The hound in the shadowed corner of the chamber yawned, a low rumble in its throat. It had been dozing throughout Flora's visit; having ascertained in an instant that she intended no threat to the Guerrin pup. The preternatural instinct of the Fereldan Mabari made it a breed desired across Thedas, though - obeying statutes more ancient than the Landsmeet - few were permitted beyond its borders.

Connor Guerrin clambered to his feet; and although the shadow had not entirely left his eyes, it was not as opaque as it had been. The favourite Mabari hound, with its speckled muzzle and bare patches, was tucked subtly into a fist; a bedtime ally for a child without companions. The boy glanced down at Flora, who was still sitting crossed-legged on the mat before his fireplace. She was delaying the moment of rising: anticipating that it would not be a pleasant experience.

"Were you married to my cousin?"

Connor directed his question to the top of Flora's head, abrupt and without warning. Flora hesitated with a palm on the mat; bemused but not wanting to embarrass the little boy with an incredulous denial.

"Hm," she said, feigning a sincere contemplation of the question. "I… I don't think so."

Connor Guerrin pursed his lips, and Flora saw the bann in the quirk of his head; canted thoughtfully atop his neck. The firelight sought out the ruddy tint in his hair.

"Oh," he said, clearly perturbed at being wrong. "I thought you were the queen."

The glacial composure of Flora's face almost failed her in that moment. She felt her mouth shape the word what; although without air, it remained soundless. She had absolutely no idea how Connor had conjured up such a preposterous assumption. However, the question had also shed some light on the identity of Connor's unnamed cousin; the one who had perished at Ostagar.

Is he talking about King Cailan? King "take off your shirt" Cailan? King "it's better for me if you don't talk" Cailan?

Yes.

Flora was bemused: if Cailan Theirin was related to Connor Guerrin, how was he also related to her brother-warden? Alistair had not mentioned being related to Connor; if he were, he would also be kin to the bann, and she had heard no reference to a shared bloodline between the two.

There came a sigh like wind in the leaves.

It takes two to create life, does it not?

Oh. Cailan's mother was a Guerrin?

The silence was an affirmation.

The arl's son gazed at Flora, his brow furrowed. From Connor's perspective she appeared to be staring, rather mindlessly, into space.

"I don't talk like a queen," she said, noticing his attention.

For some inexplicable reason, the incorrect assumption had discomfited her. She felt the equilibrium of her body shift, as though she had stepped onto the shore after a long period at sea.

"No," conceded the boy, "but you look like one."

Flora felt hot iron on her tongue; she had bitten her lip. Startled, she put her fingers to her mouth and they came away ruddy; slick in the light of the hearth. Perturbed, she licked her lip; the small wound sealed itself in the wake of her tongue.

Connor was watching her, eyes guarded and curious. She remembered the purpose of visiting his chamber, and lifted her bloodied finger to show the mended flesh.

"Magic is useful," she said, aware that she was not a teacher but hoping that the boy might learn from her anyway. "There's more to it than what you've known. Much more."

The boy gazed at her for a long moment, and then gave a taut little nod.

"Goodnight."

Flora watched his narrow frame disappear into the gloom. There were many parts of Connor's quarters that the firelight did not reach. She had not noticed the small archway leading to the bedchamber, nor the silhouetted figure in the armchair near the door. An elbow pressed into the worn fabric as the occupant leaned forward; the scuff of a leather sole lost in the crack and hiss of the hearth.

Now that she believed herself alone, Flora turned her attention to getting up. Her knee was grumbling in an ominous manner: she did not think it would take kindly to further exertion.

I can't stay here all night, she thought downwards, darkly. So cooperate. Or else I'll… what?

Break it and mend it proficiently.

Argh! No!

Still, it would not do to remain there for much longer: the boy's mother might come along. Clenching her teeth, Flora forced herself up in a single lurching motion; making a grab for the side of the hearth. It did not hurt as badly as she had expected; then she took a step and almost fell into the fireplace.

"Steady," came an easy voice from behind her.

The bann had no idea how close he had just come to being launched into the ceiling. Flora did not take well to being surprised. Inhaling in an effort to calm her racing heart, she turned around to see Teagan Guerrin standing in the shadows.

I ain't very observant, am I?

In many ways, replied her spirits, drily. You are not.

The bann took two steps towards her, and then paused. A shadow had fallen across his face; the firelight illuminating the worn leather of his tunic instead. There was a faint brownish splatter near the shoulder; somebody's blood, many hours dry.

"Lurkin' in the dark," whispered a disapproving Flora, aware of the child settling down in the adjacent chamber. "Like… like an eel in a hole."

"Sorry," Teagan looked down to hide a smile. "My intention was to keep an eye on the little lad. I didn't know you were planning a visit."

"I didn't plan," Flora said, shifting her weight onto her stronger knee. "I just came. I wanted to make sure he were alright."

The younger Guerrin gazed at her, his reply drifting unmoored from his mind. She peered back at him for a moment, then her eyes meandered elsewhere; across the array of scowling relatives that adorned the walls. Her braid was slyly freeing itself from the attempt at restraint; ribbons of liberated hair writhed snakelike against a coat so shapeless and ugly that it would be rejected by any self-respecting beggar. She looked as though she had been dragged through three hedges backwards on the route between her chamber and Connor Guerrin's.

And yet the lad still mistook her for Anora, Teagan thought to himself, and I understand why. Old blood runs within that luscious flesh.

The bann's throat had become inexplicably dry. A cloud of questions swarmed within his skull like midges at sunset. It was as though a chapter had been torn from a book he was engrossed in: he could make vain guesses, but the lack of certainty was frustrating.

He wished fervently that his brother was conscious. While he, Teagan, had spent much of his adult life avoiding duty in the Marches horse fairs; Eamon had woven himself firmly into the texture of the Fereldan peerage, becoming intimate with the great families of the nation. The most coveted allies traced their lineage direct from the Alamarri. Out of the half-dozen indigenous clans, three bloodlines had survived: the Theirins, the mac Eanraigs and the Couslands. They ruled in Ferelden's north and the east; where the old ways were still followed and the Chantry held less sway.

The Theirin line ends with Alistair, Teagan thought, holding the door open for Flora as she lurched her way unsteadily across the chamber. As for the Cousland sons? The elder is lost to the Wilds and is most likely dead. The younger is lost to the gambling houses and wine-parlours of Val Royeaux.

Has anyone even written to Finian? I know he and his kin were not on the best of terms, but -

"Bann," whispered Flora, interrupting the fragmented meander of his thoughts. "Bann. You comin'?"

She was holding the door open for him, much to the consternation of the hovering sentry beyond. The younger Guerrin shook his head and crossed the chamber swiftly, relieving the door from her fingers.

Flora made her way down the passage while the bann paused to confer with the sentry; reminding them once again that he, Teagan, was to be summoned at once if the child showed any sign of distress.

He caught up with Flora with ease near the stuffed Antivan tyger ; she had covered barely any distance. Each step she took was unbalanced, and every few feet her palm sought the support of the wall.

"If I didn't know better, my lady," the bann observed, amused. "I would think that you had overindulged on ale at dinner."

"I can't overindulge on ale," she replied, wondering if she had the stamina and athleticism to hop on one leg back to the guest quarters. "It turns to water in my mouth. This means: BEER IS POISON?"

These last three words were hissed with the beady, incredulous disapproval of an aged Chantry Mother. Teagan Guerrin bit down on a laugh; the corner of his mouth twitching as he fought to keep a neutral expression.

"I see," he said, as the external doors were opened before them and the ramparts came into view.

The weather had worsened while they were within the Guerrin family tower; that is, it became more like a Fereldan winter night. The cloud had advanced until the sky was a swathe of dour grey, lit in irregular patches by a lurking moon. The drizzle which had been threatening to fall all evening was now descending in slender ribbons, running down the walls and pooling on the cobbles. The night's only redeeming quality was that it was still mild; the wind at rest in the eaves.

Flora came to a sudden, splashing halt, one hand seeking the flat part of the battlements.

"I think I'll sleep here tonight," she said, wanting Teagan to go away and leave her alone with her sore knee.

The bann looked around, incredulous.

"Here?"

"It has a nice view," came the vague response.

The 'view' was the dimly lit courtyard below, empty save for a well and a tangle of broken furniture evacuated from the great hall. Once the seat of arls, its new destiny was to be firewood: an ax and stump stood nearby. Flora glanced sideways at the bewildered bann, then decided that there was no point in masking the truth.

"My knee hurts," she said, "a lot. It was hurt at Ostagar and I didn't - I didn't mend it properly afterwards. I don't think I can walk back."

The memory of Duncan's death - or the moment Flora had learnt about it, imparted casually by an oblivious Morrigan - never failed to wound her; a sly dagger shoved between the ribs.

Teagan's eye met hers, and she saw his mouth move: she knew that he was about to offer to carry her. He saw the wariness in her face, and thought better of it.

She hasn't remained a maid all these years by allowing unfamiliar men to bear her in their arms.

"I'll get one of your companions," he said, instead. "Stay here."

Flora was not keen on being carried around like a babe, but reasoned that if anyone was to do it; it may as well be Alistair. She responded with a little nod, surreptitiously standing on one leg.

The bann almost put a hand on her shoulder, at the last moment, he retracted it abruptly and turned away. Flora watched him stride along the ramparts, a lean, dishevelled figure framed by the slanting rain. As he passed beneath a stone archway, the lantern overhead lit up the red in his hair.

She turned back to peer down into the courtyard below. It was mired in shadow like a rockpool; the iron brackets intended for lanterns stood empty. One wooden table had already been part-dismembered. The wet cobbles shone as though they had been polished.

Could anyone jump down there and survive? From up here?

A cat.

No, I mean - not an animal.

Why don't you try it? You'll break your knee and have just cause to repair it.

I don't want to. I'll break everything.

Flora turned her back on the courtyard, leaning against the ramparts with her elbows wedged on the stone. She was grateful for her coat: although the woollen exterior was sodden, the leather lining had been treated to ward off the rain. It might have been the ugliest garment within southern Ferelden - the sight of it made Leliana nauseous - but it was warm, and waterproof. A coat of its type would have been someone's prized possession in Herring.

She could feel the weight of her damp hair on her head. The wet bundle clung to her neck and spread tendrils across her shoulders like the root system of a plant. It had grown a finger-length since that morning; the result of drawing the demon through the Veil and mending Alistair's wounds.

Maybe I should cut it all off. Descale my head and make it bald.

No, Alistair likes my hair.

Though I'd be able to swim faster. I'd be -

"Bas."

"Quick as an eel," retorted Flora, caught by surprise. "Ooh. I thought you was - someone else."

The Qunari eyed her, unimpressed. Sten took up much of the ramparts; looming like one of the castle's half-dozen towers. He was clad in leathers and mail, as though he had come straight from the field.

"You require assistance," he stated, bluntly. "The mid-ranking human informed me."

"Yes, please," said Flora, wondering if the Qunari appreciated her Circle-taught manners. "My knee hurts."

Sten shot the offending limb a swift glance, the crease in his brow deepening.

"I suggested a leather binding."

"I do wear that," she protested, raising her arms as she was lifted into the air. "During the day. I forgot to put it on for - for this."

After some consideration, she decided that being dangled over a shoulder like a sack of turnips was less embarrassing than being carried like a babe in arms. The cobbles swung back and forth as she surveyed the world from a new and intriguing angle.

"This is not dignified." Sten's voice was taut with disapproval as they proceeded along the ramparts. "Not befitting for a commander."

"No," agreed Flora. "But I ain't a commander."

There was a beat of silence as they passed beneath the illuminated archway. Flora turned her head to the side, gazing at the pale, tightly woven links of the Qunari's hair. She noticed that he had removed the small tokens and studs that had once spaced the braids at intervals.

"I'm a mender," she said, returning her gaze to the rainslick cobbles. "That's what I do. Who I am."

Duncan is our commander.

For the thousandth time, replied her general, wearily. Duncan is dead. He cannot lead from the grave.

"A mender," repeated Sten, quietly. "This is the same as 'healer' in your tongue."

It was not a question, but an affirmation of truth: the Qunari spoke Kingstongue with far greater proficiency and range than Flora.

"Mm. It's what we call them up north."

They passed from the ramparts into the tower. The rattle of rain against stone was subdued to a distant murmur; the bones of the castle yielded to their entry with a sigh. Redcliffe Castle, although not as old as Ostagar, had stood for half-a-thousand years. Standing alone atop its protuberance of stone, it shifted with the slow, languorous of the landscape. The only clue to such movement was the occasional fall of a tile, or a beam inched out of place.

The length of the Qunari's stride meant that it took no time to reach the women's quarters. Sten let Flora slither down to the flagstones before they came into view of the sentries positioned outside the door.

"Thank you," she said, cautiously testing the strength of her knee as she shifted from one foot to another. "Sorry if you were woken up. I'll remember to tie the strap the next time I go for a - go for a walk."

Sten did not deign this worthy of a response, but there was something unspoken in his stance. He stared at her, his broad, clever face intense with thought. Flora peered up at him, suddenly apprehensive.

"Blight," he said, eventually. "In your tongue, before it had the meaning it holds now. It used to mean: disease."

I'm a mender. It's what I do.

Flora's words echoed around them in the corridor, clear as if she had spoken them herself. She felt oddly light-headed, and then realised that she was not breathing: the air suspended in her throat.

"What happened to your - the stones?" she asked, deflecting the course of her thoughts with a vague gesture towards her head. "The bits you had in your hair? The pins and bindings."

The Qunari's frown deepened until they were plough marks across his brow, deep and disapproving. She could see him consider whether to offer her an explanation: was she worthy of one?

"They were tokens of the beresaad and the kith ," he said, after a moment. "Holy symbols of the Qun . I do not have the honour to bear them now that I am tal-vashoth - exile. It would not be appropriate."

Flora waited to see if more was forthcoming, but the Qunari appeared to have finished. He was no longer looking at her, but at the air before her: his memory conducting its own reenactment.

"If you want to borrow my leather bands instead," she said, referring to the slender ties she used to tame her own hair. "I got spares. I'll give you some tomorrow."

Sten made an indistinct noise in his throat. A wistful Flora lingered a moment - the Qunari's laconic communication reminded her of Herring - and then took her leave, shuffling down the passageway towards the pair of sentries.

The guard who had escorted Flora to Connor Guerrin's chamber peered at her, eyes curious within the iron confines of his helm.

"Did you achieve all that you wished to do, my- "

"Flora," she corrected, anticipating the honorific this time. "And, I- "

Flora was not sure how to answer the question. She had wanted to see how Connor Guerrin fared after his ordeal; she did not think he was at peace yet, but at least he might gain a few hours of sleep.

"Eh," she replied, stifling a yawn. "Dunno."

Her voice dropped as the doors were opened, light spilling forth from the hearth in the antechamber beyond. Alistair's fire had been sturdily constructed; busy gnawing through the next layer of logs. The three archways that led to their individual quarters were mired in shadow. Flora thought that she could hear snoring from the senior mage's chamber, but the bard's room was as silent as a chapel.

The door closed behind her and she inhaled a lungful of smoky air, shrugging her arms from the sagging sleeves. Relieving herself of her boots one at a time as she crept across the chamber - Flora did not want to wake her companions and risk even polite interrogation - she made her way towards the sliver of space assigned to her.

The bed had not grown more comfortable in her absence. As Flora lay back on the rag-stuffed mattress, she hoped fervently that Connor Guerrin would have an undisturbed sleep.

AN: I loved writing this chapter! I really wanted to humanise Flora more in this version - she's a babe with a preternatural healing ability, but she also wonders randomly if anyone could survive jumping off a massive wall, and has moronic moments where she forgets that Cailan had a mother as well a father, and thus has maternal relations. It makes me laugh that she was expecting Alistair to come and carry her back (like a BRIDE? Over the THRESHOLD?!) and instead Sten rocks up XD I really wanted to develop Flora and Sten's relationship more too, since they actually have quite a lot in common in their blunt and economical manner of speech, and their general practicality.

Also, it makes me laugh how her body purifies alcohol (turns it into water and whatever else) and she assumes that ALE IS POISONNNNN haha

The word 'Blight' is a medieval word for disease!