Alistair was determined not to let Duncan down twice in one day. Despite the fact that it was now past midnight, if there was a water-filled bathtub somewhere within the boundaries of the fortress; Flora was getting plunged into it. Flora trailed after him as he prowled through one decaying courtyard after another, head swivelling for a wash-tent with an attendant. The communal washing area, which seemed to be the best bet, was swarming with soldiers recently returned from patrol. Without much hope, Alistair asked Flora if she would be happy to bathe in the company of three dozen honourable men. Flora had given him a look of such alarm that he had not pursued the idea.

Finally, the beleaguered warden had taken her to the terrace devoted to the Chantry; located in a coveted spot tucked away from the bitter west wind. To his relief, several priestesses had just finished conducting a midnight ceremony for a particularly devout local bann; who had relinquished a hefty bag of gold alongside his confession. After some persuasion from Alistair - fortunately, the old Chantry Mother was still susceptible to a handsome face - they agreed to let Flora use their own bathing quarters.

A yawning Alistair left her in the care of the priestesses, promising to return when he had found clothing to fit her slender frame. Reluctantly he had also taken her staff with him, on the insistence of the Chantry sisters. Flora found herself standing alone in the bench-lined tent; with nobody willing to assist her. There was a large copper tub in the centre of the canvas chamber, full of tepid water. An unused linen sheet for drying hung nearby; someone had clearly changed their mind about taking a bath on such a chilly autumn night. Along one tented wall, a set of shelves contained a myriad of scents, soaps and oils; the array of liquid-filled glass containers resembled an alchemist's store cupboard.

After eyeballing the fragrant oils and scented soaps in mild alarm, Flora chose the plainest she could find. Even this nondescript cream-coloured bar carried an unfamiliar botanical odour that made her sneeze. Disrobing, she stacked her bloodied clothes in a neat pile on the seagrass matting. It took a great deal of patience to untangle the leather tie from her hair, during which the bathwater lost its residual heat. Flora's teeth began to chatter as she clambered over the copper rim, soap in hand.

Stop shivering, she instructed her own quivering body, sternly. You've grown soft from too many heated baths in the Circle. This is MUCH better!

Tendrils of dark red hair floated on the surface of the water like long skeins of seaweed. Flora inspected the two pink hillocks of her knees, then sneezed again as she inhaled a noseful of soapy scent.

"J-j-just like in Herring," she told herself through clattering teeth, sliding the soap along her forearms. "Cold baths build c-c-character!"

It took a long time for her to wash the remnants of Darkspawn blood out of her hair. It took longer still to claw her fingers through the thick tangles of dark red, muttering darkly under her breath and wondering why she didn't just cut it all off.

Because it'll regrow in a week.

Is that something to do with my magic?

Yes.

Flora rested her toes against the copper rim, watching rivulets of water follow the subtle contours of her feet. She could hear the hushed murmurings of Chantry sisters in a nearby tent, and wondered if they were talking about her. She hoped that she had not been forgotten.

"Flora?"

Relieved, Flora clambered to her feet and turned towards the source of the voice; water streaming down the taut curves of her body. There followed a strangled yelp and a minor crashing sound as Alistair fell into the wall of the tent.

"Maker's Breath!"

Flora climbed out of the bathtub and padded across the matting, leaving a dripping trail in her wake. Alistair, who had turned a shade of luminous crimson, flung himself around to face the tent entrance. Confused, she made to follow him.

"Argh! Stop it, I beg you!" he beseeched her, frantically rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Flora, please."

"Whaa," said the perplexed Flora, used to a total lack of privacy during her tenure at the Circle. "What's wrong?"

"You're not wearing any clothes!" he hissed, beads of sweat sliding down the hollow of his throat. "You're naked!"

"I've been in the bath," she explained, surprised at how short his memory was. "Remember? You brought me here to wash."

The young officer let out a groan, blindly groping in the opposite direction until he had placed his hands on the linen sheet. With his eyes still fixed to the ceiling, he hurled it in Flora's direction. It hit her in the face.

"Put this on, for Andraste's sake!"

Only once Flora had wrapped herself in the thin material did he dare to turn around. Even then she was too inadvertently provocative for his liking, waist-length ropes of wet hair hanging free as the linen clung to the gentle undulations of her body. She blinked at him with rain-coloured eyes, confused.

"I've found you something you to wear." Alistair was talking to a spot somewhere over Flora's left shoulder, his jaw rigid. "I'm afraid it's meant for a dwarf, I'll put it on the bench."

"That's fine," replied Flora solemnly, peering behind her to see what he was looking at. "I don't care."

"I'll... see you outside." The young man made a limping exit, face still as red as a beet. "Maker's Breath."

Alistair attempted to regain some composure outside the tent; shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he surveyed the night sky. Eyeing the stars as they pricked the blanket of darkness, he tried to remember the constellations that Arl Eamon had taught him as a child.

Judex . Fenrir.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm.

Eluvia- no, Equinor.

There was one elongated formation of stars, so close that it seemed to rest upon the crenelated top of the Tower of Ishal. Its name eluded him, skirting on the edge of his mind.

"It's the Boat."

Flora had appeared at his side, her wet hair brushed straight and her Circle clothes in her arms. Alistair startled, feeling his heart seize in his chest.

"Ah! A mage shouldn't sneak up on people," he reprimanded, aware of many sleepless nights to come now that her slender, white body had been branded across his mind. "And it's not called the Boat, it's called the Peraquialus."

"We call it the Boat in Herring," Flora insisted, turning her face up to the star-studded darkness. "I have the same pattern in freckles on my back.

"Don't show me," interrupted Alistair, sharper than he'd intended. "I've seen more than enough of you this evening already."

He was guiltily aware of his snideness, but could not help himself; appalled by the betrayal of his own body.

A mage! She's a mage. Why couldn't you lust after some farm girl, or an innkeeper's daughter?

Flora gave an amiable shrug, and Alistair risked a swift sideways glance towards her. For once he was not intimidated by the flawless face or the undulating slenderness, his attention caught by the clothing garbing it.

"Ah," he said, stifling a sudden laugh. "Oh, dear."

He had given her a set of the plain grey woollens that the Wardens wore in the encampment, saving their distinctive striped armour for when they ventured out beyond the fortress walls. The sleeves of the tunic hung down beyond her fingers, so long that they could have been knotted together. The trousers were hoisted to just beneath her breasts, and secured with a belt that encircled her waist three times.

"At least I found you boots that fit," he began defensively, then realised that Flora didn't appear at all perturbed by the excessiveness of her outfit.

"I never get new clothing," she breathed, earnestly. "Thank you. It's not even my birth-day."

"You're welcome," Alistair replied, oddly touched. "Come on, it's been a long day. I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

Considering both Flora's motley ensemble, and the comments made about her by her fellow Wardens earlier, Alistair decided not to take her to their own campfire. After passing her back the staff, he led the way through the ruins of the shadowed fortress, weaving around tents, and braziers, and the various detritus of war. Remembering how he and Duncan had set off a cacophony of barks earlier, he stayed well clear of the Mabari kennels. They descended to the Warden encampment from the southern stair, avoiding the occupied campfires to the north. In contrast to the regimented rows of tents in the army quarters, the Warden accommodation sprung up haphazardly like clusters of mushrooms. Careless of rank, the senior officers had their tents amongst the juniors; all were equally worn and water-stained. Duncan's tent was distinctive only by its larger size. The tattered banner of a silver griffon hung from a half-tumbled wall. The terrace's uninterrupted view of the mountain pass was accompanied by a persistent northerly wind.

Alistair led the way between the dormitory tents, which were shared by eight to ten junior Wardens. From the sound of muffled snoring through the canvas, it appeared as though many had already retired for the night.

"You'll be staying in the junior officers' tent," he explained in hushed tones, stepping over a guy rope. "I'm afraid there aren't separate quarters for men and women, like there are in the Circle. We don't have any other women at the moment, as you know."

He heard Flora crash over the same guy rope, and waited for her to regain her feet. As she did so, she surveyed the collection of tents, brow furrowing.

"Is this it?" she whispered back, teeth chattering as the wind ruffled her wet hair. "There aren't m-many of you."

"Most of the men at Ostagar are Loghain's - part of the Royal Army," Alistair explained, gesturing her towards one of the larger tents. "They're camped down on the valley floor, several thousand of them."

Flora didn't really understand the difference between the Royal Army or the Grey Wardens - both seemed to be groups of heavily armoured men, who roved about the countryside killing Darkspawn. As the sound of snoring rose around them, she decided that it was not an appropriate time to ask for clarification.

They had stopped outside a tent at the edge of a cluster, large, plain and smelling faintly of mildew. Alistair reached for the toggles keeping the canvas entrance knitted together, cursing under his breath at the lack of light. Flora thought about offering a hand - literally, since she could summon a gilded glow to her fingertips - then remembered his wariness of mages, and thought better of it. Successfully untangling the doorway, Alistair gestured for her to follow him inside.

"You'll be sleeping here," he paused for a moment, clearing his throat. "Ahem; next to me. Duncan's instructions."

The interior of the tent was austere, filled with several plain wooden bunks without mattresses or cushions. Near the rear wall, a handful of pallets lay in a neat row. It seemed that personal belongings were nonexistent; armour was kept on stands near the beds, and any other clothing piled haphazardly on the ground. Unlike in the Chantry quarters, there was no rush matting to provide a barrier against the cold earth underfoot.

Only four of the bunks and one pallet mattress were occupied; snoring men huddled beneath their thin regulation blanket. All but two were human; the other two, elves.

"Everyone else is by the fire," explained Alistair in an undertone, gesturing her to the rear of the tent. "I'm afraid we're on the pallets. Since I'm away recruiting with Duncan so often, I don't get a good bunk. And you're new. On the positive side, the canvas is less mouldy back there."

"Shut up," snarled a voice from beneath a nearby blanket.

Flora did not mind the primitive accommodation. Having spent her childhood sleeping on the dirt floor of her father's fishing hut in Herring, she had never grown used to the featherbeds of the Circle. Yawning, she followed Alistair between the bunks to the back of the tent. Alistair hesitated for a moment, then reached down and heaved the pallets around on the damp stone; arranging them so that one lay directly alongside the tent wall, and the other lay between it and the rest of the tent.

"You go on the inside," the young officer said gruffly, avoiding her curious gaze. "Duties get assigned each morning, but you won't get anything, not the day after your Joining." He hesitated, risking a swift glance at her. "Although you don't seem to be suffering any ill effects, so maybe you will."

Flora stepped over Alistair's pallet, noticing that he also had a distinct lack of personal possessions. She wondered if he too were from a poor family - but he spoke eloquently and with the distinct, arrogant cadence of the upper classes.

Hm, she thought, sitting down on her lumpen pallet and reaching for her boots. I don't think he'd appreciate me asking.

The thin mattress did little to absorb the coldness of the damp stone below. Yawning, Flora folded the boots and placed them at the top of the pallet to act as a pillow, then began to unwind the belt. Alistair ostensibly turned his back on her to loosen the outer pieces of his armour, coughing to hide his awkwardness. She realised that he was far more embarrassed at this forced intimacy than she. As a mage, she had spent four years under constant observation by Templars and before that, she had been raised in a single-room dwelling. Privacy was a concept utterly foreign to her.

"I'm sorry that I was naked earlier," Flora said impulsively, hoping that he had not felt too uncomfortable. "I don't have any manners. I'm not a respectable person."

Alistair was sitting with his back to her, removing his boots. She saw him grin briefly, before quickly arranging his features back into careful neutrality.

"Don't worry about it, Flora. See you in the morning. 'Night."

"Don't let the weever fish bite," Flora replied reflexively, remembering how her father had bade her goodnight.

She turned to face the canvas wall, inhaling the musty scent of mildew. The blanket was thin and made from poor quality, scratchy wool; it reminded her pleasantly of Herring and Flora knew that she would sleep well beneath it. She was just beginning to drift off, when she heard Alistair's muffled voice through the darkness.

"Flora?"

Flora rolled back over to face the shadowy interior of the tent, clutching the blanket to her shoulders. Instead of seeing Alistair lying on the pallet alongside her, she saw a wall of hastily piled up armour: a breastplate, a pair of long greaves, a gorget. She put a finger out to nudge the makeshift barrier, fascinated by how quietly he had managed to construct it.

"Mm?" she said to the breastplate, assuming that Alistair's face would be somewhere behind it.

"Should I be worried… about demons trying to possess you?" the breastplate replied, slightly awkwardly. "First Enchanter Irving warned us about it, since you're so- well. Inexperienced."

Flora tapped her bitten fingernails idly against the silvery metal, wondering what it was made out of.

"You don't need to worry about that," she replied, lowering her voice as a figure in a nearby bunk shifted and grumbled. "My spirits would never let that happen. They've always looked after me when I'm sleeping."

And when I'm awake, she thought, pulling her hand back underneath the blanket.

The breastplate was silent for a few moments, contemplating her answer. Then a green-flecked hazel eye appeared above it, meeting her own pale gaze amidst the shadow.

"They looked after me today too," Alistair said, recalling how three of the Hurlock's blows - one most certainly fatal - had been deflected by her shield. "Make sure you thank them for- "

" Shut your mouths!" hissed an ill-tempered voice from the opposite corner of the tent. "We could be fighting the bleedin' Archdemon tomorrow and I need me beauty sleep!"


AN: rewrote this entire chapter! I really need to do a comparison of my writing from 2015 and from 2019! even though i took a six month plus hiatus from writing this year because I was SO tired during the pregnancy. i honestly read back some of my old chapters and CRINGE D: