he did. His back was turned, but the stiffening of the shoulders suggested he had heard her entrance.
Flora heard the door close quietly in her wake. The last time that she had seen Connor Guerrin, he had been little more than an effigy: a puppet yanked this way and that at the whims of a demon.
Well, he ain't an abomination anymore, she told herself; determined not to hesitate. He's a little boy. Did anyone come to see him? Where's his mammy?
Crouching with gritted teeth, she unlaced her boots beside the entrance. The soles were damp and dripping; she must have splashed through some puddle on the ramparts. The leather was mottled with dried Redcliffe clay and she resolved to clean them in the morning.
"Who are you?"
The boy's voice was thin and high; she had not heard it without the guttural demonic echo. Connor was peering over his shoulder at her, his pale, pinched face taut. His eyes - which stood out luminous in the hearthlight, the same Guerrin green as his father and uncle - were ringed with smudges of exhaustion.
Flora shuffled across the flagstones, her knee protesting at each step.
"I'm Flora," she said, wondering if it would be less painful to do a controlled fall onto the mat.
In the end, she managed to lower herself before the hearth; clutching the arm of a nearby chair for support. As she crossed her legs beneath her, the arl's son peered closely at her fire-lit features.
"I know you," he said, uncertain. "I - I think?"
The frustration and fear struck raw notes through his words; the child could not distinguish what had been fevered Fade dream, and what had been terrible reality.
"Mm," Flora agreed, noticing the scattered wooden animals on the mat. "I'm a mage, too."
It was odd to describe herself as a mage, rather than a mender; but she thought that the distinction might be confusing. She did not bother explaining her role in his exorcism: what was the point? After a swift appraisal, a line of confusion dug itself into the child's brow: he could not reconcile the figure before him, with the hole-riddled socks and beggar's coat, with the erudite scholars of the Circle. He did not say anything, but his lips pursed and he returned his attention to the animals. The Mabari was the favourite; the paint worn down by years of childish fingers.
"Ain't it past your bedtime?"
True to character, Flora had not planned what she would say to the arl's son. She had acted on the vague notion that someone ought to talk to the boy and reassure him that he was not to blame for the ordeal. Now she thought that perhaps Wynne may have been the more eloquent choice; she always knew what to say.
The boy's jaw stiffened and she could see the similarity to his mother; the delicate structure of the bone and the skin so translucent that the vein was visible beneath it.
"I shan't sleep," he said, soft and deliberate. "That's when it happened. While I was sleeping."
"When what happened?" asked the oblivious Flora, forgetting for a moment the chain of events that had led to the boy's possession.
He shot her a scornful glance and she glimpsed a kernel of fear, lodged in the pupil like a seed.
"When I was - when the demon… took over. You know what happened. I thought it would save my father. The mage, Jowan… he- I thought he was here to help me. "
Connor Guerrin trailed off: angry and humiliated. The emotions were too vast for his childish boy, he swept a fist around the Mabari and made as though to throw it into the hearth. At the last moment he stopped himself with a little gasp, head dropping.
Flora contemplated this for a moment.
"I knew Jowan in the Circle," she said, eventually. "He's even stupider than me. He's got the brain of a mollusc. This ain't your fault, it's his."
Each statement was delivered with characteristic northern bluntness. Connor darted a swift eye towards her; she thought she saw the edge of his mouth tremble.
"It ain't your fault," she repeated, placing the toppled horse upright and looking about for the rider. The wooden knight, no taller than her little finger, was missing an arm. The limb lay on the edge of the mat; victim of the boy's earlier anger.
She and Connor looked at the broken toy.
"My friend Alistair will fix it tomorrow," Flora said, wondering idly if she could mend a severed limb. She presumed that she probably could, if it were required. "He's good with things like that."
"Alistair. The old king's son?"
Flora was confused: she had believed it was a secret.
"Yes. How do you know?"
The boy smiled archly.
"I overheard my father talking about it in his solar. Anyway, it's obvious to anyone with two eyes. He looks much more like Maric than my cousin ever did. Mama told me what happened at Ostagar."
Flora had no idea who Connor was referring to; Fereldan politics were as incomprehensible as its alphabet. She let the broken knight lean against its steed, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. Her belly was cramping low and keen: her monthly course was due.
"Mm." She gave a vague reply, hoping he would not press her further on the matter.
There was silence for a long moment; she let it stretch out, comfortable in its hollow stillness. Although Connor was staring intently into the hearth, his face was cast in shadow.
"I suppose they'll send me away now," he said, quietly. "To the Circle. I'll have to leave here."
Flora did not think it would be any hardship to leave the vast and draughty halls of Redcliffe Castle; but then again, she had only known it as a mausoleum and a playground for demons.
"I had to go to the Circle too," she said, uncrossing her legs and stretching her feet before the hearth. "It's full of teachers. They'll show you how to use your magic."
The arl's son shuddered, lip curling. He glanced down at his hands and then swiftly looked away.
"I hate it," he said, very quietly. "I wish it could be taken out of me. Do you know if there's a… some sort of spell that can do that?"
Flora did not have much understanding of spells, but she was relatively certain that the only method of severing one's connection with the Fade was not a pleasant solution; and that it had nothing to do with magic. She gave an ambiguous shrug, bending her feet inwards until the large toes touched.
"Dunno," she said. "But you don't want that."
He was incredulous: "You like being a mage?"
Flora held out her hand, palm facing upwards. A faint breath of golden mist swept across it like the tide rolling over the sand. She curved her fingers, and the aether melted away. The boy watched the magic vaporise; suspicious and fascinated in equal part.
"I wouldn't want to do nothing else," she said, meaning mending instead of magic. "It's the purpose of my whole life."
Connor darted her an astonished glance. She met his gaze for a steady moment, then returned her attention to her hole-riddled sock.
"Eh, I need to darn these. Tomorrow, I'll fix this sock and Alistair will fix this tiny man."
She pointed a toe at the broken-armed knight, pleased with the symmetry. Connor picked up the short squire that accompanied the figure, turning it over in his palm. It was dressed in diminutive Guerrin livery; the tower picked out in delicate white atop its crimson hill. He placed the squire close beside the wounded knight; a Redcliffe retainer loyal to the end.
"Why is he so big?"
"Who?"
"The Theirin."
Flora realised eventually that Connor was talking about Alistair.
"Oh." She thought for a moment. "Dunno. He's got long bones."
"Long bones," repeated Connor, brow furrowed. "I see. He lived here when he was a child, didn't he? With the stable boys."
Flora looked around at the draughty chamber, with its cold walls and gallery of stern ancestral glares. The wooden animals and the knight huddled before the fire; the only clue that the owner of the room was young. She then looked at the boy sitting on the mat, his narrow shoulders hunched in defensive posture.
"There are a lot of children in the Circle," she said.
His head turned quickly. "Are there?"
Flora nodded. "Yes. Lots. There's a whole floor for them."
Connor's fingers twisted in the hem of his nightshirt; the small, pointed face grew contemplative. The hearth chewed its way through a large log; the splitting wood sent a glittering host of sparks up the chimney. She yawned, and he followed a moment later.
"I think I'll go to bed now." The proclamation was issued with the sturdy little authority of an arl's son. "It's very late."
"Yes," agreed Flora, solemnly. "It is. 'Night."
AN: Writing this chapter was so interesting! Becoming a mother has changed the way that I see things so much. When I wrote this story the first time, I had Connor getting exorcised and then he vanished from the story for about 150 chapters! But now, I was thinking about this ten year old boy who had been through this horrible experience, and his dad is in a coma, and his mum is arlessa Isolde (lol), all alone in his chamber - it actually made me so sad! Hahaha I swear giving birth has fucked my hormones forever. Anyway, I thought it would be nice for Flora, who is much more emotionally intelligent than she is traditionally intelligent, to go and see if Connor was alright, and to give him a bit of hope for his future. Although now I think about it, having him stare into the hearth is a little ominous given his potential fate in In Hushed Whispers in DA: I! Ahhhh that wasn't intentional! Hahhaa.