They rode on through the quiet stillness of the night. Alistair commented that the Darkspawn must not yet have breached the fortress defences; or the hills would have been swarming with them. Duncan grunted, brow furrowing as he envisioned the quiet farmlands and trading posts overwhelmed by the worst denizens of the Deep Roads. Flora, who had never seen a Darkspawn, had nothing to contribute to the discussion. She focused on keeping astride the horse, her fingers gradually loosening on the reins as she grew accustomed to its rolling gait.

It's like being a small boat on a rough sea, she thought, then was so busy congratulating herself on such an apt simile that she lost focus and almost fell off.

As they meandered down an isolated woodland path, Duncan saw brief pinpricks of light in the trees ahead, quickly extinguished. He reached behind him for his swords, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of a break in the monotony.

"Eyes up front."

"Ah, and I was just thinking this journey was too calm and peaceful," muttered Alistair, drawing his own shield as the shadows of half a dozen men melded on the road ahead. "Stay alert, Flora."

"Whaaa," said Flora, who had never seen a bandit in her life. "Whaaa?!"

Alistair ducked in the saddle an arrow whistled past him, lodging itself in a nearby tree. The near miss spooked the horses, who reared up with whinnies of panic. Duncan had already dismounted, unsheathing his twin swords with a roar of challenge. Alistair retained enough control of his horse to stay mounted, but a boggle-eyed Flora slid off the rear of the saddle, clutching at the air as she fell onto the grassy bank

" Kill them! Take the horses!"

Several bandits converged on the road, a motley crew of humans and elves, dressed in cheap leathers and wielding daggers. Duncan brandished his swords, slashing with relish across a lunging bandit's face. Alistair leapt forward to cover his commander's back, carving his own sword delicately through the air to sever the jugular of an elven would-be assassin. Blood sprung out in an arterial spray, decorating the front of his silverite breastplate.

Three more bandits moved in, one wielding two cruel looking long blades, the other two with nocked bows. Duncan clashed his sword against the dualist, who crossed his blades and attempted to wrench the sword from the older man's grasp. Duncan's strength - despite his advanced years - was far superior, and the man soon fell to his knees with a grunt. Alistair thrust his shield upwards, smashing a bow out of one bandit's hands, before elbowing the second archer brutally away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another bandit draw a dagger and edge along the tree line to where Flora was still sprawled.

"Flora, I'm coming!" he yelled over his shoulder, recalling that she had no means of attack.

Flora, who had had the foresight to grab the staff before her horse bolted, clambered to her feet. As the man approached, wild eyed at the deaths of so many of his brethren, she promptly dropped the staff in terror.

The man lunged, only to find himself hurled backwards by the rapid, billowing expansion of Flora's shield. The tissue-thin sheath of light bore him through the air with such force that he was thrown against a nearby tree like a ragdoll. Flora, incongruously, looked equally surprised.

Child, murmured Flora's spirits, reprimanding. You can't let us do everything for you.

Sorry!

This is your chance to practice.

I know.

"Huh," Alistair said, momentarily distracted as he watched the man crumple against the base of the trunk. The next moment he let out a yell of pain as an arrow sunk itself in his upper arm, a lucky shot that embedded itself within a chink in his armour. He groaned, the sword-hilt sliding from his fingers. The bandit leapt forward, discarding his bow to raise a wickedly pointed dagger.

Flora raised her hand and a shimmering barrier materialised in front of the faltering young man. The dagger was turned violently aside; the attacker yelled in pain as the shock jarred his elbow. At the same moment, Duncan's sword scythed in a gleaming arc from behind and cleaved the bandit's head from his shoulders. The dagger dropped from the dead man's hand, Flora lowered her hand and the barrier collapsed in a shower of golden sparks.

Better?

Better. Although next time, shield him before the arrow strike.

But I wasn't looking that way!

You must always be looking.

"Ah, thank you," Alistair managed to comment, swaying slightly on his feet. "Bloody arrow. I knew I should have- should have worn the mail undershirt."

Flora retrieved her staff, eyes wide, as Duncan reached forward and gripped the younger Warden by the uninjured arm to keep him upright.

"Alright, lad," the Warden-Commander murmured kindly, gesturing to Flora. "Let's get him off the road."

Between them they supported a staggering and pale Alistair, who was cursing beneath his breath, over to the grassy bank. Lowering him there, Duncan glanced at Flora. She was scowling: the chest plate had confounded her. The girl was used to peeling away torn linen or leathers, not removing heavy armour.

After a quick surveyance of the road ensured that the bandits were either dead or fled, the Warden-Commander knelt beside her. He carefully removed Alistair's chest plate, then the padded shirt beneath it. The arrow was still lodged in the flesh of his upper arm, but fortunately it was ill-made and had not pierced the bone. Duncan withdrew it with a careful twist, while Alistair let out a particularly colourful string of curses involving the Maker.

Flora lowered her face to his arm and closed her eyes, parting her lips in preparation

"Never had a girl's mouth so near my half-naked body before," quipped Alistair, unable to resist. Flora opened her eyes and scowled at him. Duncan let out a small sigh.

"Alistair, there is a time and place for humour. This is not it."

"It was because of her that I got hit in the first place," Alistair whined. "Flinging men through the air like straw dolls. Made me lose concentration!"

Flora's eyes widened in indignation, she turned to Duncan as the nearest 'grown' adult.

"Flora, focus on healing. Alistair, be quiet or we'll leave you here to make your own way back to Ostagar," interjected Duncan wryly, reminded yet again how young both of them were.

Flora shot Alistair a look of reprimand, before placing her hand on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned down.

"Like what you feel?" murmured Alistair, snidely. This time Flora ignored him, lowering her mouth to his wound. Parting her lips and closing her eyes, she breathed out slowly; throat prickling as magic manifested within. The simple act of exhalation calmed her and focused her on the act; near invisible golden mist drifted from her mouth to his wound. Alistair could feel the gentle warmth of her breath easing the dull throb of pain. The torn flesh began to knit together, red fibrous strands of muscle weaving around each other as the flesh reformed.

As one who had once been in training to become a Templar, designed to hunt down and kill mages in the wild; Alistair should have felt nervous at the proximity of one who wielded such potent arcane ability. Yet as he looked down at the top of her head, her dark red hair gathered in a hasty braid, he felt no discomfort. Save for the discomfort of the healing itself but he was prepared for that; it was not the first time he had required mending in the field. He noticed how small and curved her ear was, pink in the inside like a seashell. There was a leaf caught in a few stray strands of oxblood hair; he fought the urge to remove it.

Flora blinked, surveying her handiwork. The wound had knitted over neatly, a pale pink patch of new skin the only remaining sign of the injury. She sat back on her heels as both Duncan and Alistair bent their heads to inspect the younger Warden's upper arm.

"Maker's Breath," exhaled Alistair, eyebrows rising into his hairline as he probed the skin tentatively with his fingertips. "That's a clean heal."

"Cleanest I've ever seen," agreed Duncan, a half-smile hidden in his greying beard. "You clever girl."

The Warden-Commander noticed that she sat up a little straighter when he praised her; her eyes turned hopefully in his direction. There were smudges of shadow beneath the cloud-grey irises. Duncan noticed her yawning as Alistair pulled his padded shirt back over his head.

"Is it tiring?"

"I ain't - I'm not used to showing off my magic so much," she replied, her fingers hiding another yawn. "I barely used it in the Circle. Didn't have no reason to.0

"Magic is a muscle; the more you use it, the stronger it'll get, and the less weary you'll be," Duncan replied, casting his gaze on their surroundings. "We're almost at the mouth of the valley. We'll make camp there."

Alistair managed to find his and Duncan's horses, but Flora's had bolted beyond the scope of his search. He found her leather bag in the undergrowth, which she clasped gratefully to her breast.

"Are those magic books in there?" he asked as he boosted her up to sit behind Duncan on the saddle. She shook her head, yawning, but did not elaborate.

They rode on for another candle-length, untroubled by bandits or other travellers. Eventually the path steepened and began to follow a rocky ridge, leading up into the foothills. Alistair rode ahead, half wishing to bump into more bandits whom he could take his annoyance out on. Flora, after sliding promptly off the back of Duncan's saddle, had been transferred to sit before him. Leaning against his chest, she had fallen asleep with the swiftness of a very young child; her cheek pillowed against her palm.

The sound of a waterfall grew louder as they approached. With water rushing over the rock above their heads, they followed a side path into a small clearing. It was obscure and easily defensible with only a single entrance point, concealed from the main pathway.

Alistair climbed down from his horse and began to set up camp, inwardly marvelling at the lack of soreness from his wounded arm. Efficient from repeated practise, he had set up the bedrolls and a campfire in the time that it took Duncan to scrawl a few words on a narrow sliver of parchment. He did so while still in the saddle, oddly reluctant to disturb his new recruit as she slept. Having sent the message off with one of the ravens who kept constant vigilance in the skies overhead, he nodded to Alistair.

"Help her. She's had a long day."

"Haven't we all," replied his junior officer dryly, reaching up to steady a yawning Flora as she off the horse. "Whoa, whoa. A controlled fall; that's an improvement."

Flora mumbled something incoherent, head hanging as she almost lost her balance. He picked her up inelegantly in his arms, balancing her staff gently on her face.

She does have freckles, Alistair noticed, irrationally. They're just very faint; scattered over her nose like flecks of Antivan tea.

"Right, bedtime."

He lowered her unceremoniously onto one of the bedrolls and placed the staff alongside her slumped body. On second thoughts - the Templar training still ingrained - he moved the staff to the other side of the fire.

Flora muttered something unintelligible, the back of her hand flung across her face. Duncan came to sit beside the fire with a muffled sigh; Alistair took out some cloth-wrapped meat from his pack and sniffed it, before dropping it into a rusted skillet pan.

"So will we go out recruiting again once we drop her off at Ostagar?" asked the junior Warden after a moment, adjusting the angle of the pan. Duncan glanced over at the sleeping Flora, the firelight catching the dark red of her hair and lighting it like a mass of embers. Slumped on the bedroll she looked like a doll, tossed onto the ground by some petulant child.

"She must have the aid of powerful spirits." Duncan thought out loud, recalling the Rivaini spirit healers he had known as a youth. "And no, we won't have time to go recruiting again."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, shuffled the pan as the meat hissed and spat. Cooking was the junior officer's responsibility; the senior's sense of smell and taste had long since been dulled by the taint that encroached deep into his flesh. On more than one occasion recently, Duncan had inadvertently eaten meat raw; finding it oddly inoffensive. From somewhere in the woods below them, an owl gave a mournful hoot.

"You think the third assault will come soon, then?"

Duncan nodded, running his fingers through his grey-shot beard. "I can feel them massing again. I pray we've gathered enough numbers."

Alistair cast his mind over several that they had recruited over the past week. A petty thief who had joined the Wardens as an alternative to a prison. A member of the gentry, who felt obligated to defend his hometown from the Darkspawn. And the young mage, useless offensively but an exceptionally talented healer.

"Are you going to make her undertake the Joining immediately?" he asked, impaling the burnt meat with a small knife and dropping it on a dented tin plate. Duncan nodded, and they both glanced over at Flora. She had rolled off the bedroll and onto her belly, sleeping facedown in the damp grass.

"Flora must become a Warden or she will be viewed as an apostate," Duncan said, eyeing him. "And your former brethren will hunt her down, for the crime of being born with a remarkable gift."

The older man raised an eyebrow at his junior, popping a chunk of meat into his mouth. As usual; he could taste nothing, feeling only the texture of the sinew against his teeth.

"I didn't make the rules," Alistair replied, his Chantry heritage ingrained deeply. "If it were up to you, the Circles would be dissolved and their ranks would swell the Grey Wardens. Imagine the damage that could do, all that uncontrolled magic!"

"Imagine the damage one thousand mages could do to the Darkspawn," countered Duncan calmly.

Flora sat up with a yawn, the smell of roasting meat overcoming her fatigue.

"What are you cooking?" she asked, shuffling closer to the fire and eyeing the saucepan greedily. Despite the stockpile of goods in her bag, the cooked meat had an irresistible allure. Alistair sawed off another chunk.

"Roast goat," he said, tossing it to her. "Sorry if it's not up to your Circle standards."

"For the love of the Maker, I'll return you to the monastery," interjected Duncan, who was suddenly feeling very weary.

The hunk of meat fell between Flora's flailing hands. She retrieved it, taking a hungry bite before responding.

"Us initiates got bread and pottage," she explained earnestly. through a mouthful of meat. "Goat would have been a treat in the Tower."

Two hours passed. Alistair slept on the bedroll adjacent to Flora, his feet beside her head. His quiet snores lent a familiarity to the darkness. Duncan, who needed little sleep, kept watch for the majority of the night. leaned against the trunk of a tree and let his thoughts wander. Faces materialised in his mind, so clear it was as if their owners stood before him in the gloom.

Ferelden's young King, the reckless and daring Cailan, eagerly planning his advance against the Darkspawn. Then the First Enchanter and his Templar counterpart Greagoir, so reluctant to offer assistance, not believing that they would be so unfortunate as to have a Blight in their lifetime. Loghain, the king's father in law and the commander of his army, the pragmatic voice of reality to balance the King's optimism. He doesn't believe there's a Blight, either.

Alistair, so eager to prove himself. Desperate to show his worth, whilst simultaneously doubting it. Still, his bravery comes second to none. Too honourable to be a Grey Warden, really. We don't attract the moral upstanding of society.

And my newest acquisition, with that raw, potent, primal magic.

Flora's face appeared before him, full-lipped and solemn-eyed; her brow smooth and pale. Duncan allowed himself a few moments to appreciate her beauty - there was precious little of it in his life - then recalled Irving's words about the dangers of possession. Leaning forward, he peered past the dying embers and squinted at the girl. She was sound asleep, her breathing even and shallow, her complexion normal.

When Duncan woke Alistair after another hour, he gestured quietly towards the sleeping mage.

"I trust you recognise the signs," he said quietly, referencing Alistair's years in the Chantry. Alistair nodded sombrely; all Templars were trained to identify the symptoms that a mage was becoming an abomination during sleep. Skin flushed, erratic breathing and spasms. The bone-white iris.

"There's not much danger of that though, right?" the junior Warden asked in an undertone. "I mean, she's passed her Harrowing."

"That may be, but she's vulnerable when asleep. Remember, she's not been trained."

Alistair frowned, leaning forward on an elbow as Duncan settled down on his own bedroll. Flora's haughty, unapproachable face was softened by sleep; her mouth partly open and her hair falling dishevelled across her eyes.

"Try to resist being possessed by demons while you're in the Fade," the young man said softly, as he unsheathed his sword and rested it beside him. "I'd feel bad if I had to kill someone with your talent."

As the sun began to warm the edge of the horizon, Flora yawned, blinked and slowly returned to consciousness. She noticed that her bunk felt strange – had she fallen asleep in the kitchens again? - then put out a curious hand and felt grass beneath her palm .

Her eyes shot open. There were trees above her instead of a vaulted stone ceiling, the light came from the rising sun rather than from candles. And approaching her across the campfire was a young man in armour, unsheathed sword in hand.

Flora, in a panic, grabbed the cold skillet from the remnants of the fire and scrambled to her feet, wielding the utensil in front of her.

"Stay back!" she croaked, still half-asleep, backing away from him until she felt a tree trunk pressed against her back.

Alistair dropped his sword on the grass and held up his hands, eyebrows rising and a grin forming.

"Flora, it's just me."

Duncan, roused by the noise, sat up with a grimace. He had slept perhaps an hour; his dreams plagued with insidious whispers.

Flora blinked, the situation slowly clarifying itself. She lowered the skillet, confused.

"Oh," she said after a moment, as she took in Duncan and the horses grazing nearby. "I thought…I was an apostate. And you were a Templar coming to kill me."

Alistair shook his head, sheathing his sword.

"I heard something in the trees. Went to investigate. Turned out it was just a nug. You're half-right thought, I was once a Templar. Well, almost."

Crushing the last embers of the fire with his boot, he eyed her with an incredulous laugh.

"You're a mage, and you're defending yourself with a frying pan?!"

Flora glanced at the skillet in her hand and slowly went pink.

The Warden-Commander gave a quiet cough, and both junior warden and the uninitiated turned to him. Duncan raised his finger towards the mountains, where the bridge to the south stretched between two opposing peaks.

"We'll take the mountain path," he said, reaching down to retrieve his bedroll.

Clearing the camp took scant time, and before long they were back on the horses, following the twisting gravelled path that clung to the side of the mountain. The sun crept higher in a cloudless sky, the air cool and crisp. As they climbed, a stiff breeze began to pick up alongside them. Far below, the Hinterlands were spread out like a patchwork of fields, farmsteads and trees.

Flora, perched before Duncan in the saddle, felt her stomach protest loudly at the lack of breakfast.

"Alistair, do you have any food?" Duncan called over his shoulder, prompting the junior Warden to scavenge in his pack.

"I think so- one moment. Here!"

Flora's hunger overrode her embarrassment and she turned around, just as Alistair sent a bread roll hurtling through the air in her direction. Making a wild grab, she almost slid off the saddle; just about managing to snatch it mid-flight.

"Thanks," she mumbled, her mouth full. "Want some?"

Duncan shook his head, half-smiling.

"Have it, child. You'll need your strength."

Flora swallowed a wedge of bread painfully, having almost forgotten about the 'Joining' ritual that was coming later. Neither Duncan nor Alistair had mentioned any details about the ritual itself, which disconcerted her.

Still, she mused as she chewed a mouthful of bread thoughtfully. It can't be as bad as the Harrowing. If it's a ritual that everyone has to complete, it can't involve entering the Fade.

They continued on, climbing higher into the mountains as the sun ascended the sky behind them. Its light was diluted through a thick veil of grey cloud, casting the countryside into gloom. At one point it began to rain, a thin and continuous drizzle.

They journeyed south, passing through unremarkable terrain, consisting mostly of farmland. They were following the course of the river, which cut a meandering path through the rugged landscape of the Hinterlands. After two days they stopped at an anonymous hamlet to restock supplies; Duncan made a final vain attempt to look for recruits but found no one suitable.

Just the sun began to rise on the fourth day of their journey, Duncan pointed out the dark silhouette of Ostagar, the Tevinter fortress that straddled the valley ahead.

"We're here."


AN: 2019 edit - haha i find it funny how i once covered a journey of almost a week in a single chapter! i definitely slightly lost the ability to be concise somewhere in recent years. thank you for the reviews! they make me happy :D