The next day brought a mist of drizzle so fine that it broke over the crumbling ramparts like waves against a rocky shore. The sun could barely muster the will to rise, sulking behind a silvery pallor of cloud. Fog rolled down the mountainous slopes, drowning Ostagar and submerging the valley below. Such gloom necessitated the continued fuelling of the braziers lining the fortress; their amber gleam swallowed by a mass of creeping shadow. The nobles resident on the upper terrace decided to stay within their tents, disheartened by such a joyless day. The sounds of laughing and breaking fast drifted down to the grooms, the servants, the scribes and the soldiers who ploughed grimly through the mist below, arms full.

Alistair and Flora parted ways after the third bell after noon: he was to meet with a handful of new Warden recruits from the nearby village of Crossroads, she was to spend several hours in the infirmary. Ignoring the sound of several mocking neighs - the one-trick pony cognomen had stuck - she put a pear into her pocket and made her way towards the lower terrace. The matron greeted her with wary suspicion - Flora's method of healing was efficient, but deeply unnatural - and directed her towards a row of wheezing men on pallets. They had been struck down with frostcough, a condition brought on by inhaling too much damp air. Flora, as a daughter of the northern coast, recognised it immediately.

It took two candle-lengths to heal all twelve men. The process was slowed by the matron's continual interruptions: praying, waving censors of incense, and reciting verses of the Chant in sonorous tones. Each time that the priestess swooped in, flapping long sleeves like a great white goose, Flora sat back on her heels and ground her teeth with quiet frustration. Duncan was absent from his upper balcony - preparing the Joining for those who would survive the Wilds with Alistair - and so she dared not protest.

Once Flora was satisfied that all traces of frostcough had been purged from the recesses of each lung, she washed her hands in the basin and dried them on her breeches. When the matron's back was turned, she did what she always did at the end of each session in the infirmary: surreptitiously pour some of the Chantry's sacred wine over the tools used by the non-magic healers.

I still don't understand why I have to do this, she thought fretfully, glancing over her shoulder to check that the matron was still bellowing at a sweating underling with an armful of linens. The wine is meant to be used for offerings. I'll be in SO much trouble if they see me!

Bah! It'll be put to far better use cleansing these primitive tools, replied the bossier of her spirits. And far more conducive to the mending of their patients.

You know I don't understand words like that.

'Helpful'.

Ooh.

Wandering away from the infirmary, Flora was so preoccupied by the conversation with her spirits that she almost bumped into a breastplate that shone like a summer sun. Her eyes followed the breastplate upwards - taking in ornately carved gold, glimpses of crimson silk beneath, a weak chin and a handsome, dissolute face above it. The eyes were clear and blue, the braided hair the bright yellow of harvested corn. He wore no crown, but Flora - with a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly - recognised him immediately.

Noooooo, she thought to herself, eyes bulging. Nooooo!

"Greetings, my lady," Cailan Theirin drawled, a smile playing on his handsome lips. "So, this is what Duncan has been hiding away from me? Come into the light so that I can see you better. I confess, I haven't been able to banish your face from my mind since I glimpsed you on the battlements."

Flora felt a shroud of deepest gloom settle upon her. Not only could she barely make sense of his highborn Denerim accent, but she had no idea how to act in the presence of a king. She was miserably aware that she had not bowed, and thought that it was perhaps too late to do so now - and, did girls bow? Did they perform some other ritual of respect? If they did, she was entirely ignorant of it.

With a heavy heart she followed the king towards a nearby brazier. Two guards, clad in full helmets and armed with long, viciously-bladed pikes, kept at a close range. They reminded Flora of the Templars, at the Circle, which did not make her feel any better. Once they had stepped within the egg-yolk gleam of the brazier, Cailan took her by the chin as though she were one of his Mabari; angling her face towards the light. Flora mutely let him tilt her head this way and that, his gloved fingers cold against her skin.

"Flawless," he said at last, in wonder. "Fancy finding such a rare beauty here in this forsaken dump."

His light blue gaze moved over her features once again, assessing the fox-fur red of the hair, the full and sulky mouth, the haughty line of the cheekbone. A furrow creased itself across the king's brow, and something flickered within his appraising stare.

"What's your name?" he asked as though in a dream, his fingers still gripping her chin. "And where are you from? I could swear that I… that we've met before."

Cailan trailed off, scouring the depths of his memory.

"Flora," said Flora, glumly. "From Herring, on the Storm Coast. We ain't never met."

The king was rudely yanked from his reverie, jaw dropping and eyes widening. First, he was astounded at her name - one of the most bland, prevalent and unremarkable names within Ferelden. Every third girl born to a peasant family was named Flora. Secondly, her accent was so unmistakably common, that there could be no question of them ever having met before. After all, the king moved in circles far loftier than those of a rustic labourer.

"Perhaps it's better if you don't talk," Cailan said hastily: her hoarse, flat northern vowels reminded him of his father-in-law. "Come on, let's go for a drink in my tent."

Let's not, thought Flora sourly as the king spun on his polished heel and strode off through the gloom. Let's NOT do that.

Still, she saw no alternative but to trail after him; the two guards were eyeing her expectantly and - at heart - Flora was an obedient girl. Fortunately, she had had practice at keeping pace with long strides after weeks of following Alistair, who at six feet and a handful of inches, towered above her.

The occupants of the camp scattered deferentially before Cailan, bowing as they made hasty retreats. One scribe dropped a stack of rolled parchment in shock as he nearly collided with the king beneath an ivy-draped archway. To Cailan's credit, he did not chide the man; merely laughed and instructed one of his guards to assist in retrieving the damp parchment.

The Royal encampment was situated within the ruins of the old keep, perched high above Ostagar's outer ramparts. Housed within three crumbling walls on the south-facing side of the fortress, the residence of the privileged enjoyed protection from the bitter winds, and took most of the meagre autumnal sunlight. Only accessible via a single, heavily guarded stairway; it was also the most defensible location within Ostagar. Should a flood of Darkspawn breach the ramparts, drawbridge and inner walls, Ferelden's wealthiest would have the best chance of survival.

The two soldiers at the base of the stair clearly did not want to allow Flora access; they were aware that she was a mage, and one raw and inexperienced. Flora shared their sentiment: she had absolutely no desire to accompany Cailan to his tent. Unfortunately, the king's will superseded all. The soldiers stood aside - at least, they thought, she did not have her staff - and Flora trudged up the mildew-slick steps in Cailan's wake.

The braziers allowed glimpses of brightly coloured silks in jewel-coloured hues: crimson, emerald and ruby. The nobility resided in gaudy structures that hung from substantial wooden scaffolding, multi-chambered and often with their own cooking quarters attached. There would be nobody digging a latrine trench or prodding a damp campfire to life in this section of the camp. The sound of laughter and lute-playing echoed from one of the sprawling tents; the smoky, rich smell of some roasted animal hung in the air. The setting brought to mind a gathering at a Satinalia tourney, rather than a war party.

Cailan strode through the shadows as though expecting them to part before him; brilliant and golden in his burnished armour. Flora trailed after him, wondering if she could feign an episode of sudden madness.

What if I do my best jellyfish impression? That used to go down well in Herring.

No, it didn't.

Everyone loved it!

They did not.

Two yawning guards stood to attention outside a vast tent draped with Theirin pennants. The canvas entrance was drawn open with a thickly woven rope, and the king stalked through without pausing. His expectation that Flora would still be behind him was absolute.

Flora followed the armour-clad man through a series of tented chambers, each individual section larger than the dwelling owned by her family in Herring. One 'room' housed a vast oak slab of a table, circled with velvet-backed chairs. Another was crammed with wooden boards, propped precariously against the canvas and pinned with a selection of maps. The next was lined on both sides with suits of armour, each bearing the distinctive Theirin crest.

The final chamber was hung with animal skins, and smelt of fresh pine. A sleepy Mabari thumped his tail against a woven rug as they entered; another dozed on top of a fur-strewn four-postered bed. A host of bottles crowded a low table, ringed with reclining couches upholstered in faded crimson. Flora's attention went first to the freshly slaughtered, forlorn-looking animal heads propped on posts in the far corner; then to the vast bed in the centre of the chamber. She had spent the first fifteen years of her life sleeping on a mouldy pallet on the sand; the narrow, rock-hard bunk assigned to her at the Circle had seemed a luxury.

Cailan caught sight of Flora eyeing the bed and smirked, misinterpreting her interest. He called for assistance while striding towards the table; a beleaguered-looking elf came in and began to remove the king's armour.

"Have a seat, my lady," the king called over his shoulder as Flora shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I shan't be long."

Flora obediently perched herself on the very edge of a chair upholstered in plum, worried that her grubby clothing might stain the fabric. She plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looked up into the sad, glassy eyes of a decapitated stag.

"That one took six hours to chase down," boasted Cailan, lifting his arms as the servant removed his breastplate. "Led us on a merry dance through the valley; almost lost us at the river. I took my horse straight across the shallows, loosed an arrow blind - and struck it in the haunches. My hound, Growler, did the rest."

The Mabari on the bed gave a sleepy rumble of acknowledgement. Flora, who felt as though she too had been hunted down by the king, commiserated with the stag. She turned her gaze to the bed, which seemed more fit for a brothel than a war camp.

"You could make a good fire out of that," she said, recalling blustery nights on northern beaches.

"What?" said Cailan, so distressed by the commonness of her accent that he barely paid attention to her comment. The elf, kneeling to unbuckle the king's greaves, smirked.

"The bed," Flora explained, turning her grave, pale eyes to his. "You don't need them posts at the corners, or those boards at each end. You could make a good fire with 'em."

The king physically recoiled: her low, slightly hoarse northern cadence reminded him unpleasantly of his father-in-law.

"It's better for me if you don't speak," he said, kindly. "You're so beautiful; you don't need to do anything else."

He clearly believed this to be a compliment. Flora stopped talking. She watched the elf gather up Cailan's discarded armour, arranging it piece by gilded piece on a nearby stand. As he did so, the king - now clad in expensively dyed woollens - poured himself a generous serving of wine. As soon as the elf had finished, and departed with a bow, Cailan turned back to Flora with a brilliant smile and a ruby-studded tankard.

"This is a fine Minrathous vintage, dating from 9:05," he explained, waving the bottle in his spare hand. "My steward imports wines from all across Thedas - I'm somewhat of a connoisseur."

Any Fereldan noble would have noted, with some surprise, the use of the Orlesian term. Flora understood less than half of the king's explanation. She gazed mutely at the bottle, noticing the cobwebs clinging to the base.

"Mm," she mumbled, remembering that she had been banned from speaking. Cailan offered her the tankard and she took it gingerly, aware of her body's reaction to alcohol.

"Try it," he ordered, removing the gilded band from his head and dropping it with a casual clatter onto a sideboard.

Flora took an obedient gulp, filling her mouth with pungent sweetness. Then, almost immediately, the alcohol in the wine broke down into yeast and sugar, clinging up the inside of her mouth. She swallowed it with some difficulty, pulling a face. The king looked astonished.

"You don't like it?"

She grimaced, feeling a trickle of water running down her chin. Cailan stared at her for a moment, then downed his own tankard in several long draws. When he put it down, his throat was flushed and a bloom of colour had spread across his cheeks.

"Is it warm enough in here for you?" he asked huskily, gesturing to the squat braziers at the perimeter of the bedchamber. "I can have my servants bring in another if you're cold."

"Too hot," whispered Flora truthfully, trying to keep her words to a minimum. She was not used to the extravagance of in-tent heating, and suddenly had a yearning for her damp bedroll and the breastplate barrier built by Alistair.

Cailan's face lit up like a child on his birthday.

"I couldn't agree more," he said, glancing once more towards the entrance to ensure that it hung shut. "I think we both ought to… take off a few layers."

Flora looked nonplussed: she was only wearing a single layer, plus her smalls. She watched the king unfasten the crimson wool of his tunic, each button gleaming with reflected firelight. He wore linen beneath, so white and clean that Flora felt faintly ashamed of her own grubby, frostcough-splattered shirt.

"Now: your turn," the king said, eyes glittering as he advanced.

Just launch him across the room with your shield, her general-spirit told her crossly.

Cailan reached his arm around her neck from behind, standing so close that she could feel the excited heat of his body. His fingers unfastened her top button, brushing against the hollow of her throat.

I'll get put in that… what's that thing, where they lock your head up and people throw rotten things at you?

The pillory.

Ooohhh! Oh no!

Anyway: reprieve is at hand.

Cailan had made good progress on Flora's shirt buttons when a thundercloud seemed to burst through the entrance flap. A chill breeze disturbed the sultry flicker of the braziers, and the air suddenly grew heavier with the force of intense disapproval. The general, clad in plain grey garb that matched the ascetic dourness of his face, stood scowling in the doorway. The king hastily removed his fingers from the astonished Flora, shuffling back a few paces to put some space between them.

"What do you want?" he asked, sulkily. "Have I missed a meeting or something?"

Loghain Mac Tir ignored his son-in-law, his eyes landing on the rigid, unhappy girl perched on the edge of the chair.

"Do you want to bed him?" he asked bluntly, jerking his chin towards the furiously mouthing king.

"No," mumbled Flora, her eyes dropping to her boots. "I want to make his bed into firewood."

"Come on, then."

She did not need asking twice, scuttling across the room to the entrance. Cailan huffed and sulked, his mouth twisting petulantly. He poured himself another tankard of wine, downing it with a quivering hand to avoid speaking. Flora ducked beneath the general's outstretched arm as he held the canvas entrance flap open. Loghain fixed the king with another withering stare, his mouth a tight line of disapproval.

"If you want to keep your Warden-Commander on your good side," he said, voice snapping. "You won't try and seduce his new recruits."

"I was just asking her for a drink," Cailan said, puffing up with indignation at such a slanderous observation. "Nothing wrong with that!"

Loghain's response was a contemptuous snort, his eyes darting to Flora's part-buttoned shirt.

"Hm. Have you replied to the queen's latest letter yet?"

"She writes to you more often than she writes to me," retorted Cailan sulkily, rolling the rim of the tankard around the table. "Bah!"

Loghain's nostrils flared, and he refrained from responding. Flora retreated as the general let the entrance flap drop without warning, a scowl creasing itself across her forehead. He appeared lost in thought for a moment, staring off into the shadows. The armour, hanging from racks on each side of the tented chamber, observed the pair like silent sentries.

A slightly shaken Flora occupied herself with fastening the buttons of her shirt. It was not the first close call she had had with an unwanted admirer, but it had been the first time that she had hesitated to use her shield. At last, the general seemed to rouse himself from his brooding; glancing down at her.

"Come on," he snapped, irritably. "I'll take you back to the Warden tents. An army camp is no place for a young lass."

Loghain Mac Tir strode off down the canvas corridor as Flora followed, trying to work out where the general was from based on vestiges of the north left in his accent. He paused at the tent doorway, waiting for her to catch up; snarling something at the cringing soldiers guarding the entrance.

The sun had set fully: Ostagar was swamped in shadow, torches igniting one by one in a defence against the darkness.

The general said nothing as he led her back through the noble encampment, avoiding the campfires and raucous laughter. Flora eyed the back of his head, noting the slender braids that hung at each ear. This was a custom of men of the north; although not of the coast that she called home.

"You're from Oswin," she said suddenly as they descended the narrow stair that led down to the main courtyard. "I recognise the sound of your voice now."

Oswin was a small farming community that lay a half-dozen miles inland from the northern coast, on the edge of the River Dane. Herring often traded with the villages dotted along the riverbank; exchanging fish, bait hooks and netting for harvested grain.

The general glanced sideways at her.

"Aye," he confirmed, with a short nod. "Though it's been decades since I lived there. I'm surprised you could tell."

"My dad comes from Oswin," Flora said, a little wistfully. "But he said there was no work there, so he moved to the coast. There's always work for fishermen."

"A lot of the farms were destroyed by the Orlesians." Loghain's lip curled involuntarily. "Many left. Where are you from?"

"Herring," Flora replied, gratified when he gave a grunt of recognition. "No one else knows it."

"Storm Coast," the general said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he ushered her beneath an ivy-hung archway. "West of Highever."

His tone was deliberately casual. Flora nodded, delighted.

"Yes!"

To her disappointment, he did not ask her anything further about Herring, or the north coast. They were not far from the Warden encampment now; the tattered silver griffin banner had just come into view, hanging from a rampart. The camp's activity had begun to slow as the residents prepared for evening. Overhead, the stars were emerging one at a time, pricking bright holes in the murky blanket of night.

Loghain paused as a weary merchant guided a handcart before them, and Flora plucked up the courage to speak once more. It was no small thing for her to speak to a king and a general in one evening.

"Thank you," she said gravely, as he turned to scrutinise her. "For coming into the tent and… and helping me."

The general looked down at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I have a daughter," he said at last, an unreadable expression etching itself across lean, craggy features.

Flora was about to ask his daughter's name, when a soldier came clattering to a breathless halt in front of them, eyes wide. Loghain's hand went reflexively to the hilt of his sword.

"General," the soldier panted, the words emerging shapeless and unsteady. "The river scout is back. He's hurt bad."


AN: Haha so I've moulded Cailan's character slightly to suit my story, I've exaggerated his womanising and his buffoonery! Can't you envision him tipping his fedora when he says My lady?!

Anyway, deus ex Mac Tir! I wanted to make him a bit more shades of grey rather than outright cartoon villain. replying to reviews in messages, except for Judy, thank you Judy!