The journey back to the old fortress went swiftly; the riders impatient to return to the relative protection of Ostagar. The horses sensed their urgency and picked up the pace, keenly aware of the danger lurking to the rear. At night the hills and valleys near to the Wilds came alive with Darkspawn; swarming through the trees like a plague of locusts. By the time they clattered onto the outer drawbridge, only a thin sliver of crimson sun remained on the horizon. The formidable stone walls of the fortress, stoic and grey, were a welcome sight. Songs and laughter drifted from the upper courtyard where the king's men made camp; the troops quartered on the lower terraces were in a more somber mood. The evening mist draped itself across the decaying battlements like a shroud; filmy and grey.

As their horses were tended to by grooms, Flora caught the scent of roasted meat; drifting tantalisingly from the direction of the cook-tent. Her head swivelled automatically: used to three hot meals a day at the Circle, the unpredictable eating schedule of her new life was difficult to adapt to. Her stomach let out a loud grumble of protest; too sudden for her to disguise with a cough.

"For a little lass, you have an astonishing preoccupation with food," commented Jory, who had overheard the rumble.

"Everyone loves food," mumbled Flora, digging the heel of her hand into her belly in a futile attempt to quiet it.

Daveth did not join in the conversation. He was standing very still, his ears pricked and face keen as a blade. He was listening to Alistair's murmured conversation with a Warden bearing a silver mark of seniority; the two men exchanging words in an undertone. Alistair appeared uncharacteristically serious, there was none of the usual, lazy humour in the curve of his mouth. Instead, the hazel eyes were sober; the jaw set with determined stiffness.

"Quiet," the thief spat when Jory went to enquire what he had overheard. "They're discussing the next part of this 'Joining'."

They did not have a chance to question Daveth further. Alistair returned to them, his face arranged into an expression of careful neutrality.

"You've got the phials?" he asked Jory; who had taken charge of them on the journey back. "Good. Right. Duncan wants to see you."

"When will we have dinner?" interjected Flora, pitiably. "I don't want to miss it."

Alistair shot her a swift, unreadable look, before quickly averting his eyes.

"Later. Follow me."

Daveth and Jory exchanged a nervous glance, for once in total agreement. Jory reached down to touch the hilt of his blade, reassuring himself that it was still there.

To their surprise, Alistair did not lead them towards the lower terrace that housed the Grey Warden encampment. Instead, they headed back towards the drawbridge - now raised- that marked the entrance to the fortress. Instead of requesting that it be lowered, the young officer took a sharp turn to the left, skirting Ostagar's outer boundary. The stonework became increasingly decrepit as they entered a part of the fortress that had been ceded to nature; the stone tumbling down and overgrown with thick, fibrous vines. There were no tents or braziers here, but a path had been hewn - recently from the look of it - through the tangled vegetation. At one point, Alistair collected a wooden torch and lit it from a single burning sconce; another sign that this level of the fortress was not entirely abandoned.

"I know that the Wardens guard their secrets closely, but this is ridiculous," hissed Jory, almost tripping over as a vine coiled itself around his ankle. "What's the point of conducting an initiation ceremony if nobody is there to watch it?"

"I don't like this," complained Daveth, as he followed on Jory's booted heels. "Why are we being led off?"

Alistair made no reply. Rather than leading from the front, he had dropped to the rear; murmuring directions when the way became unclear. It was obvious that he had done so to prevent anyone from fleeing.

Flora, trailing unenthusiastically behind Daveth, focused on not falling over the rampart foliage that crept across the cobbles. She was worried that the trial might involve fighting a Darkspawn alone, in which case she would be entirely useless. She wondered if she could shield herself indefinitely, letting the Darkspawn tire itself out.

And then what? she thought, gloomily. Push it off the battlements?

Then without warning, they emerged, blinking, onto a stone pavilion which gleamed milky white in the moonlight. In contrast to the undergrowth that had disguised their entrance, the terrace had been cut clean of any foliage; framed by a ring of broken pillars. The pale stone, stark and scrubbed, stood in marked contrast to the dull, grey basalt used to build the rest of the fortress. If Flora had been versed in Thedasian history, she would have recognised the circular pavilion as the remains of an ancient Tevinter temple; once used for religious ceremonies. Now, it had clearly been reappropriated for other purposes.

Duncan stood at the centre of the platform, where once a sacrificial altar would have stood. His face was cool and expressionless; he was clad in the garb of a Fereldan Warden-Commander, with none of the usual Rivaini accents. The firelight from a nearby brazier flickered across the silverite breastplate, so that the sculpted griffon almost seemed to move. It was the only motion about the man; who stood as still as one of the statues that once adorned the temple.

Alistair cleared his throat, his face solemn. When he spoke, the words emerged quiet and formal.

"Warden-Commander, I present to you these three initiates. Ser Jory of Highever, Daveth of Denerim and Flora, a Circle mage."

His voice had a practised tone to it, as though he had made such an introduction many times before. Jory gaped, realising that the Joining ritual had begun the moment that they had entered the stone pavilion. He glanced around, wild-eyed, then took a nervous step backwards onto Flora's toe. She shot him an indignant look as Alistair continued.

"They have successfully completed the first task."

Alistair stepped forwards and handed Duncan the three blood-filled phials, then positioned himself to one side behind his senior officer.

Duncan nodded slightly, then cast his inscrutable, gaze, dark as a crow's wing, over the three who stood before him.

"Listen well," he began, his voice thrillingly deep and resonant; like a general from the heroic age giving a speech before battle. "To become a Grey Warden is to devote your entire being - body and soul - to defending the land against the Darkspawn."

Jory looked a fraction happier: this was more like the noble charge he had envisioned!

"Yet, in order to defeat them, you must first become more like them," Duncan continued, more softly. "Otherwise, you will rapidly succumb to the taint. Becoming a Warden is a duty for life, not merely for a few weeks."

He gestured to the phials of Darkspawn blood, which stood with deceptive innocence atop a nearby pedestal. In the firelight, their contents could be mistaken for Antivan wine.

"Now, friends - drink. Drink, and become one of us."

Jory let out a visible gasp of disbelief, glancing sideways at an equally incredulous Daveth.

"You want us to… drink that stuff? That poison?! For the love of the Maker - why?"

"It'll allow you to sense the Darkspawn as they approach," interjected Alistair, in an attempt to be helpful. "And it'll delay the onset of the taint. Like Duncan said, you can't fight them without it, not for long."

Jory took another step backwards, before Duncan's soft, ominous shake of the head stopped him in his tracks.

"The end justifies the means," said the Warden-Commander, quietly. "And the Blight must be ended. There is no other way. Daveth of Denerim, step forward."

Daveth inhaled sharply, his eyes darting from side to side. Trapped between Duncan and Alistair; there was no means of escape. He had seen the Rivaini in combat; despite the man's greying hair, he had moved with more swiftness agility than a youth three decades his junior.

"Step forward," repeated Duncan, a threatening edge creeping into his tone.

Trembling, the thief stepped forward and grabbed the phial roughly. Uncorking it, his face ghastly, he tossed it back like it was a shot of Feraldan brandy.

The next moment, the phial dropped from his outstretched hand. As it rolled, half-full, on the stone, Daveth followed it, falling to his knees as though struck a body blow. He began to convulse, his back arching and his mouth stretching wide in a silent scream. Ser Jory stood frozen on the spot, face white and spongy as a pudding, watching in horror. Flora instinctively took a step forward, but no magic rose in her throat; her fingertips remained dull and lethargic.

There is nothing to be done, the kinder of her two spirits whispered; their voice like the creaking of a rusted door. No healing can save him.

Now the man was in a fetal position, belching great gouts of dark effluence, staining the front of his leather tunic. Flora bit her lip miserably, her pale eyes settling on Duncan. The old Warden's face was impassive, but there was regret in his returning stare.

"He was not strong enough to resist the taint, little one. Even with your prodigious skill, there is nothing you can do."

It was far from the first time that Flora had seen a man die. Men were washed up on the shore of Herring with regularity; chewed up and spat out by the cruelest sea in Thedas. Many had died, despite her frantic efforts; choking on sea water or crushed bodily against the reef. Yet she never become accustomed to losing a patient, and would spend the rest of the night sulking and miserable.

Daveth had finally stopped belching out the dark matter and was letting out a low, animal of pain. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, erratic breath rattling in his lungs. His fingers were raking mindlessly at his face, clawing at the flesh.

Flora was unable to stand it any longer. She went to kneel beside the dying man, feeling the cold stone of the pavilion through the thin leather of her leggings.

"You can't do anything to help him."

A perplexed Alistair repeated his commander's words, brow furrowed as he watched her reach out to take Daveth's hand; moving it gently away from his bloodied cheek.

The dying man strained reflexively towards her, his irises only partly visible behind a white, stagnant cloud. Flora leaned closer, so that he could focus on her face; serene, solemn and Maker-touched.

"Don't worry," she breathed, determined to do something to ease his passing. "The journey across the Veil is hard, but… but the destination is worth it."

He mouthed silently, thin trickles of blackened blood seeping from each nostril.

"I'm a mage, remember," Flora continued, still clutching his hand with the strong grip of a fisherman. "I know what the Fade is like. You'll be able to rest once you get there. It'll be peaceful, and… and it won't hurt."

She cast around in her mind for the right words; she was not devout but she knew that most people were.

"The kingdom of the Maker is all gold, and it's beautiful," she whispered, ashamed of her ineloquence. "Can you see it? You're almost there. It's so close."

Flora surreptitiously edged her free hand forwards, summoning just enough of her magic to cast a gilded light across Daveth's black-veined face. His eyes widened in wonder, he opened his mouth as though to speak; then a final breath escaped his throat and the pupils rolled back into his skull.

It seemed very quiet without the laboured breathing and guttural groaning of the dying man. Flora sat with her fingers still clamped around Daveth's palm, feeling the skin grow cold and clammy against her own. She had not noticed the fine drizzle that was now falling, pooling in the trodden indentations on the stone. Even though she had known the thief from Denerim less than a day, she still felt sorrow at his passing. Death was, after all, the eternal enemy of the healer.

Duncan, surprised to find that he was still human enough to feel oddly touched, glanced sideways to see Alistair gazing at Flora with a slightly dazed expression writ across his handsome face; as though he had been struck over the head with something blunt and unexpected. He was about to clear his throat to reclaim his junior officer's attention, when-

The silence was broken by the sound of a blade being unsheathed. Ser Jory, his round, moonlike face hard and determined, had retreated several steps. The wicked point of his dagger curved up before him, trembling to reflect the tremor of his hand.

"I won't do it!" he bleated, in the high, reedy tone of a desperate man. "This ritual is madness, it's- it's murder! I'm leaving!"

Duncan let his stare pierce the man, willing him to back down. He showed such promise at the tourney, he thought, drawing forth patience with great effort. He would be an asset to us.

Alistair let out a sigh beneath his breath that suggested that this was not the first time that someone had refused the ritual.

"You can't leave," Duncan said patiently, his dark eyes still boring into the terrified knight. "You agreed to the terms."

"I didn't know about- about this!" retorted Jory, spreading his arms to encompass the two wardens and the dead man. "Blood rituals? Swallowing the taint? It's madness! Does the world know what you Wardens do in the name of your Order?"

"We do it to keep them safe!" Duncan's voice was hardening with each word, temper rising. "Ser Jory, you have no choice."

Flora, still kneeling beside Daveth's corpse, gaped in astonishment. She fought the urge to crawl off and hide behind a pillar.

Jory drew his dagger, the blade shuddering as he pointed it towards Duncan. There was a dark stain on the front of his tunic

"Well, I won't do it. I'll kill you before I die like Daveth!"

The desperate man lunged forward with the blade; stumbling like an angry drunk. Flora lifted her hand but the Warden-Commander was already moving; swift and agile as a cat. In a single, sweeping motion born from decades of combat, Duncan drew a sword over his shoulder and swung it upwards. Jory stopped, very suddenly. He swayed, mouthing like a fish out of water. A second later he slumped soundlessly to the stone, face down; opened from throat to navel. The profusion of blood that immediately began to pool around him suggested that he had died before hitting the ground.

It was over so quickly that Flora barely had time to comprehend what had happened. She stared at the newly dead man, her eyes wide, then gazed up at Duncan. Jory's blood was creeping across the stone towards her; a bright scarlet tide.

Over the years the Warden-Commander had slain countless initiates who had quailed at completing the ritual. Knowing the importance of keeping the Joining process secret, he had felt neither guilt nor regret over these necessary killings. Yet, when the girl turned those huge, dove-grey eyes on him, the lashes dark and clear as though painted on with a fine-tipped quill, he felt a rare urge to justify himself. For some reason, he did not want her to think him a monster.

"Young one," he said quietly, capturing her gaze and holding it. "There are rules we all must obey."

She nodded, open-mouthed. She knew the importance of rules; there were many of them in the Circle and Flora was an obedient girl. Alistair reached down, hauling her upright - not ungently - before the flood of Joey's blood could reach her. She still appeared somewhat stunned that their number had been so drastically reduced, so swiftly.

The pavilion seemed very quiet without Jory's frightened, gasping breaths, or Daveth's ominous muttering. Flora looked at her two dead companions as they lay on the floor, the corners of her mouth turning downwards. She looked absurdly young, and very unsure of both herself and the men standing before her. A smudge of someone else's blood marred her cheekbone.

"Flora," Duncan said gently, aware that his upcoming suggestion was a massive violation of protocol. "Do you want to postpone your Joining until tomorrow? It's been a long day for you."

Alistair turned astonished eyes on his commander. The Rivaini told himself that he was simply making the allowance because he wanted a mage of her unique - albeit narrow - skill to survive; to give her the best possible chance. The night had settled in like a weary Mabari, draping itself darkly across the fortress. The moonlight had drained the colour from Flora's face; she had the pallor of a Tevinter marble.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes distant. The moon hung overhead, a vast and milky globe, so low that it could almost have been spying on the events taking place in the stone circle.

"I'll do it now."

"Are you certain?" The Warden-Commander had few untainted memories left of his youth, but once - many decades ago - he had been a young man, brimming over with arrogance, and lust, and the desire to improve his lot in life.

And a weakness for redheads.

"Mm," mumbled Flora, lifting her chin in an effort not to look at the lifeless bodies strewn at their feet. "I'll do it now."

Duncan felt an uncharacteristic twinge of guilt as he offered her a phial, the liquid within dark and meaty. He had initiated hundreds into the Wardens during his tenure as their commander, yet never had he inflicted the taint on someone like her. It seemed almost obscene to feed such a foul tincture down that slender, white throat.

Flora took it, hoping that he couldn't feel the trembling of her wrist. The slender glass container was cold against her palm, the contents prevented from spilling out by a small stopper. From the tail of her eye, she caught sight of Alistair's sober face. He was gazing fixedly ahead, his lips pressed tight together.

"I just have to swallow it?" she asked, tentatively. "I don't have to… to fight a monster or anything?"

"The fight will take place inside your body, and there is nothing you can do to sway the outcome," replied the older man, softly.

A monster. She's young for her years.

Flora peered at the vial, filled with the semi-coagulated liquid. It was a scarlet so dark that it almost appeared black, and appeared strangely innocuous for a substance that came from a creature so foul. Tilting the vial, she watched the liquid slide slowly up the side of the glass. Darkspawn blood appeared to be of thicker consistency than its human equivalent.

Stop procrastinating, you jellyfish.

Swallow it.

Before she could change her mind, Flora nudged the stopper loose, brought the phial to her lips and drained it in three clumsy, grimacing gulps.

Alistair had seen the ritual performed dozens of times; Duncan hundreds. The initiate would imbibe the blood. There would be a brief and brutal struggle between the body and the taint. Nobody knew quite why some managed to resist and others succumbed- Duncan had seen scrawny adolescents succeed where burly warriors had fallen. If the initiate survived this initial battle, they would fall to the floor, their eyes glazing over as they witnessed the calling of the Archdemon for the first time. They would see the dragon as if through a shadowed dream. Some would die then, gasping for air as though choking. Those who survived would awaken some hours later. They would be stronger, hardier – and most importantly, immune to the taint.

At least for now.

Flora pulled a face, then spluttered. A few moments later, trickles of blood began to run from her mouth - but it was not the blackened, clotting mass that she had swallowed. Instead, the blood was fresh, crimson and fluid as wine. Yet, the girl appeared to be in no discomfort. Instead she appeared mildly embarrassed as the blood spilled down her throat, soaking into her linen collar.

In his two decades as Warden-Commander, and three spent as a Warden, Duncan had never seen such a reaction. He turned to Alistair, who looked equally perplexed.

"You're sure that there was Darkspawn blood in that phial, Alistair," he questioned, the rich span of his brow creasing as he frowned. "Not some other animal?"

Alistair was so astonished that he forgot to look affronted.

"I'm positive," he replied, immediately. "I watched Daveth collect it from a Hurlock. It was the same one that he got his own sample from."

"What the fuck," said Duncan, reverting for a rare moment to his youth as a bellicose street urchin.

"Um," mumbled Flora, apologetic. "My body don't take well to being poisoned."

"No one 'takes well' to being poisoned," replied Alistair, testily. "That's the point of poison."

"Noo-oo," she said, uncertain how to explain it. "My body - it turns… harmful things into harmless things when I eat them. Wine turns to water. A stew that gave everyone at the Circle belly-trouble didn't affect me at all. It's to do with my healing, I think."

Once again, Duncan recalled the spirit healers from Rivain; who spent more time in their tents communing with the Fade than they did in the waking world.

She breathes out the creation energy, as though it manifests within her.

He removed his glove, then reached forward to run his finger along Flora's bloodied chin. Bringing the finger to his mouth, he inhaled the scent before taking a quick taste. Even with his dulled senses, he was able to identify the substance.

"This is human blood," he said, and gave a small, unexpected laugh of surprise. "Maker above. You drank the Hurlock blood, and it became human again."

Flora had no idea what he was talking about.

"Maker's Breath!" exclaimed Alistair, equally astounded. "That's the strangest thing I've seen all week - no, all month. And these are strange times!"

She began to worry that she had inadvertently failed the Joining, and if this would result in her too meeting a grisly fate at the end of Duncan's blade.

Duncan noticed the girl's shoulders drooping, her eyes returning to Jory's eviscerated corpse. He lifted her bloodied chin with a finger, catching and holding her gaze in his own unblinking stare.

"We'll have to try again."

They began with half-measures. Flora dutifully gulped down the remainder of Daveth's tainted phial, nearly gagging at the bitterness. Within seconds, fresh blood was running down her chin, mingling with the first, flaking layer. Then she was given Jory's untouched sample. She managed to drain the phial, only to inadvertently produce more cleansed blood. The front of her linen shirt was now the same dark crimson shade as her hair. The scent of iron lingered in the air; leaving a metallic tang in the back of the throat.

The more that Flora's body rejected the taint, the more determined Duncan grew. He sent Alistair to fetch several more phials of stored Darkspawn blood from his tent, kept in liquid form with the aid of lyrium. As the junior officer returned, a distant bell sounded to signal the midnight change in watch. The corpses of Daveth and Jory were growing stiff on the stone tiles; their eyes blank and staring.

Flora dutifully swallowed three more phials, with little success. Duncan paced back and forth, mingled fascination and frustration writ across his handsome, prematurely lined features. She had taken what should have been a fatal dose of the taint many times over, yet still she stood there patiently: soaked in blood that was not her own, and not that of a Darkspawn - not any longer, anyway.

Alistair, yawning but reluctant to leave, leaned against a nearby pillar to watch. There was still enough Templar in the young man to find the nature of Flora's magic unnerving; there was something raw, and primal about it. He narrowed his eyes, determinus not to leave his commander alone in the presence of such a peculiar young mage.

Duncan was another to send for more phials, when Flora caught his attention, reaching out to tap his elbow gently as he passed.

"If you make a cut - a small cut," she clarified hastily, showing him the inside of her elbow. "Then rub some of the… the blood in it. That should work. It's only my mouth that cleanses things."

It was clear from her stilted explanation that Flora was reciting instructions whispered to her from voices only she could hear.

Duncan, who by this point was willing to try anything, wasted no time. Swiftly producing a small blade from the interior of his armour, he advanced on a miserable-looking Flora. By now, she was thoroughly fed up: she had seen two men die and been unable to prevent either death, she had ingested more blood than a shark at a shipwreck, and now a very dangerous man was about to inflict additional damage on her.

"You'll have to do it quickly," she informed him, sulking. "Otherwise it'll just heal u- ouch!"

Duncan had taken her at her word. With the swiftness that had once made him an excellent pickpocket, he brought the tip of the blade across the soft skin of Flora's inner elbow. She squawked in pain and began an instinctive recoil; only to be held in place by his grip clamping her in place like a manacle. Alistair, his eyebrows lodged somewhere in his corn-gold hairline, offered Duncan yet another phial; Duncan broke off the stopper in his teeth, spat it out and shook the tainted contents over the inch-long cut. Flora grimaced, gave a shiver; her eyes screwed shut

Duncan and Alistair shared a quick, relieved glance of triumph; though the Warden-Commander swiftly returned his attention to Flora. Next would come the unconsciousness, the visions of the Archdemon, and the struggle of the body against such brutal corruption. Not wanting her to fall heavily on the stone tile, he was about to reach out to steady her when -

- when a loud rumble echoed from her belly.

"Not my fault," followed immediately afterwards, embarrassed and indignant. "We skipped dinner."

Duncan's gaze slid upwards in astonishment. Flora was eyeballing him with some resentment; the full mouth curved downwards. She seemed to have suffered no adverse effect at all.

"Bloody hell," exclaimed Alistair; fed up with the strangeness of it all. "Can't just one thing about you be normal?"

Flora's shoulders dropped, reminded unpleasantly of her Harrowing.

Why can't I do anything properly? she bemoaned to her spirits; one of whom was unsympathetic.

Stop sulking, child. It's repulsive.

The other spirit did not speak - they rarely did - but Flora felt a vague hum of compassion, buzzing round the perimeter of her skull like a trapped bee.

Meanwhile, Alistair was still straddling the mount of indignancy, his handsome brow furrowed.

"Did it work?" he demanded, pique disguising his continuing bewilderment. "Is she a Warden, now?"

Duncan held up a hand to hush him, not unkindly. He leaned forward, peering closely into Flora's eyes; which bore no foreign cloudiness across the sea-grey irises. Her skin was pale as ever, white and smooth as Orlesian porcelain. He could feel the taint running through her veins - just - but it was a lone, discordant note amidst the harmonious workings of her body. He noticed, almost offhandedly, that the cut he had made on her elbow had sealed without a trace. When he closed his eyes, he could sense her; but only as a flickering shadow at the edge of his mind. Alistair's presence, in contrast, was as solid and weighty as a Fereldan Forder.

"Yes, I believe she is," the Warden-Commander murmured, opening his eyes. A rumble of amusement escaped his throat as he saw the trepidation on Flora's face. "Relax, child. It's over."

"Did… did I pass?"

Flora was worried that she had somehow messed up her second ancient ceremony in a week. Duncan offered an absent smile, his mind still working furiously.

"Yes," he murmured. "You're one of us, now. Congratulations."

He was touched by how much she lit up under his praise; her eyes bright and clear as elvhen lanterns. It was obvious that she was not used to receiving compliments based on anything other than her appearance; a random lucky happenstance of birth which she could take no credit for.

If I were a decade younger, I would take her back to my tent, he thought, with a wry amusement. It's been a while since my last redheaded mage.

Although, perhaps not. Not all nineteen year olds are created alike; and she seems to know little of the world - or, of anything.

An owl hooted somewhere in the valley below, an anchor of normality.

"Alistair," the Warden-Commander said, wrenching himself from such a distracting line of thought. "Take our new sister-warden to the Chantry encampment, find some priestesses to prepare a bath. Some will still be awake after midnight prayers."

Alistair nodded, pinkness creeping up his neck from beneath his breastplate. He gestured for Flora, who was still bloodied from the previous unsuccessful attempts, to follow him.

Alistair was the right choice, the Warden-Commander told himself, stifling any residual wistfulness. He's the only man at Ostagar who won't try and spy on her in the bathtub.

Now - to write to Weisshaupt.


AN: 2019 edit - I changed pretty much this entire chapter! Now that I've got a much better understanding of how Flora's magic works, the previous version didn't make sense.

So, since Flora is a font of creation energy, it makes it very difficult for her to become tainted - her body naturally neutralises poisons by reverting them to their harmless form, hence the Hurlock blood reverts to human blood. In the end, they bypass her throat (where her healing magic manifests in its most potent form), and introduce it directly into her bloodstream via a small cut. Which was how they used to administer early vaccines (like Jenner's smallpox vaccine in 1798) before the invention of syringes!

Incidentally, I've also reflected some of Duncan's youth in here - I can't remember which DA novel he shags a redheaded a Circle mage in, but it's definitely a thing!