The rest of the tent's occupants stumbled in an hour or so later, clutching empty bottles of ritewine and telling each other to sssshhh in loud voices. By the anaemic light of the single candle, they noticed a mass of dark red hair spilling over the furthest bedroll; recalling Duncan's promise to castrate anyone who ventured near Flora, they avoided her like the plague. Instead, they resolved to mock Alistair mercilessly for his hastily constructed barrier the next morning.

A damp and drizzly night gave way to a surprisingly beautiful dawn. The pine trees bristled like paintbrushes on the slopes of the valley below; the sky painted itself with primrose and ochre to welcome a harvester's sun. Even the biting northerly wind had not yet roused itself to harass the craggy slopes, or the fortress clinging to them. The banners of House Theirin hung motionless against the decaying walls.

Flora had slept for six solid hours, curled up like a prawn beneath the blanket with her face pressed against the damp canvas. The noises of the men in the nearby bunks had not disturbed her; she had always had snoring roommates at the Circle.

"Flora."

She opened her eyes, still not used to the way that Duncan pronounced her name. The Warden-Commander, swathed in a dark cloak and still as a wolf lurking behind the trees, stood between the two nearest bunks. The toe of his boot rested a few inches from an oblivious Alistair's head. The young officer had woken several times during the night to check that the barrier between himself and Flora was still intact, and was consequently exhausted.

"Meet me outside," said Duncan softly, watching her rub the sleep from her eyes with her fists. "I'm going to show you something."

Flora emerged from the tent a minute later, having wrestled on her boots and navigated her way over Alistair's makeshift barrier. More wine-red hair hung outside her braid than was contained within it. She was bare-legged beneath the dwarf's grey shirt, the hem swinging to her knees. Duncan eyed her for a moment, curious to see if he could see any aftermath of her Joining. She was pale, but that was usual; nothing else seemed to have changed. He found himself relieved that the ritual had not marred the astonishing purity of her face.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, shrugging off his dark woollen cloak and folding her in it. "Ill dreams are common after a Joining. Hearing whispers, seeing strange things in the dark. All have been reported by new initiates."

"I slept like a frog, thank you," she replied, polite as a child wishing to make a good impression. "I didn't hear nothing except snoring. And the only strange thing I saw was Alistair's breastplate-barrier."

The corner of Duncan's mouth twitched.

"You'll have to forgive him his reticence," he said, in grave tones to match her earnest solemnity. "He spent ten years in a monastery."

Flora had no idea what a monastery was, or what reticence meant. She peered off into the distance thoughtfully, hoping that Duncan would not quiz her further.

"Come on," the Warden-Commander said gently, gesturing for her to follow.

His cloak was far too big for Flora; she stood at two inches over five foot and he could span the delicate undulation of her waist with his hands. The dark woollen hem swept stray leaves in her wake as she scampered to keep pace with Duncan's lupine stride. He headed past the uneven cluster of tents, beneath a moss-draped archway and then up the decrepit stair that clung like ivy to the edge of the fortress wall. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to check that he had not lost her. Each time she was still there, trotting dutifully in his wake like a doughty little pony.

They reached the top of the wall, stepping into a scene that could have come from the imagination of some Orlesian painter. The last remnants of morning mist curled around Ostagar's ravaged parapets and battlements. Softened by dawnlight, the decaying vestiges were transformed into romantic ruin. The valley dropped sharply away beneath the parapet upon which they stood; a stony balcony which was interrupted by a bulging crag of rock. It was beside this stony protrusion that Duncan finally stopped, placing a palm against the damp granite. Flora came to a halt, several strands of hair tossed about her face by the wind. The parapet was exposed; jutting out from the solid grey mass of the fortress. Far below, the tops of the pines looked like densely packed blades of grass.

"I wager you've not seen a view like this in a long time," Duncan said quietly, recalling her four years in a Circle. "It's best to come up here at dawn, before the mist rolls down from the mountains."

Flora, slightly intimidated by such a vast and endless vista, took a tentative step towards the edge of the parapet. She had illicitly clambered onto the roof of the Circle tower with regularity, but this was a far more alarming drop.

"Look," said Duncan, lifting his finger westwards. "See those violet peaks on the far horizon? Those are the Frostbacks, the highest mountains south of the Anderfels. Beyond them lies the Dales, which are claimed in name by Orlais, but roamed freely by the elven tribes."

The Warden-Commander could have been speaking in his native Rivaini tongue for all the sense he was making to Flora. She knew nothing about the geography of Thedas, or even of Ferelden - save for the fact that her beloved Herring lay on its northern coast. Duncan suspected as much, but he was surreptitiously admiring her sculpted profile. So much of the aging Warden's life had been stained and sordid: months - if not years in total - spent wading through the filth of the Deep Roads; the taint running dark and poisonous in his blood; his mind increasingly corrupted by dark visions. To look at Flora - with her flawless face and unmarred flesh - was disorientating, in the best possible way.

"To the north lie the Hinterlands," he continued, reluctantly tearing his gaze away. "We passed through them on our way here."

Flora dutifully followed the cant of his chin towards where the valley mouth flattened into a patchwork of rolling green hills. She could see the line of a steam, glinting in the cool dawn light like a strand of silver thread dropped from a dressmaker's basket.

There's a haughtiness about this girl's beauty, thought Duncan, who had hoped that the dawn's illumination of Flora would prompt a similar revelation in his mind. It's the kind of face that isn't just some happenstance accident; but the product of generations of breeding.

If only I could recall where I last saw those perfect cheekbones, the line of that jaw. Damn this Blighted memory.

If she's from peasant stock, I'm a Qunari.

"Which way are the Wilds?"

Duncan realised that she was waiting for an answer, her pale eyes like clear, dark-fringed pools.

"To the south," he said, gesturing to the towering bulk of the fortress behind them. "You can't see them from here. Look, the army camp lies below."

Clutching the dark wool of his cloak about her, Flora inched tentatively towards the battlement. The wind had roused itself from its nightly slumber, plucking at the folds of the material and flapping it around her ankles. She peered over the stone wall, her gaze dropping five hundred feet to where Loghain Mac Tir's army encampment lay in regimented rows. The orderly lines of tents, like a child laying out sticks, stood in stark contrast to the haphazard clusters of canvas on the Wardens' terrace. She could see men and horses, tiny as ants, crawling between the columns.

The silence was broken by the harrowing scream of a bird of prey, wheeling above before breaking into a sudden dive. It crossed the air before them in a split-second flash of darkness, then disappeared out of sight in the trees below. Flora flinched, letting go of the dark wool as her startled eyes followed the bird's targeted plunge.

Duncan retrieved the cloak to stop himself from taking her in his arms.

Everything in the world is new to her, he thought fondly, watching the corners of her mouth turn down.

"It's a falcon, young sister," he explained, returning the cloak to her shoulders. "There are a lot of them here, though fewer now that the king and his friends have decided to hunt to pass the time."

His gentle sarcasm was lost on Flora, who clutched the wool between her fingers with a slightly traumatised expression.

"I thought it was a seagull," she breathed, nostrils flaring. "I hate them more than anything. They steal fish, and peck ropes, and tear open sacks with their evil pointy faces."

The Warden-Commander laughed at her outrage, then remembered that he had not brought the girl up to the ramparts simply to admire the sunlight on her face. He turned away from the dawn, heading towards a stone bench that must have once served as respite for weary lookouts. The edges of the stone had been blurred from centuries of exposure to the elements. Flora followed him dutifully, taking a seat beside Duncan without hesitation.

Most beautiful girls are wary of men, he thought idly, leaning back against the fortress wall with an ease that Loghain Mac Tir would never emulate. Since this one can repulse any unwanted attention in a heartbeat, she's never learned that vigilance.

"Flora," he said quietly, hearing the Rivaini cadence shape her name in his mouth. "I want to know more about your magic."

Now the wariness came, her face closing off as though a veil had been drawn over it. She darted him a swift, anxious look from the corner of her eye; the vixen sighted by the wolf. Duncan had to resist the urge to take her hand. Instead, he lowered his voice, trying to remember how it sounded to be reassuring.

"Flora, am I a Templar?"

"No."

"Am I one of the Chantry?"

She shook her head dolefully, the cloak sliding down her shoulders. He pushed the heavy wool back up.

"My name might sound Fereldan, but I count myself as Rivaini," he continued, not taking his gaze from her. His eyes were like coals, so dark they seemed to draw in the light around them. "Do you know anything about Rivain? Where it is?"

Flora shook her head again, woefully aware of her own ignorance. Duncan saw her droop and hastened on, conjuring a reference that she would know.

"What's north of the Waking Sea?"

"The Marcher lands," replied Flora, using the archaic name preferred by peasants. "You can see them if the skies are clear. Which is not a lot."

"Well, north of the Marcher lands lies Antiva," said Duncan, using his finger to draw a map in the air. "And north of that lies hundred leagues away."

He smiled at her open-mouthed astonishment. Her world, until so recently, had been a narrow one.

"Anyway, alva. One thing that is unique about Rivain is how it treats their mages. There are no Templars, and there are no Circles. Mages are respected - venerated, even."

Duncan realised that she probably did not know what venerated meant, and explained that it meant appreciated, which was close enough. Flora was still wary, but less so now; her eyes wide at the prospect of a land where her kind were not persecuted and punished. Her fingers folded pleats in the dark wool cloak; the nails efficiently bitten to keep them short. By now the sun had almost fully risen; wreathed in mist like sea foam, it perched on the horizon as though summoning the effort to heave itself higher. The fog had begun to roll down the sides of the valley, drowning the army encampment below until only the very tallest pennants were visible. The Warden-Commander knew that he needed to return to his encampment, to oversee the assignation of the day's duties and to hear the reports of returning scouts. Alistair, whom he had tasked with watching over Flora, would be fretting at her absence.

Yet he made no move to leave, tapping an absentminded rhythm against his knee.

"Rivaini mages are free," he said idly, wondering if she was a virgin. "They live amongst everyone else, using their magic to assist others. Some offer their services as bodyguards, others make a living as healers. Some claim the power of prophecy, and charge for their predictions."

By now Flora had twisted at the narrow waist to face him fully, astonished. Her eyes scrutinised his in half-disbelief that such a place should exist.

"When I lived in Herring," she breathed, fingers twisted in the wool of his cloak. "Before the Templars caught me. I healed the frost-cough and mended the sailors washed up on the beach. No one paid me, though. They didn't like me much, red hair is bad luck to fishermen."

Her head dropped, a line furrowing itself across her brow. As much as she longed to return to Herring, it had never truly accepted her. Once she had cured their children of frost-cough, mothers snatched them away. Men averted their faces when she repaired hands crushed between boat and rock. Then a thick rope of her own burgundy hair rose before her eyes; held appraisingly between Duncan's gloved thumb and forefinger.

"Hair such as this could never bode ill," he murmured, deliberately casual. "Tell me about your spirits."

"Are you going to make fun of me? Or call me mad? Or say that I'm possessed?" The wariness was back.

She's had some bad experiences in the Circle, Duncan thought to himself, absentmindedly fingering the strand of hair. No wonder she's reluctant to talk about her magic.

"I'm Rivaini, not Fereldan," he reminded her, shifting position on the unforgiving bench as his body reminded him that he was also no longer young. "I once knew a spirit healer in Dairsmuid who had the aid of a powerful spirit. She used to spend most of her time arguing with them."

Flora was silent for a long moment, gazing pensively at her boots. Below them, the fortress was starting to rouse itself for the day. Barking echoed from the Mabari kennels. Men called out to one another about prosaic things: bathwater, breaking their fast, whether the blacksmith was awake. The smell of cooking meat drifted along the battlements; Duncan's tastebuds were so taint-dulled that he could not identify the animal of origin. Yet again, the fear that he was no longer physically capable of battling an Archdemon curdled like bile in his stomach.

To distract himself he caught the underneath of her chin with a finger; tilting her face towards him.

"Flora," he repeated, low and impassioned. "Tell me about your spirits."

Slightly mesmerised by the intensity of his gaze, Flora relented. At first she spoke with hesitancy, growing in confidence when it became clear that he was not going to judge her.

"There are two of them," she said, barely above a whisper. "One helps me shield, and the other helps me heal. The one that helps me shield is the one that speaks to me most of the time. They were a general when they were alive. When I see them in the Fade, they're wearing armour, but it doesn't look like the armour that anyone here wears. I think they must have been a general a long time ago."

Duncan kept his expression carefully neutral, although his mind was racing.

"The other one doesn't speak much, though I feel how they're feeling," Flora continued, warming to the subject. "They're always kind to me, and they guide me when I'm healing. The general tells me off a lot."

"Why?"

She smiled at him; and the curve of her mouth broke the cool imperiousness of her face like sun breaking through the cloud.

"I'm not intelligent," she replied, honestly. "I don't know half of the historical things that they mention. I don't make good conversation. Sometimes I fall asleep when they're trying to teach me."

Duncan only half-listened to this litany of faults. Part of him - the Rivaini - was fascinated by the girl's unusual connection with 'her' spirits, and the potency of the energy that they sourced. The other part - the man - was consumed by a heat so unfamiliar that it took a moment for him to identify it.

Desire, he thought to himself, astonished. I thought the taint had withered the part of me that lusted to nothing.

Then, regretfully:

I have to return this girl to the camp.

He rose, putting some much-needed space between himself and her. There was a dull ache in his lower back; a voiceless reminder that he should not be sitting motionless on stone benches for too long at his age. The dewy morning mist had solidified into a silvery mass that clung to the ruined spires and parapets of the old fortress. The bottom of the valley, still submerged in fog, looked like a narrow, slate-grey sea.

"Thank you for telling me about them," he said, risking a swift glance over his shoulder as Flora rose to her feet. "I hope your spirits don't mind."

"Oh, they said that I could," replied Flora blithely, bundling his cloak in her arms. "They gave me permission."

Ha, thought Duncan to himself, amused. So it wasn't your powers of persuasion that caused her to yield.

"Come on, sister-warden," he said, not unkindly. "I ought to return you to Alistair before he gets too frantic."


AN: OK so this is a new chapter too! I put it in for two reasons: firstly, to introduce Flora's spirits a little more, and secondly I know a bit more about Duncan now after reading the Calling, and I luuuuuuuurve him *MAX HEART EYES* I wanted to evoke elements of the man he had been as a youth - as a TOP SHAGGER (lol slight exaggeration) who had a thing for redhead mages!

also a lot of these chapters haven't been wholly from Flora's perspective - at the moment, she's not really the protagonist so I wanted to reflect that! it's still Duncan's story at the moment (but not for too much longer, siiiigh)

thank you eiraenestower and judy 3 3