An indifferent moon hung overhead, flooding the open spaces of the fortress with a sour, milky light. The hollows carved into the general's cheeks suddenly had a cavernous depth. Panting and red-cheeked, the soldier stood on the cobbles; he had rushed up three flights of crumbling steps and across several courtyards to find them. Loghain Mac Tir stiffened, the corners of his mouth pulling taut.

"Can you get back from here?" he asked Flora tersely, jerking his head towards the nearby banner marking the entrance to the Warden encampment. "I need to speak with that scout before he perishes."

The man who had delivered the message grimaced: the scout had been on the verge of crossing the Veil when he had departed in search of the general. Flora, instead of heading for the Warden's camp, turned an entreating face up to Loghain.

"Take me with you," she pleaded, her voice small but earnest. "Please. I can help."

"Aren't you a shield mage?" the older man snapped back, already poised to stride away.

"I'm a mender," Flora insisted, scuttling sideways, crablike, to keep herself before him. "Shielding is just a… a… a hobby. I'm a mender before anything else."

For the briefest moment, Gehan's mocking cognomen of one trick pony - and accompanying whinny- rang in her head; she ignored it. Loghain swept an appraising eye over her, and she saw the scepticism palpable on his face. Too young. Too inexperienced.

"You any good?" he asked tersely, yielding to the plea in the huge, rain-coloured eyes.

"Yes," replied Flora, with northern bluntness.

The general stared at her a moment more, then gave a slight, dubious nod before turning back towards the soldier and snapping an order. Weary to the point of exhaustion, the soldier drew from some last reserve of energy and turned back.

Aided by a westerly wind, the misting rain began to break against the walls of the fortress, coating those within it in a fine spray. The moon shivered and cloaked itself in cloud, drawing the stars away from the earth so that the whole valley seemed shrouded in darkness. It was a melancholy night; a night that seemed to be suited for the death of a scout. Loghain cursed the rain as he turned up the collar of his cloak, keeping equal pace with the soldier despite the decades-difference in their years.

The general has been away from the north for too long, thought Flora censoriously as she scuttled in their wake. We don't complain about the rain. We get used to being wet.

Shadow seemed to slide down from the mountains above, flowing into the fortress like glacial streams. She followed them around an exposed crag of rock, almost slipping on a mulch of wet leaves and mud. Wondering where the leaves came from - there were no trees in Ostagar - she realised that they must have come from the forested valley below, carried up on the gusty swells of wind.

As they passed along a high rampart lined with broken statues, the general quizzed the soldier about the condition of the scout.

"What happened to the man?" His words were snatched by the wind and flung to the courtyard below; Flora could barely hear him.

"Darkspawn ambush near the old watchtower," the soldier replied, an involuntary grimace twisting his weary features. "Don't know what happened exactly, my lord, but he's in a bad way."

"General," corrected Loghain with a flicker of irritation; he had forsaken his teyrn's title for his military one. "How did he escape?"

The soldier made a helpless sound of ignorance, receiving a dark glower in response.

The entrance to Ostagar was flanked by two crumbling circular towers, one little more than a ruin. A square courtyard beyond housed the stables and kennels; surrounded on three sides by moss-covered walls. Usually the space was inhabited only by grooms and Mabari-keepers, who crossed the cobbles to attend to the needs of their charges; filling buckets, unloading cartloads of hay and mucking out soiled stalls.

Yet tonight the courtyard was crowded; a motley assortment of several dozen gathered near the old well. Stableboys jostled for space next to soldiers, scribes waylaid from duties pressed against the metal-clad Templars. They formed a ragged semi-circle around something on the ground; their faces rictus with horrified fascination.

"Move," snarled Loghain, elbowing a gawping camp servant aside. "Fucking move!"

Flora shrunk away from the suspicious eyes of the Templars as the crowd shuffled apart before them. She knew that they were focused on her, hackles rising and fingers creeping towards the hilts of their blades.

That's the new Grey Warden mage. The one that the Warden-Commander won't let us guard.

Look how young she is. How untrained. Is she even Harrowed? Dangerous.

Then Flora felt the fine hairs on the back of her arms rise. An electric shiver shot from the nape of her neck down to the base of her spine. The Templars were washed from her mind like a wave smoothing away the ridges in the sand; replaced with a focus as sharp and narrow as a golden needle. She felt the presence of her other spirit - the ancient one that never spoke, but smiled or sighed into her skull - like brilliant magefire within her belly. Her magic was already rising in her throat, gilded particles tingled against the wetness of her tongue. The beds of her nails gleamed as though they had been dipped in molten metal.

I'm so out of practice.

Her spirit smiled, gentle and reassuring.

I've not mended anything worse than a stab wound in years.

[...]

The crowd parted a little more quickly when they saw Flora, aware that she was a mage. Flora barely noticed: she felt as though she was being drawn towards her patient like a small boat pulled through the shallows. She could hear a faint half-gasping moan coming from somewhere beyond the row of frightened faces, the pant of something animal rather than something human. It was like a siren song. The general came to an abrupt halt before her, muttering a sound of resignation; Flora evaded him like the tide flowing around a rock.

"Poor sod," she distinctly heard him say. "Done for."

The creature lying on the cobbles seemed more corpse than man; a crumpled heap of leather and flesh. Their head was tilted back at a grotesque angle, fingers curled rictus-tight to their palms. There seemed to be nothing left of the chest except a mangled butcher's cast-off of offal and meat.

It's like when the sailors used to get ground up on the Hag's Teeth, Flora thought absentmindedly, drifting forwards. When their ships got stuck on the rocks and they'd get flung into the water and caught between the hull and the reef.

No, lectured her general-spirit, who - despite being responsible for shielding rather than healing - also spoke for her other, silent spirit. Her other spirit had been dead long enough that they had forgotten how to eloquently communicate with mortal creatures.

It's not just a mending this time.

It's not?

No. Don't be complacent.

By this time she had reached the scout, faint and guttural gasps were the only sign that he was still alive. His mangled chest barely moved, his eyes were focused on nothing. He was young, perhaps a few years out of boyhood; although the wound had stolen any youth from his contorted features.

You've wasted enough time.

Ooh! Telling me off already and I ain't even started.

You should have run down here. Get on with it.

As though trying to soften the harshness of their fellow spirit's words, ancient Compassion breathed in Flora's ear and nudged her gently forwards; sending another surge of gilded energy up into her throat. Ignoring the gasps and murmurs of disapproval from the crowd, she lowered herself to sit astride the man's thighs; leaning forward to peer at the mess that had been his chest.

Appraise the wound, whispered her general-spirit.

Lots of his ribble-sticks are broke, Flora thought, casting her healer's eye over the mangled mass and seeing white shards of bone. And one of his airbags is flat.

We've taught you the proper anatomical terms! Foolish girl.

Sorry: his ribs. Lung-bags.

!

Lungs.

Flora's world had already shrunk to the patch of cobblestones that held herself and her patient. The misting drizzle, the cruel westerly wind; the well of shadows and the whispering crowd; the bleakness of the stone hemming them in like prisoners ; all had faded to background noise, the constant murmur of waves against the shore. She saw nothing except the man before her, who had himself become nothing more than a wound.

His heart is barely beating, she thought, her gaze slipping beneath the torn muscle. It's uneven. And - oh.

See. Not just a mending.

Is that…?

There was a black mass within the wound, congealed and rotten; stretching out putrid tendrils to ingratiate itself more deeply into the flesh. It pulsed like a living thing, except nothing living could look so grotesquely decayed.

Is that the… the taint? Flora thought hesitantly, the vocabulary still unfamiliar to her.

Yes. See how it seeps into the flesh? It's in his blood, carried all around his body.

Eurgh. EURGH. Can I even cure that?

Stop being so unprofessional. And you must try. Do you remember your ordering?

Yes. Heart first. Then lungs. Then bone.

Good girl.

Flora rolled up her grubby linen sleeve to her elbow, watching her magic slither down her fingernails in glistening beads. It followed the contour of her wrist, purifying her flesh after a day of exposure to dirt and grime. Then without hesitation, she reached her hand into the man's mangled chest cavity - not hearing the exclamation of revulsion and shock from the onlookers - and used her mender's sight to guide her groping fingers. Grasping the failing heart, she felt the tingling shock of her rejuvenative magic passing into the limp muscle. Gratified to feel a more substantial throb against her palm, Flora withdrew her bloody hand and turned her attention to the deflated lung.

I wish I was gutting a fish back in Herring, she thought, wistfully. I still haven't had a chance to run away.

There was an explosion of outrage from inside her head.

FOCUS, SILLY CHILD!

Chastened, Flora bent double and dropped her face to the man's gaping wound. She was close enough that she could smell the raw meatiness of the torn flesh, mingled with the sour-sweet odour of the taint. Exhaling a long breath of glinting, magic-laced air into the chest cavity, she began to work her fingers in small, deft motions that had been learnt in no classroom. Flesh was easy for her to mend; within a few minutes, the repaired lung blew full and fat. The man's breathing became a little less laboured, the blue slowly fading from the fringe of his lips. Flora leaned back, absentmindedly wiping the back of her hand across her mouth to remove some of the blood.

Hmm, time for the ribble-sticks. Ribs!

Flora peered into the man's chest, assessing how much of his ribcage was still intact. She had learnt to count up to twelve, in order to know the number of rib-pairs that a human ought to possess. There were six intact pairs, two were cracked, and four broken into pieces. Carefully, not wanting to leave any debris behind, she began to pick out the jagged white shards. They came loose coated in cloying pink, stained black where the taint had begun to seep through the porous bone.

Now I mend the ones that can be mended first, and then grow back the ones that can't, Flora thought; desiring the reassurance of her spirits. In Herring she had dealt with grievous wounds on a reasonably regular basis. The Waking Sea delighted in smashing sailors against the rocks after first claiming their ships, or impaling them on shards of broken hull, or crushing them beneath falling masts. Yet in the cushioned and cautionary world of the Circle, she had spent four years mending parchment-cuts and ankles sprained from falls on staircases.

Yes, replied her general-spirit on behalf of the ancient one.

Four gilded exhalations later and the cracked ribs had been sealed; knitted together so tightly that not even a hairline fracture remained. She then turned her attention to the stumps of the broken ribs, working her fingers in repeating patterns. White tendrils, thin as cobwebs, sprang out from the ruined bone. Then, as though time itself moved at furious pace within the man's chest, the tendrils thickened; layers of new bone wrapping over and around themselves in response to the intricate dance of Flora's fingers.

Heart beating, lungs full, ribs mended.

Now for the taint.

The man was breathing more easily now, the rattle of death had faded. Yet the taint had taken root within his body; death still had its claim on him. It would be a slower, crueller death than the one that would have resulted from the Hurlock's claw. Flora eyed the pulsating black mass nestled within the flesh, suddenly apprehensive.

Should I take it out?

A good start.

She curled her fingertips around the dark, globular lump, and gave a tentative tug. To her surprise, it came away easily; wet and meaty like a blood clot. Flora let it drop from her fingers onto the cobbles, doubt mixing with hopeful anticipation.

Is that it?

No. The taint is in his body. You must breathe it in, as you would any other poison. Close the wound first.

Flora took a gulp of damp air, feeling beads of sweat break out on her forehead. After making sure that the muscle within had been knitted seamlessly together, she bent her face to the wound and exhaled. As the golden mist rolled like smoke across the bisected chest, skin - pink and new - grew in uneven patches over the exposed muscle. Like lichen spreading across north-facing bark, it stretched over glistening muscle, as quick as she was able to work her fingers. Closing wounds was the first thing that she had learnt to do; Flora let her mind drift to her final task.

So I just - I just breathe it in?

Yes.

Like when Salty Drewin got stung by the stonefish and I had to breathe it out?

...Somewhat.

The skin had healed, fresh and flushed. In a matter of days, it would fade and blend with the surrounding flesh; leaving no clue that a Darkspawn's jagged claw had once cleaved through it. The scout was beginning to stir beneath Flora now. She could feel him stir under her thighs, the terrible gurgle replaced by a deep, needful breathing as his lungs expanded to fill newly repaired ribs.

Quickly. The taint will spread quicker with the repairing of his body.

Even as her spirits warned her, the man let out a groan of renewed pain. His veins, standing out against pallid flesh, had begun to darken like a stream polluted by wastewater. His fingertips curled, digging themselves into his palms. The eyes opened briefly - glassy and appalled - then rolled back into the head. Flora threw herself onto him, determined that all her efforts should not be in vain. Her hands steadied his head as she pressed her mouth to his, gulping in a breath.

All that she could feel on her tongue was stale air. Confused, she tried again; only to receive more of the same.

It's not WORKING.

You're breathing without focus. Think about what you wish to extract. This is your battleground: see your enemy.

It was typical for her general-spirit to use such an analogy. Flora remembered the cloying, putrid liquid that her commander had made her swallow at her Joining; then the globular mass that she had plucked from inside the man's chest. Letting her mind's eye slip beneath the surface of his skin, she saw the pollution coursing along the vessels of his body; dark tendrils creeping around the places that she had so carefully mended.

Inhale death.

Flora sealed her lips around his for a second time, and decided to breathe in more slowly, over a count of ten. She had only reached two when her mouth was filled with something foul and rotten, like the scrapings from the inside of a plague-tomb. She gagged, her stomach curdling, the bile surged in her throat and then - just in time - the tainted miasma dissolved into a mass of innocuous, gold-laced saliva. Swallowing the purified liquid, Flora sat - slightly stunned - for a moment.

I… do I have to do that again?

As many times as is needed.

OH NO!

Your patient needs you, her general-spirit told her bluntly. Get on with it.

Ever obedient, Flora put her mouth to the man's lips and inhaled once again, filling her throat with the rancid aftermath of the taint. Just as her stomach gave a rumble of protest, her body sprang to action; neutralising the poisonous air in seconds.

Again.

She hoped that she might grow used to the taste but it seemed to get worse each time: coating her tongue and her teeth as though she had put her mouth to a rotting corpse.

Two more, little one.

With two inhalations to go, Flora was sure that she was going to be sick. She took a deep breath of night air, her eyes swimming with tears and saliva pooling beneath her tongue. Then she felt something nudging at her lips, hard and leather, and realised that it was the spout of a waterpouch.

"Drink," ordered a voice that seemed to come from a thousand miles away.

Almost tearful with gratitude, Flora gulped down a few swallows of water. Her stomach settled and her mouth temporarily cleansed; she thrust the pouch away and returned to her task with new determination.

This is my battleground!

One more.

She took an especially long breath, forcing herself to fill her lungs. The taint flooded into her mouth like offal; and then - was it her imagination, or was her body responding more quickly?- it melted away to nothing, leaving behind a golden mist frothing on her tongue.

Now purify the vessel.

Flora did not need prompting twice: this was her favourite part of mending, since she was a little girl. Leaning forward, feeling energy surge upwards from her throat, she fixed her lips against the man's mouth and exhaled. There was a sudden, dazzling gleam of golden light - like sunrise glinting through a gap in the shutters - as her magic flowed into him. Then she sat back on his thighs and watched its glittering progress around his body: dancing along the hollow flutes of veins and arteries, burning away the corruption of the taint like holy water. The man's skin gleamed, the blood vessels seemed as though they were painted on with golden paint; he opened his eyes and stared in wonder; and then the last of the taint was purged. The last aureate particles of her magic melted away in the damp air, drifting down into the cracks between the cobbles.

With the fading of her magic, the world seemed very dark. For the first time Flora became aware of the crowd around her; rows of astonished, fearful, awed faces. She looked down quickly, made shy by so much attention. The drizzle had started once again, fine and misting. Her stomach gave a loud grumble of protest, unhappy at such repeated exposure to the taint. The noise drew the attention of the man beneath her, and he focused on the girl straddling his thighs for the first time. At first his eyes widened in appreciation of such beauty, despite its coating of rain, mud and blood. Then, noticing the remnants of Flora's magic clinging to her fingertips and the corners of her mouth, his face twisted in fear and revulsion. With a strength fuelled by Flora's own rejuvenative energy, he thrust a palm against her breast and gave her a shove.

"Mage! Get off me!"

Caught by surprise, Flora fell off his thighs and sprawled onto the damp cobbles, her cheek grazing the stone. At the same time, her stomach finally revolted and she was unable to stop the bile from surging up her gullet. Retching, her eyes streaming and blind; she threw up the contents of her belly. When there was nothing more to expel she lay on her side for several moments, feeling sorry for herself. Someone - she thought that it might be the general - stepped over her to reach the scout. Flora was too tired to mumble a word of protest.

I think I've been sick on my shirt.

Yes. You have.

Through her tiredness, she sensed that someone was crouching beside her. A hand clamped itself on her shoulder, the fingers curling inwards possessively.

"Come on," said a low voice, faintly foreign and familiar. "Let's get out of the rain."


AN: Rewrote this entire chapter lol. So we see here Flora's raw talent for healing, guided by her spirits- and the immaturity she has at this early stage in the story, displayed through her speech patterns and distractions. I love writing healing scenes haha. Ungrateful scout!