The smoke scraped the back of her throat with acrid fingernails. She could taste the sour odour of burning on her tongue; it struck a deep and primal chord within her.

Fire!

She could not see. She did not know why she could not see, but it was as though her eyes had been bound with a scarf. If she squinted, she could make out the faint outlines of shapes; moving frantically against a shifting orange hue.

She could not see, and she could not move. Somewhere overhead a bell rang out a last, frantic plea for aid.

The castle is on fire, Flora thought to herself, clawing back the memory of where they were. Redcliffe Castle is on fire.

Yet was it fire, or ravenous beast? It devoured its way noisily through stone and timber alike; scorching the slate as though it were an oven. It ate through the walls and reduced the ceiling beams to fragmented ash. It dismantled the building like a mason's hammer; careless of the lives within.

She could not summon her shield, because she could not breathe. The smoke seethed like burning pitch within her lungs and she had no air. Without air, she could do nothing except await the first terrible lick of flame.

Then, to her shock, she heard another sound; the grating, coagulated snarl of a rotting throat. Incredulous, she identified it in an instant.

Darkspawn. How? How are they here?

The bells rang out in even greater panic overhead. Flora remembered that castles did not have bell towers. So she was not in Redcliffe Castle, after all.

Where am I?

The snarling merged with the howl of flame until they formed a single mass of hostile sound. Flora felt the hairs on the backs of her arms lift as the blood slowed to a crawl in her veins. She still could not see; nor could she move.

A scream cut through the miasma of smoke and noise. It sounded like a wounded animal but could not have been anything other than human. A moment passed, then the scream was joined by another, and then another; until a chorus of guttural terror churned beneath the burning rafters. The bells rang out a final, despairing peal and then yielded to the flame.

Suddenly, Flora could see. Instead of fire and smoke, she saw a vast and colourless eye. It had several pupils floating atop the iris and each one was focused intensely on her. Then the dragon itself emerged ; a scale-bound leviathan rising from the depths to feast upon surface-dwellers. Flora recognised it immediately: it was no sea monster but the commander of the enemy host, the sole architect of the Blight, the Archdemon which her spirits had named Urthemiel. This was the fifth time that she had seen it, and -

- a harpoon, she thought in a pure white moment of madness, a harpoon the length of a ship's mast. That might take it down.

Yes. Yes!

Then terror rose within her like the tide. She recoiled from the Fade and from the Archdemon's undisguised loathing; crashing back through the Veil to the waking world.

Flora awoke sweaty and sick to her stomach, the blanket tangled around her body like a shroud. She had no idea where she was: the room was a collection of grey shapes and shadows. There was a ghost of a pealing bell in her skull; ashes rested on her tongue and they tasted like fire and blood.

Her hand groped blindly in the darkness, expecting to find a fistful of Alistair's shirt. Instead, Flora's bereft fingers closed on empty air, nails sinking pink half-moons into her palm. The mattress beside her was empty, save for the discarded blanket. The shock of her brother-warden's absence was almost equal to that caused by the nightmare. They had not spent a night apart since their first meeting.

Now convinced that something terrible had happened, Flora half-fell from the bed. Groping her way through the shadows she stumbled over her own discarded boot, catching the side of her face on the doorframe. Cheek throbbing, she continued on past the dead remnants of the hearth, through the shadowed antechamber. Fragments of the dream blew past her like leaves in the wind: a scream, a snarl, the crack of fire splitting an overhead beam.

Flora found herself in a passageway; someone made a hesitant query and she paid no attention. The death knell within her skull drove out all rational thought: it seemed to be growing louder with each passing minute.

If I stay inside, I'll burn. The fire is spreading. But the Darkspawn are outside. They'll rip me to pieces.

She could not even summon her shield; her lungs were choked with acrid smoke. Desperate to breathe, Flora stumbled with hands outstretched until a door yielded before her and she felt the damp Fereldan air on her sweaty cheeks. As soon as she inhaled, she felt the bile rise in her throat: she dropped her head and threw up the watery remnants of her dinner.

The purging of her belly cleared her mind and she was able to shake the vestiges of the dream from her mind; finally able to separate the Fade from the waking world. The hissing of the fire became the soft rustle of drizzle; pooling within the web of cracks between the cobbles. She gulped in a lungful of air and it held no smoke, only the damp chill of a Fereldan winter night. She was not in a burning Chantry, hemmed in by flame and Darkspawn; she was on the ramparts of Redcliffe Castle. It was still dark, but closer to dawn than midnight. The sky was a well of navy, the stars hidden by scudding cloud. Dawn was less than a candle-length away.

Flora sat back on her heels and rubbed her eyes hard with her knuckles, inhaling an unsteady breath. It was rare for her to be sick: she did not get food poisoning and her body neutralised disease long before the need to physically purge. The sourness lingering on her tongue and the soreness of her throat was an unpleasant novelty. She looked around, heart still racing. A lead conduit for rainwater was fixed to the wall nearby. She cupped a palm within the channel and swallowed several mouthfuls; the contents purified as they passed between her lips.

As she swallowed, the questions began to stream through her mind.

What was that? It didn't feel like a dream. It felt real. I thought it was real.

Was it just a dream? Was it - was it something else?

Her general made no response. Instead Compassion sighed in her ear, and the blood ran cold in Flora's veins.

Is it real? Has that actually happened? The fire? The Darkspawn?

She felt her belly churn; a cold knot of panic forming within her ribs. Before she could be sick again, she cast around in her mind for the slender line that bound her to her brother-warden: the subtle call of the blood they shared. It had always been easier for her to sense him than it was the inverse. The taint ran through his veins like a dark stain whereas in hers it was merely a suggestion, diluted by the aether.

Flora clambered to her feet, thrusting damp hair from her eyes. She could feel her momentary calm slipping away like a loose mooring. Her knee offered only mild protest, having recuperated during her slumber.

Follow the fish rope.

Once again, the death knell rang in the deep part of her mind. Flora stumbled forwards, not quite running and not certain of her direction; guided by the unconscious bias of the bond Duncan had created. The cobbles beneath her bare feet were slick, but skin proved better traction than leather and she did not slip. She lurched beneath the archway and past the entrance to the Guerrin family quarters; if the sentries were still standing there, she did not see them.

Another doorway was set in the wall to her left and Flora felt her body angle towards it, nudged by an unseen hand. The door was unguarded and unlocked; it yielded with a groan to the impatient shove of her palm. A stairway, narrow and intended for use by servants, curved up and out of sight. Flora felt the presence of her brother-warden like a palm pressed to her heart. At the same moment she heard feet on the curve of the stair overhead: swift, solid strides that took two steps in one.

She did not waste time with his name. They came together on the stairwell, four steps up. The collision wasforceful enough that they both ended up on the steps, clutching one another in a tangle of desperate fists and fingers. Alistair made an instinctual noise of relief against her head; pressing his face hard into the rain-damp hair.

"Maker's Breath," he said eventually, the words emerging hoarse. "For the love of Andraste , Flora. Did you - did you?"

Flora lifted her head an inch from his armpit, just enough to gain a glimpse of her brother-warden's face. Even this swift glance was a confirmation of what she dreaded. Alistair's complexion was drained of the usual warmth; the stubble stood out like a rash against sallow skin. There was a hollowness to his gaze that she recognised: a mirror to the fear in her own eye.

"The dream," Flora said into his linen shoulder, so quiet he could barely hear her. "The fire. The Darkspawn."

Alistair was silent, and she felt his hand tighten on her arm, the linen shirt caught between his fingers.

"Yes," he said at last, the word an abandoned shell. "Yes, I did."

The meaning of their shared experience was not lost on either of them. The 'dream' - though this was not the correct word for it - was no fantasy conjured by a mind at rest; it was a message from their foe. It was the equivalent of a vanquished king's battle-standard, sent bloodied and torn back to his queen: a gloating proclamation of victory.

Flora inhaled her brother-warden: a familiar smell of sweat, sword-oil and man. She needed to anchor herself before a tide of panic swept her out to sea. She could feel Alistair's heartbeat accelerate within his throat: the anger augmented by fear.

"It must be Lothering," he said, with a swiftness that suggested he had already thought about it. "I mean - I don't know every town in southern Ferelden, but Lothering is the closest to the Wilds. It has a Chantry. It would have been in the path of the Darkspawn, if they kept north."

Flora realised that he must have heard the church bell ringing too; a desperate demand for aid. She then remembered how she had been hearing a faint whisper of bells for days: an echo in the back of her mind that she had never thought to question. Her fingers groped Alistair's forearm and wrist, seeking out his hand. His palm found hers and clasped it, hard.

"We could ask Morrigan to see," she breathed, wishing that at least one figure of authority within the Wardens had survived. "She's leaving for the Wilds tomorrow - today . She could check to see if Lothering is… is still there."

Guilt rose in her throat like bile.

I warned them. I begged everyone I mended to leave. What else could I have done?

Alistair made a grunt of assent, his thumb running methodically back and forth over her knuckles. He began to speak and then fell silent, focusing instead on calming himself; grounded by the weight and the warmth of the girl in his arms. They were alone in the stairwell; the muddy shadow cut with stripes of grey from the arrowslits. The castle held its breath around them: their muffled conversation absorbed in the stone.

"Did you see the Archdemon?" she asked, and knew Alistair's answer when he gave none. Instead his grip tightened on her; his chin pressing hard against the top of her head.

Why didn't he see it? Why only me?

Again, there was no response. The inside of Flora's mouth suddenly felt as though she had swallowed sand. She inhaled a swift, shallow breath: not a gasp, but not far from one. Alistair, overhearing, stroked his free hand over her hair: clumsily at first, and then with greater confidence, following the curve of her skull with his palm.

"We should have been in the same room," he said, forgetting that only hours earlier he had decided that this would pose too great a risk. "I let Isolde put us in separate quarters; let her dictate how it would be just like when I was a child - well, not anymore. I'm tired of being told what to do. We'll be together tonight."

Flora nodded, ducking her head to wipe her nose on her sleeve. Her face was flushed and her cheeks tender. She knew that she did not have a fever - it was impossible - but she felt both hot and shivery at once; sweat beading at her hairline.

Why did I have to see the Archdemon?

You did not turn away this time.

As she lifted her head from her sleeve, Alistair's gaze fixed on her cheek; his fingers hovering millimetres from the skin.

"What's this?"

"Oh," Flora replied, remembering her breathless, stumbling departure from the bedchamber. "I hit my face on a door."

The frown dug itself deeper; his thumb strayed to the skin beside the ruddy mark.

"Why isn't it mending?"

"Dunno." Flora's nose was still running. She wondered if the tears she had suppressed - northerners did not weep like babes - were escaping via a different route. "My mind feels like a box of fish hooks."

She blew her nose noisily on her sleeve once more. Any attempt at hiding her distress was betrayed by her own body: the subtle gleam beneath her skin meant that the shadow provided no obscuring veil.

"I wish I had hands that healed like yours," Alistair said softly, his eyes moving from her melancholy face to the stairwell. "But, since I don't - let's get some fresh air instead. That's what you northern girls like, isn't it? A nice, frigid breeze."

"Mm."

They disentangled themselves sufficient to stand upright on the narrow stair. He kept his arm tight around her shoulder, glancing down at the mark on her face.

The fresh air was accompanied by a misting drizzle; barely visible but potent enough to soak clothing. This did not dissuade Alistair, who knew that such weather prompted fond memories of Herring; where the skies were always filled with rain or salt spray blown inland. Instead of following the main rampart back towards the keep, he steered Flora through an iron side-gate and around a curved, crumbling wall.

For the first time, they emerged onto a parapet that did not look down on the inner courtyards of the castle. Instead, Lake Calanhad stretched out below them in eerie, mirror-like serenity; a dark wash that absorbed the meagre light from the stars. It stretched out as far as the eye could see, languid as a predator at rest. The Redcliffe docks were a cobweb on the still water; the town itself hidden from view.

Palms pressed to the stone, Flora leaned forward to peer at Calanhad's expanse. She was fascinated by the motionless water; the lake could have been a painting, undisturbed by the relentless, repetitive churn of the tide. They were too high to see whether its surface was mottled by the thin and continuous drizzle. Villages were reduced to irregularly-spaced clusters of light on the shore, as though the lake was adorned with a halo.

It was the hour before dawn and the world had the bluish grey hue of a bruise. The birds were not yet awake; the soft, sibilant hiss of rain masked any other sign of life. Yet Alistair paid no attention to the view, his eyes transfixed on the girl leaning on the stone, facing away from him. The world beyond the balcony faded like an old painting; the colours muted and lines blurred. Only she stood out in mineral clarity, limned with gold and untouched by shadow. An artist would require a decadent palette to capture her colouring: rich wine reds, eggshell and amaranth pink. The unravelling braid lay draped over one shoulder like a battle-standard on a windless day. The linen of his shirt clung to her narrow back; the fabric had soaked up the rain like a sponge.

"We used to come up here to hide from the worst of our duties," Alistair heard himself say; the words emerging in a voice not quite his own. "The ones that no one wanted to do. Until the stable-master found a lad sneaking up the back stair and had him whipped. I haven't been up here for ages. Not for a decade."

He immediately realised, what a foolish thing to say. I haven't been anywhere in Redcliffe for a decade.

Alistair's sister-warden gazed down at the still lake a moment longer and then turned around, tucking a rope of damp hair behind her ear. Her mouth curved in a half-smile and Alistair felt as though he had been pushed from the balcony.

I have lost control of my life, he thought, caught in the no man's land between excitement and terror.

"What duties were 'worst'?" Flora asked curiously, leaning back against the parapet.

"Sweeping the yard," he replied, feeling rain drip down the back of his neck. "More because it was so pointless - it's always windy up here. Cleaning out the rotten hay from the stalls after a month of constant rain. Fereldan winters have a lot to answer for. How's your box of fish hooks?"

Flora touched her forehead as though her mender's fingertips could probe the mind within.

"Better," she replied, after some solemn consideration. "Less - messy."

Although Alistair was aware of the risk, he could not resist closing the distance between them. He took three steps and then came to a halt before her, aware of his size and the space he took up. Flora tilted her face up to him, the rain beading across her brow. His gaze fixed on the mark beside her eye; mouth forming a question.

Before he could speak, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and lifted his hand to her face. As the roughened palm brushed her mouth, she exhaled; careful not to mend the ingrained calluses that aided his sword-grip. The aether clung to Alistair's fingertips like sunlit mist; before it could melt away, she guided his hand to the side of her face. His thumb came to rest against the swollen skin and he stared - mesmerised - as the blemish melted into the flesh. The ruddy hue faded until it was one with the neighbouring skin. It was incomprensible to him that, four months ago, he would have found such a display abhorrent.

"Now you have hands that heal too," Flora whispered, peering through her eyelashes at him. "Ain't you lucky?"

"Yes," he said, and the voice that emerged did not sound like his own. "Yes."

AN: It seems like ages since they've been in Lothering! In Flora's defence, she did tell all the refugees that she healed to flee the town. Anyway, their shared dream (which is more like a "ha ha, fuck you, another victory for MEEEE" from the Archdemon) means that our young Warden-recruits have taken yet another loss in the war against the Darkspawn - the defeat at Ostagar and the sacking of a town.

Anyway, since this chapter starts out with this traumatising experience and both Alistair/Flora are justifiably upset by it, it didn't seem right to finish it with them getting to second base on a balcony! Lol so I've saved that for next week ahahha. Yes, even though it's literally been one night since Alistair was like IM GONNA GIVE YOU MORE TIME TO GET OVER DUNCAN. Oh well, it's been a long day and he doesn't have a huge amount of willpower when it comes to Flora haha

Ugh I hope the above makes sense... I feel like my brain is only focused when I'm writing the chapter content, and then when it comes to writing the author note it's just like ASFGSHSHHDHAGSSHDASSD