The entrance to Redcliffe Castle was shaped like an angry mouth. It was located at the place where the stone spur from the mainland met the castle foundations: the narrow spit expanding into an apron of stone before the walls. An iron-toothed portcullis hung menacingly in the hollow of the arch, ready to crunch down on any would-be violator. Unless one knew of the secret tunnel within the bedrock, there was no chance of gaining subtle entrance to the castle. The gatehouse above the archway looked out across the limestone bridge. New arrivals were noted the moment they took their first tentative step from the safety of the mainland, buffeted by the elevated air.

The group that stumbled their way across the stone spur on that damp, mundane morning were no usual guests. They bore no livery of a neighbouring lord, no handcarts rolled forward to display their wares. They shuffled towards the mouth like the reanimated dead; perhaps a score in total, though the last of their number trudged long after the first. The group splintered on arrival; pairs and individuals finding places to rest against the foot of the wall. Some collapsed where they stood, their energy spent.

It appeared as though a battlefield infirmary tent had spilled its contents before the castle walls. Limbs were bandaged from root to tip; stinking and ineffectual ointment mingled with the scent of fresh rot. The acrid odour of burnt meat and charred skin hung above them like a cloud, or the pollutions of a burning charnel-house. A few were so badly burned that they had no hair remaining on their bodies: it was impossible to determine whether they were man or woman. It was a miracle that they had even kept up with the rest: assisted by lesser-wounded relatives who still bore a scrap of obligation. Most were burnt: a few dragged limbs ruined by the impact of rusted metal. Darkspawn weapons bore a double cruelty: the brutality of the blow, and the infection that followed. One limping creature collapsed onto their knees to reveal a back shredded to the fat and sinew, the barbed tip of a claw broken off in the wound.

"No!"

Horror and despair mingled in a red, glistening rawness.

"No! He's dying - he's dying!"

It was an exhortation of disbelief: how could he survive the journey from Lothering, only to die on the doorstep of our destination?

The plea received little reaction from the others, who had all lost someone. A week ago they had been bonded by their shared community: she had run the tavern that served the best pies, he had been a guard who passed daily on his evening patrol and bought one for dinner. The man with the ravaged back, in his former life, was a Templar who had denied worshippers entrance to the Chantry if they looked in need of a bath. Now, they were no longer friendly townsfolk: they were strangers who had experienced the same shared hell and lost everything but their lives. They looked at each other in slow-minded confusion: was this burnt, limping creature really a neighbour of fifteen years? How dare they survive when my wife did not?

"He's dying!"

Everyone on the spur of rock had lost someone, either in the flaming wreckage of Lothering as it fell to the horde, or on the road since. The man who was dying had been burned from knee to ankle; flesh peeled back like blackened wood to reveal thick strips of fat and a hint of bone. He had been carried to Redcliffe by two determinedly grim-faced sons, both unaware that it was the unseen charring of their father's lungs that would prove fatal.

Now, the man himself did not realise that he was dying. All he knew was that the pain had suddenly subsided into a drifting light-headedness; the waves that had been gradually growing higher and higher around him were now carrying him out to sea. He could see nothing except a field of shifting greyish-green, broken by the occasional ecstatic burst of light.

Come, whispered the Veil, shimmering and wanton as a street-whore. Take my hand.

The man found himself drifting, light as a infant's sigh. Then, to his horror, a less pleasant vision: a skeletal palm, vast and monstrous, and oddly resplendent as though the bone had been dipped in bronze. It unfurled before him like the sail of a ship: no further.

Not yet , mouthed a fleshless jaw.

Then came the tart sting of saltwater and a rush of cold air to the lungs, as though he had been turned out of a boat in the midst of the ocean. The shock and indignity made him gasp - a sound echoed within the unknown air around him. To add insult to injury, the subtle, shimmering olive hues had been replaced with a coarse and lurid lustre: a gold so brilliantly crude that it shrank his pupils to pinpricks.

"Father?"

His legs felt like they were on fire once more. The flesh prickled in a hundred places from knee to ankle; it was an unique and exquisite torture. He tried to bellow a protest but his body felt sluggish, as though he were weighted at each limb. His mind was equally sedate: it took stock of the scene around him with excruciating slowness.

"It ain't hurtin' him."

The voice was female, but with a hoarse edge, as though there was scarring within the throat. Still, it was a wholly unremarkable voice; peasant stock and coastal.

"But - "

"No." She coughed. "No. It's the branches - branches - nerves growin' back. They're still tender."

It was as though a student's vocabulary had been corrected by a teacher, although no other voice was present.

"He'll need a stick for a bit," the girl continued, confident despite her lesser years. "Till the muscle's built up. Eh."

This appeared to be her farewell. The light dimmed in her absence, replaced by the damp grey pallor of a Fereldan morning and the weeping faces of his sons.

Flora had felt their distress before she had heard it; guided to the castle entrance as though someone had taken her by the hand and pulled her through the passageways. The scene of human wreckage had unfolded before her: she was astonished at how differently fire worked its wrath on victims compared with the water she was accustomed to. The sea killed by flooding lungs with fluid and by smashing men like kindling into the rocks: returning their bodies to the shore mangled, or bloated to twice their normal size. Fire seemed cruder: it chewed at a man until it reached his core.

Just as she had done before the remnants of the Ellyn Dynge - she swept an eye over the stone (the sand) and appraised her casualties. The labels were the same that she had used as a child.

Those who will not die.

Those who will die in a week.

Those who will die in a day.

Those who will die in an hour.

With ten more years of experience, her final category - those who will die, no matter what - had fallen from use.

She moved between her patients according to need; letting Compassion work itself through her throat and her fingertips. After all, Flora was only a tool wielded by a mender of far greater potency: a scalpel, needle and cauterising iron. The aether surged forth, bold and joyous, coursing over ravaged flesh like a saltwater current. Charred skin withered and fell away as new growth burgeoned in the wake of Flora's palm. The amputated nerves stung as they grew back, entrenching their roots into tender new skin. Every so often, she tasted a sickly-sweet foulness in her throat - the putrescence of the Darkspawn - and felt her indignant body rush to neutralise it.

By her fourth patient, she felt oddly lightheaded; needing to draw in greater gulps of air.

Ooh. Is this from breathing in the smoke?

Ha! Her general was scornful. No. You were puffing like a frightened sheep when you arrived.

I did run here. She slid her bloodied palm along a thigh that gaped like an open mouth, watching the flesh knit itself together.

The distance from the great hall to here is nothing. Nothing! You are lacking in physical condition. You are unfit.

An indignant Flora almost choked on the aether.

I ain't! Well, maybe I am. But I'm a mender. I don't need to be fit.

In my day, healing mages were as lean and muscled as mountain cats. They would heal a man and then leap boldly into the thick of battle, brandishing their stave like a battle-ax!

Flora could not imagine herself leaping boldly anywhere. She could not even remember the last time she saw her staff. She hoped that she had not left it on the boat from the Circle. Leaving a man languid from the sedative of her breath, she moved on to her final ' will die in an hour'.

Think of it as this: the better your physical condition, the more breath you will have.

This was a more convincing argument: Flora's ability to mend was inextricably linked to her capacity for air. Still, the thought of waking before dawn to run laps of the battlements made her feel vaguely nauseous.

Ugh. No. Ain't worth it.

You are AT WAR! If her general possessed teeth, they were grinding together.

Flora was used to the taste of rot, but the rancid aftertaste of the Darkspawn felt like mould on her tongue.

Surreptitiously she turned her head and spat onto the cobbles; hoping that the arlessa was very, very far away.

Fortunately, Isolde was a hundred yards away in the Guerrin family quarters; she was tired of troublesome new arrivals and wished to greet her son as he awoke. She had charged her brother-in-law with the care of the refugees: Teagan, who had assumed more responsibility in the past month than he had for five years, once again donned the mantle of arl. The appetite of some men would be whetted by such repetition; it only served to convince the bann that such a position did not tempt him. He was content with his lesser bannorn and his horses: Eamon could keep the power and politicking.

The bann, trailing his steward and a gaggle of retainers, stood beneath the portcullis and issued instructions in terse voice: clean bedding, chambers and food, fresh water - water, now! Directing his men proved distraction from the grim reality before him. Although Teagan trusted Alistair - the boy had always been rigid with earnest conviction - the bann had paid less heed to his warnings about a Blight. Teagan was more preoccupied with his brother's illness, his nephew's possession, the nightly invasion of Redcliffe and - last but not least - the teyrn of Gwaren's usurpation of the throne.

Darkspawn have always roamed in the Wilds, he had told himself, managing Redcliffe's defence. Perhaps a few packs came together and convinced the Wardens that there was a Blight.

Such an assumption was an insult to Duncan, but the bann had neither familiarity with nor loyalty to the Warden-Commander.

Alistair must be mistaken about a Blight, he had thought, deep in his cups at twilight. Let him and his flawless companion gather their army. It'll be useful against Mac Tir at any rate.

Yet the evidence was now spread before him: grotesque and irrefutable, like a decapitated corpse flung before a judge as evidence of a murder. The mark of tooth and claw on the burnt flesh was unmistakable. The fire, the crude weaponry, the mauling - all bore the stamp of the Darkspawn.

Lothering was not defenceless: it has a town wall and a garrison. It would have taken an organised assault to breach it.

How does the old saying go?

Never fear the Darkspawn in disorder and disarray.

When Darkspawn form armies, time to pray.

The bann felt a slow and bilious wave of dread rise from his belly.

Maker's Breath, the lad was right.

It's a Blight. Here, in Ferelden.

In an attempt to wrench his mind from spiralling into blind panic, Teagan focused his attention on the survivors. They huddled together in clumps; faces gaunt as though flesh had been cut from their cheeks. He thought about calling for ointment and bandages from the infirmary, then realised that it was no longer needed. Those who had slumped senseless onto the cobbles were now sitting up, bleary eyed and drawing tentative gulps of water. Their limbs were shiny and pink with freshly sprouted flesh: the skin tender as a babe's. The air had an oily sheen to it; the miasma of Flora's breath hung in her wake like sunlight filtering through dusty glass.

Several of those newly recovered recognised Leliana, who had been for some weeks amongst their number. In their despair and bewilderment, they forgave her more suspect attributes - the outline of a blade beneath the folds of pious fabric - and sought out some spiritual relief. Lothering's Chantry Mother had disappeared within the inferno of her sanctum; four lay brothers had fallen to the Darkspawn and the fifth had survived, but withdrawn completely from the world.

Leliana, who had accompanied the bann and senior instructor from the great hall, readily acquiesced. Although she was - of course! - distraught at their plight, a small and sinful part of her was gratified that they had sought her out for relief. Who would have thought, a few years ago, that she could provide such fulfilment? Who could have -

But there was no more time for reflection: the faces of her impromptu congregation were turning expectantly in her direction. The lay sister followed in Flora's wake, hands folded in prayer and head bowed.

"How many souls in Lothering?"

While Flora occupied herself with the physical and Leliana the spiritual; Wynne of the Circle was more concerned with logistics. The senior mage spoke with the bann in a low voice, her bird's eyes sweeping over the miserable clumps of humanity before them.

"More than five hundred," he replied, fingers moving restlessly across the silver knob of his dagger. "Less than a thousand. I don't know the exact figure - my brother would - but it's not in Redcliffe's arling. They pay their taxes to South Reach."

"Leonas Bryland."

The mage watched Leliana huddle beside the man freshly drawn back from the Fade: he had the bleary-eyed stare of a newborn. The lay sister gripped his fingers and murmured reassurance: providing the explanation that Flora did not have the time or inclination to give.

"And where stands Bryland as his arling burns?" she asked, meditative.

"Denerim, the last I heard."

Teagan was watching Flora. A woman had begun to fit - he had heard of such spasms occurring after injury - and the girl had sat down on her, graceless as a frog. After receiving some word of instruction - he could see her listening, though he had no idea to whom - Flora laid her palm across the woman's sweating forehead. After a few moments, her patient lay still; mouthing like a fish plucked from a bucket. This made no sense to the bann: the Tevinter doctor Galena said that seizures resulted from an imbalance of the stomach .

Still, Teagan Guerrin was no anatomist, and the senior instructor was speaking: shaping her thoughts into the drizzle.

"Denerim? As in, with Loghain mac Tir?"

"Let's hope not," replied the bann, without humour. "Below the king, Bryland holds the most sway in the east."

Sometimes he forgot that his nephew lay dead in a distant valley and there was no king of Ferelden any more.

"You said more than five hundred souls in Lothering." Wynne had returned to his earlier statement. "Well, there aren't five hundred here."

"Thank the Maker - Isolde would have conniptions."

The senior mage shot him a vaguely reproving look, disapproving of such flippancy in the circumstances.

"There are two dozen. So where are the rest? All dead?"

"Most have perished."

Leliana joined them, shaking the water from her hair like a cat. Despite the cling of a damp and chilly morning, she had two bright spots high on her cheeks: a fervent flush that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"But a hundred or so are making their way direct to Denerim. They seek the safety of the city walls."

"Gwaren may end up with more than he bargained for." Teagan let his mouth twist upwards grimly. "Good. Let half of southern Ferelden wash up at his feet. Perhaps then he'll realise something is amiss."

Leliana opened her mouth and then her head spun on her neck, quick as a Mabari scenting prey. There had been a sea change: not within the damp embrace of weather - it was a Fereldan winter, it was still raining - but in the clumps of people crouched on the stone. They were no longer isolated in pairs and threes, but gathering in growing numbers; forming a hard knot of newly-mended flesh. The air was sour with the rank smell of fear. There was no need for an alchemist to inform them that fear, when mixed with helplessness, led to anger.

They lacked a target and so they turned on Flora: she was little, unarmed and she would do in the circumstances. The crowd closed ranks around her as she knelt before her final patient; a woman with a festering bite-mark to her thigh.

"Oi: 'Warden.' "

The voice was vitriolic, sneering; bleached to the bone by smoke and weariness. "That's what you claim to be, isn't it?"

Flora paused, her mouth inches from livid purple flesh. She knew that she was surrounded: their racing pulses sounded like a contingent of drummers. A forest of legs surrounded her, tender pink skin visible beneath shredded leather, and the meagre light of the sun had dwindled to nothing.

"Oh, shit."

Teagan had just tasted the sourness in the atmosphere. He had been under the impression that the survivors had gathered around Flora in order to thank her. Now, seeing their faces alight with grievous fury instead of gratitude, he reached instinctively for his dagger; looking to his steward.

"Wait." Leliana's voice was a conspiratorial hush, her blue eyes feverish. "Wait."

The knot closed in around Flora: a medley of anger and resentment playing across their faces. The air was brittle with blame.

"It's your fault," the first one said, almost snarling the words. "The Darkspawn came to us because you failed at Ostagar. It's your fault that Lothering is gone."

Grief and loss echoed through the words: a whole lifetime erased in a few horrifying hours. His hands were clenched into impotent fists; the hairs on the bony knuckles singed.

Flora finished mending her patient, running a careful finger along the seam of the sealed wound to check that it was tightly sewn. She could feel the rain running down the back of her neck. Her hair was in disarray, stuck in blackish-red strings to her wet cheeks. For a brief instant, she contemplated reminding them that she had tried to warn them: no, she had warned them. She had spoken of the danger in Lothering's Chantry, in the refugee camp outside its walls, in the Dane's Refuge and finally in the streets themselves.

They didn't listen to me. I told everyone what was coming. But they didn't listen, and the Darkspawn came and destroyed them.

What use are such thoughts now?

The uneven angles of the cobblestones were pressing into her knees. Rain gathered in slender veins between the densely packed pebbles. Flora looked down at the shining limestone and decided that she would never be ignored again.

Not when it matters.

"Well? Well?"

The demand was almost hysterical.

She rose to her feet, daubed in crimson and fragments of scorched flesh. As she did so, she pushed her hair back from her face with bloodied hands; tying it in a seamless motion so that it streamed from the top of her finely-hewn skull like a pennant.

"Loghain mac Tir will beg for your forgiveness on his knees," she said without emotion, blunt as a hammer to the face. "The last word that the Archdemon hears will be LOTHERING."

They were spoken not as promises, but as statements of fact, as though both events had already come to pass and she was reciting them for posterity. She spoke the future with the certainty of the past. How could they ever have mistaken her for someone small and vulnerable? She towered above them; head and shoulders above the loftiest man in the crowd. The bold force of her conviction crashed into the survivors and swept them with her like seaweed on the tide.

Ever economical with words, Flora had said all that she intended. When she stepped forward, the crowd of villagers parted in seconds before her: elbows jostling in urgency to make way. No one spoke. They watched her as she walked; the breath suspended in their throats. Only when Flora approached the bann did they realise that she stood no taller than the other women amidst their number.

"The old blood," whispered Leliana. Her eyes had a strange brightness; her words fervent as a prayer . "See how it shows itself."

AN: I love writing Flora's mending! It really is her true calling, and I like contrasting her enthusiasm and experience as a healer with her uncertainty and hesitancy when using her shield. I also want to humanise her during scenes like this (because her mending is so potent), hence her getting out of breath after running from the great hall, and her spirits are like "well you're just super unfit lol". And she is! She's skinny unfit. No muscle in that soft belly and no stamina! But the thought of doing exercise makes her feel nauseous XD