The next fortnight passed in much the same way as the previous had done. Soldiers drilled on the valley floor, scouts combed the backwoods and borders of the Wilds for any clue that the enemy might finally be making their move. The king, growing bored and making no attempt to hide it, spend several more days hunting on the south side of the valley. To prove to his father-in-law that he was still the commander in chief, Cailan instructed one of his closest companions on a scouting expedition into the Wilds. Fergus Cousland, accompanied by two dwarven Wardens and two dozen retainers, ventured out the next morning.
The only change was in the weather. Harvestmere drew to a dull and melancholy close; the temperature dropped further and brought a dawn frost that lasted half of the day. Men awoke to see their breath crystallise in the air before them. Discontented mutterings were exchanged in the morning queue for broth: that the annual harvest would have gone ungathered, that they hadn't seen their families for months, that their farms and homesteads were sure to have been pillaged in their absence.
Perhaps the king was wrong, said one shivering archer to another, tugging the strings of their leather jerkin tighter. Perhaps the Wardens are wrong too, and there isn't a Blight.
My cousin is one of the royal squires, said the second, shuffling forwards towards the steaming cauldron. He says that he overheard General Mac Tir arguing with the king. The general doesn't think that there's a Blight either, he says that the Darkspawn have always come to the surface. He says that the dwarves have been burrowing deeper again and that drives the Darkspawn out.
Well, replied the first, holding out his bowl. I'll cover your palm in silver if you say that to the Warden-Commander.
His companion let out a bark of incredulous laughter, shooting him a look of derision. Nobody would dare to cross the Rivaini, who had a Fereldan name but was wholly foreign in appearance and temper. Duncan strode the ramparts with the fanatical conviction of a man convinced that he was right; tired, bright eyes scouring the horizon for any sign of movement. He was utterly unafraid of Loghain - their arguments shook Ostagar to its crumbling foundations - and he showed no deference to the king. Often he treated Cailan like a particularly wearisome child; one who had to be tolerated but not necessarily heeded.
Those who were closest to the Warden-Commander - his scribe and his second-in-command - could see another change in the man as Harvestmere waned. Usually, the Rivaini cursed the arrival of a Fereldan winter, which often brought sleet and rainshowers so glacial that they could have come straight from the Anderfels. In the past Duncan had wistfully described Orlesian winters so mild that Peacebloom could be harvested year round. In Rivain, the seasons scarce had any meaning - the climate was as hot and humid in Firstfall as it was in Solace.
Yet this year, Duncan made no complaint when the first light sprinkling of snow decorated the battlements like spun sugar.
Previously there had been rumours in the camp that the Warden-Commander was a man ailing: his reactions were slower, his vision clouded at the edges, his sleep restless and his appetite failing. He seemed a giant struck by some mortal blow; stumbling forward with a defiant sword raised in trembling hand.
As the first snow fell, Duncan was a man transformed. He was filled with a fervour the likes of which his senior officers had never seen: some inner blaze which kept him warm enough to train in combat for several hours before the sun had even risen. After reducing a training dummy to splinters, he would descend on the cook-tent and eat a ravenous portion to break his fast; only to return to the training field for another hour before his obligations called him away. Those who sparred with him soon had cause to regret it; Duncan was filled with the vigour and force of a man two decades his junior. On one blustery day a half-dozen Darkspawn ambushed a cart delivering supplies to the fortress. The Warden-Commander - having spied the attack from the ramparts - had leapt onto a horse, galloped to their aid, and single-handedly slain four Hurlocks and two Genlocks. The rumour about any possible infirmity vapourised the moment that he had ridden back across the drawbridge dragging six Hurlock corpses on a rope in his wake. Afterwards Duncan had berated himself for his recklessness, but another small voice whispered a persuasive counter: and yet, you should test your strength. You know what awaits.
Only three people knew the reason behind the old Warden's sudden rejuvenation. Every other night, once the campfires were quiet and the fortress still; Flora would accompany the Warden-Commander to his tent and put her mouth to his. She would coax more of the taint from the debased crevices of his body, returning raw creation energy with each exhalation. Despite the mending now being a regular occurrence, Duncan had not grown used to the manner of it. They sat side by side on the bunk - the height disparity between them was too great for Flora to reach him standing - and she would turn towards him, framing his face with the brisk efficiency of a professional healer. He needed to consciously occupy his hands to stop them from settling on her body; either tapping his fingers in a meticulous rhythm against his knee, or clasping them around a conveniently placed tankard. Only once had he lapsed and dropped a palm onto her thigh, of which Flora politely made no mention. Duncan was not sure that she had even noticed. Then, after she had drawn back and touched the sensitive flesh of her mouth, he would tell her about the spirit-menders of Rivain; and how they visited their patients at night in the guise of vast, diamond-backed snakes. She listened in fascination, her eyes huge and distant.
On one particular occasion- a rare dry night, where the stars blazed overhead with no cloak of cloud and the air tasted cold and crisp on the tongue - Flora had just finished inhaling her dose of tainted miasma. Duncan had leapt up the moment that they were finished and gone to fetch the waterpouch. It had been two days since he had given into temptation and put his hand on her leg, and he was determined not to yield a second time.
Flora duly rinsed her mouth out with tepid water, watching her commander move about the tent. He took a seat on a low stool and began to oil his blade, the motions practiced and methodical. Assuming that this was a dismissal, she reached for her fraying woollen jumper and pulled it over her head. When she emerged from the neck-hole, Duncan had her fixed in a quiet, thoughtful stare. His irises were so dark that they were almost indistinguishable from the pupils.
"I wonder if your spirits conceived our meeting," he said softly, speaking more to himself. "Without your magic, I would have no chance against the Archdemon."
"What Archdemon?" asked Flora, alarmed and looking about her as though it might suddenly pop out from beneath the desk. "Arch? Demon? Eeeeh?"
The Warden-Commander was silent for a moment, contemplating how much to tell. At last he exhaled a long breath, put down the sword and came to sit heavily beside her. She turned to look at him, incongruously feeling the soft, fine hairs on the backs of her arms stand up on end.
"The Archdemon is the commander of the Darkspawn," he said, then grimaced. "Commander is the wrong word. Controller is more suited. Anyway, it directs the mindless Darkspawn to fulfil its purpose, which usually involves swarming the surface and murdering everything in sight. Killing the Archdemon will end the Blight and drive the Darkspawn back underground. I'm sorry: if there had been more time, I would have explained it to you sooner."
"What kind of demon is it?" asked Flora, thinking on those she had met in the Fade. She was not overly familiar with them: her spirits guarded her like well-trained Mabari.
Lust, she thought, with a furrow of concentration. Pride. Envy. Wrath. I never see them properly: my spirits don't let them come close.
"It appears as a dragon," said Duncan, recalling texts from Ages past. "A winged dragon, with impenetrable scales and claws like scythes."
Flora looked contemplative. She had never seen a dragon before - not even a drawing or stained glass version of one. When Duncan mentioned that it had claws and scales, she envisioned the Archdemon as some sort of vast, flying lobster.
"And you have to kill it," she said, pleating the embroidered blanket between her fingers. "Will it be hard to kill?"
"I believe so," Duncan replied, his voice soft and weary. "I imagine there'll be some sort of fire-breathing, at the very least. Not to mention the teeth."
"I'll come with you when you kill it," Flora offered impulsively, still picturing her winged lobster. "My spirits can shield against anything."
The Warden-Commander was surprised at the intensity of his alarm.
"No," he said, harsher than he had intended. "You'll be going nowhere near it, child."
Some girls would have pouted at the sharpness in Duncan's tone; Flora, reared on no-nonsense northern bluntness, barely noticed it. She gazed at him, her fine, dark red eyebrows drawing into an anxious upside-down V.
"I can't risk you on the front line," he continued, quietly. "I want you to be safe."
She continued to look at him, so still that she could have been sculpted from marble. Her eyes were the same clear, lustrous silver as the coins minted by the Orlesian crown. With great reluctance, Duncan rose to his feet; knowing that it would be folly to stay sitting beside her on the bunk.
I am still a man, after all. She's made sure of that.
"You and Alistair ought to get some rest," he said, suppressing the painful bite of regret. "I'll see you in the morning."
Alistair was the only other person privy to the secret behind the Warden-Commander's miraculous recovery. He brought Flora to Duncan's tent every other night as instructed, and then shuffled his feet outside; reluctant to leave his commander alone in the presence of such a raw and undisciplined young mage. The junior officer could not help but feel oddly disconcerted when he thought of Duncan and Flora together. Alistair was (childishly, he knew) used to being the favourite; now, he suspected that he had been supplanted in some intangible manner. He had seen the way that their commander looked at Flora, and it was clearly not just in appreciation for her magic. Flora, for her part, seemed to be entirely oblivious; or perhaps she was so used to evoking such a reaction that it no longer registered.
It was testament to the young man's honourable character that he did not let this strange half-fascination, half-envy become an excuse for him to slack his responsibility towards her. As instructed by Duncan, he dutifully escorted Flora to the cook-tent to break her fast, practised her shielding with her and stood guard when she was bathing. He spoke up in her defence when the crueller of their brethren made comments about her.
Flora, who wanted to be friends, was grateful for everything. The junior warden wished that she did not look the way that she did; but he supposed that she could not help the construction of her face, or the slender, sculpted curves of her body. All the same, he thought grimly as he turned his back on the makeshift barrier dividing their bedrolls, my dreams would be more settled if my sister-warden looked like a troll.
The day that everything changed started out as any other day. The sun rose in the east, somewhere far beyond the Brecilian Forest. The occupants of Ostagar roused with slow reluctance, their breath crystallising in front of their faces as they moved like old men towards their garb. A yawning queue formed in front of the cook-tent, although nobody was excited for the cauldron's bland contents.
Flora was standing at the midway point in the line, clutching two stacked bowls in one hand, a plate in the other, and with two tin spoons sticking out of her mouth. Every few minutes the queue inched forwards; each time, she worried that this would be the moment that the crockery would tumble free in a clattering cacophony against the flagstones. Alistair joined her a moment later with two tankards filled from the nearby wellspring. After a precarious exchange, they each ended up with a plate, a bow and a tankard; shuffling forwards another few feet.
"Once," said Alistair wistfully, craning his neck over the crowd to eye the squat-bellied cauldron. "I wish they'd serve meat stew, rather than pottage, day after day. I wouldn't even care what meat it was: mutton, goat…"
"Bear," offered Flora, who had been eavesdropping on a pair of hunters standing three places ahead.
"Bear," repeated Alistair, shooting her a mildly quizzical look. "Can you eat bear?"
"Why couldn't you?" asked Flora, equally perplexed. "I mean, if it were dead, it ain't going to say ' don't eat me!', is it? What's the difference between a sheep and a bear?"
"I know which one I'd rather face on a dark night!"
"I meant in terms of eating," clarified Flora, sternly. "Anyway, I wish they served fish stew. Except there's no rivers round here."
"Fish stew? Sounds a bit - a bit Orlesian."
Flora was horrified. "It do not."
"'It do not'," he repeated, though there was no malice in the tease. "Is that how they speak up north? It do not make sense."
She opened her mouth to offer an indignant response, but was cut off abruptly when a ripple of shock made its way along the queue: as though some great bird had run the tip of its feathered wing over the uncovered heads of the men standing there. They flinched and looked about them with startled, disbelieving eyes. One soldier let out a wild laugh, but there was no humour in it. In the wake of the bird's wing, chatter sprang up in clusters; a soupy babble where all dialects had the same identical note of shock.
Flora and Alistair heard the news at the same moment, discharged from the gaping mouth of a groom.
"The attack is coming," the man bleated, the whites of his eyes showing around the irises. "Did you hear? It's happening, tonight."
Flora looked at Alistair; Alistair stared astonished at the man. Although the loyal junior officer had never doubted Duncan's fervent belief that there was a Blight, that the Darkspawn were obeying some higher commander; as the days at Ostagar became weeks, and then stretched out into months, he had found himself wondering whether… perhaps…
But now the masses of the enemy had coalesced: creeping up through the swamps and sliding from the foul-smelling bowels of the earth, coming together to execute the will of their unholy general. An army had been sighted on the borders of the Wilds; no mortal army this, with divisions and columns and calvary, but a seething horde which crawled senseless over each other and wielded weapons torn from the bodies of the dead. There were Hurlocks - the rotting, ravaged mockeries of man - sly, poisonous Genlocks, the mad, long-clawed Shrieks that sprung with a wail from the shadows. There were rumours of ogres. Three out of the six scouts had been captured; their agonised howling had drifted past the others as they fled for their lives.
Flora looked at Alistair, who had gone still and silent as the queue descended into panic around them. Men abandoned their bowls and fled; stumbling back to their tents to retrieve their weapons as though the horde was already at the gates. Alistair himself seemed on the verge of joining them, his fingers clasping compulsively as though expecting to find the hilt of his blade. He was gazing unseeing at the chaos, the hazel eyes bright and feverish.
"Ooh, good," she said, suddenly. "The line is gone."
"How can you be thinking of your stomach at a time like this?" he retorted, thinking she's just a little girl, she doesn't understand war.
"You can't fight with no food in your belly," she insisted, scuttling towards the abandoned cauldron. "Come on."
Ostagar seemed to have sprung to life again; swarming with activity as it must have once done at the height of its power in Ages past. The king's army began a rapid relocation to the forested side of the valley; packing up tents and filling in trenches. Siege weaponry was hauled into position on vast trolleys. The priestesses wandered the camp, censors swaying and incense drifting in their wake. Men crowded into the smithies to get their blades sharpened, or a dent knocked out of their breastplate. The mages, overseen by tight-lipped Templars, were shuttled to their designated position. The wind crashed about in agitation between the walls of the fortress; at least it was not raining. The air itself seemed to tremble like a shy bride; terrified at what the night might bring.
In the midst of the chaos, Flora and Alistair received an unexpected summons from the king. A weary, livery-clad messenger found Flora sitting on a bench in the Warden encampment. She was fiddling with the overlong sleeves of her tunic and looked as though she was not quite sure what to do with herself. The messenger handed her a slip of parchment; being unable to read, she wandered off to find Alistair. Alistair, whetstone in hand, read - with some incredulity - that their presence was required in the command tent.
"Are you sure?" he asked the messenger, squinting down at the curling scrap. "Us - before the king?"
The messenger shrugged an impatient shoulder, already swivelling towards his next destination.
"I was told: fetch Warden Alistair, and the girl Freya."
"'The girl Freya,'" repeated Flora, fascinated. "Well, that ain't me. You can go and see Lord King, byeee."
Quick as a whip, Alistair reached out and grabbed her arm. "Not so fast. He definitely means you too."
Flora, remembering how the king had propositioned her the last time that she had been in his tent, fell into a sulk.
Weaving their way through the chaos, the two young Wardens reached the noble encampment a short time later. Unusually there were no guards standing watch at the foot of the narrow steps: they had clearly been reassigned to some other more important duty. There were a few of Ferelden's young peers standing about their courtyard, looking lost now that the feasting and merriment was over. They gaped like boys who had play-acted war in their dreams, who had now woken up to soldiers smashing their door in. One was struggling to don his armour, cursing at a trembling squire. Another was mindlessly tossing sticks for his Mabari to fetch, sword and shield leaning against the nearby wall.
Alistair thought privately that the hard-faced cook's boy who had served them their stew looked more ready for a fight than these pampered princelings. With his jaw clenched, he checked to make sure that his sister-warden was still behind him - she was, looking unenthusiastic. He slowed his pace so that she could catch him up, then realised that she was now trudging at a snail's pace.
"Flor- a ," he complained, furrowing his wide, tawny brow at her. "At this pace the Darkspawn will have arrived by the time that we get to the king's tent."
She mouthed something at him, her eyes tragic.
"What?" Alistair retorted, not understanding. "Why aren't you speaking normally?"
"The king don't like it when I speak," whispered Flora, flailing a hand towards the royal tent. "He says my voice hurts his ears."
"Oh." Alistair was flummoxed. "Well, there's nothing wrong with your voice. It's a perfectly fine voice. He probably doesn't like it because you say Cailan in the same way as Loghain Mac Tir."
"Cailan! I thought his name was Colin."
"Ha! Come on. And please give me some warning if you're going to call him King Colin, I want to make sure I can see his face."
They were escorted into a tented antechambers in the king's residence; the one dominated by a vast slab of oak that served as a table. A map was pinned to its surface by four leaden weights. Counters representing the Royal Army, Cailan, mercenary companies and the Wardens rested atop the ink and parchment. Each nondescript figure represented a mass of living, breathing people; destined to be hurled into the fray at the nudge of some highbrow hand.
Three men stood conversing at the head of the table; Cailan, resplendent in gold, was flanked by a scowling Mac Tir and a still, watchful Duncan. A cluster of scribes and captains gathered nearby, not permitted to approach the table but expected to follow its instructions without question.
"Your Majesty," murmured the groom who had brought them in. "Wardens Alistair and Freya."
Flora could see Duncan's nostrils flaring with displeasure; his lips tightening at the king's careless mislabelling. Cailan straightened from the table and surveyed the two new arrivals. His gaze raked Flora blatantly from head to toe, and then shifted to Alistair. For the briefest moment, something flickered in the pale blue stare - his mouth opened partially -and then he grinned.
"Alistair! One of the best Grey Wardens in the Order. What's it like spending every day with the succulent Freida? No, don't tell me - Mac Tir is breathing down my neck. I just know it."
Duncan and Loghain wore similar expressions, although the general's scowl cut a more disdainful edge. The Warden-Commander made a small gesture with a gloved hand, and his two junior recruits obediently circled the table to stand at his side.
"Alistair, Flora," he said softly, nodding towards the table. "You must be wondering why you've been brought here."
Alistair nodded, shifting his weight from one booted foot to another. Despite his deference to the mighty figures present, the young man stood taller than any other present; his shoulders broad and his back lined with layers of rippled muscle. It was impossible - as much as he tried - for him to take up a subservient stance.
Flora, meanwhile, was trying to avoid Cailan's interested stare. She looked down at the map, and could make neither head nor tail of the diagrams nor the calligraphic text. Lifting her eyes, she met the brooding glare of the general. Since glowering was the most common form of communication in Herring, this did not dismay her in the slightest: she gazed back at him without blinking. Loghain was staring at her as though his eyes were a sculptor's chisel and she were a block of marble, carving out her features with pressure and precision.
"The Darkspawn will come through the southern pass tonight," said Loghain's strategy-maker, gesturing towards a flat white counter on the map. "The Grey Wardens will form the first line of defence, drawing them further into the valley. Then, at a prearranged signal, General Mac Tir will send the army down the slopes to ambush them from the sides."
Alistair listened attentively, uncertain why he was being informed of the night's battle plan but pleased to be included regardless. Cailan lit up with pleasure, like a little boy gifted soldiers on Satinalia morning. He began to push counters across the map, shunting bands of archers and cavalry and legions of footmen into the path of the Darkspawn with uncaring fingers. Military terms fell from his lips as a priestess would utter blessings; he talked about articulation and batailles, shield-walls and fortifers. Each time that he would carelessly use an Orlesian term, his father-in-law would grind his teeth.
Conversely, the Warden-Commander had stopped listening. His eyes moved over his two youngest recruits, who still clearly had no idea why they had been summoned. Alistair, unaware - or unwilling to acknowledge - that he had a physical presence that could dominate the chamber if used properly, was making a wilful effort to follow the king's rambling monologue. Stood close to one another and bathed in firelight, the similarity between the two men was stark; though anyone with eyes would find Alistair the more finely made. He stood several inches taller than the king, and his skin was a warmer, healthier hue. The hair, despite the short and functional cut, was cast in deeper, burnished gold.
Cailan inherited their father's colouring, thought Duncan, summoning the old Theirin's face to his mind. But Alistair has his height, and the span of his shoulder; broad as a ship's beam.
His gaze travelled around the tent in a deliberate tactic of delay, moving over the pallid faces of attendants, captains and servants. In contrast to Cailan's exuberance, they stood grim and silent. He wished that he could reassure them: if everyone does what they ought tonight, we will succeed. I wish that I would be able to celebrate with you in the morning.
Finally, like a child saving a favourite treat until last, the old Warden let his eyes settle on the flame-lit features of the girl standing beside Alistair. She had an impassivity that served her well in the circumstances; Duncan knew that she would have no idea what Cailan was talking about, but there was no indication of ignorance in the imperious beauty of her face.
A difference of thirty years is not such a great thing, he mused, allowing himself such folly of thought on his last night as a mortal man. That captain over there is a scrap of a creature, with limbs I could break in a heartbeat; he must have thirty years, and he is nothing at all.
Ah, you old fool.
Cailan swept his hand across the inked, flattened valley with a triumphal grin. From his expression one might assume the battle was already won.
Her face is the sort that occurs once-in-a-generation, Duncan thought, idly picturing her hair spread beneath him. Not even Mac Tir is immune, as indifferent as he acts.
It's the sort of face that men would follow. The sort that might unite a nation. That would inspire a host to fight with greater fervour.
The pale green tendril of a new idea sprouted in the Warden-Commander's mind. He put a hand to his pocket and felt the rustle of parchment: a bundle of letters bound with string nestled within.
Just in case. Insurance.
"And so," Cailan continued, his heated gaze falling once again on Alistair. "This is where you come in, my friend. You are going to have a vital role in the upcoming battle."
Alistair looked faintly alarmed, his eyes darting from side to side. He almost said 'Me?!' but managed to suppress it just in time. The king nodded, fingers working excitedly at his side; as though he was already clutching the reins, or a sword-hilt.
"I need a good man to light the fire at the top of the Tower of Ishal. This will be the signal for Loghain to send the troops down the sides of the valley, ambushing the Darkspawn flanks and surrounding them in the field!"
For a moment, Alistair looked as though he had been slapped, his mouth opening as though in shock. His eyes darted sideways to Duncan, hurt and incredulous.
"You - you don't want me in the battle?" he asked, voice raw with disbelief. "I… I thought I'd be fighting at your side."
"It's a very important role, Alistair," Duncan said, with only a veneer of sternness. "The whole battle will rest on your action. I'd only give such a vital task to one whom I trust most of all."
This only partly placated Alistair, who hunched his shoulders and looked down at his boots. Cailan nodded, impatient to get back to his final armour fitting. Once again, his gaze swivelled to Flora.
"Now, Freya - Flora." He smiled, pleased with the self-correction. "Originally I wanted you at my side as I led the Wardens into battle against the Darkspawn - it would sound good in the songs, wouldn't it? The king and the mage? - but Duncan here offered to take your place."
Flora looked at Duncan, to see that his eyes were already on her, dark, hot and unreadable. She met his stare with her own pale gaze; whatever she felt, hidden by the ambiguity of the finely hewn features.
"So, I've decided that you'll be accompanying Alistair, Flora," the king continued, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. "You can go with him to the roof of the Tower of Ishal, just… well. Just in case a stray Darkspawn manages to make its way up there."
"Alistair wouldn't have a problem with a Darkspawn," said Flora, loyal to her brother-warden. "He could take on three without help."
It was the first time she had spoken since entering the tent. Alistair shot her a quick, startled, grateful glance. Cailan continued as though he had not heard her.
"So, it's decided then," he said, grinning as he spoke. "Duncan, I'll meet you at the drawbridge in two candle-lengths. We'll ride down to the field of battle together!"
Something prompted Flora to look very hard at the king, fixing him in her memory just as he was then: bright, golden and bursting with hope. As she stared at him, she caught sight of Loghain Mac Tir glowering over Cailan's shoulder: a stormcloud encroaching on a summer day. Both Alistair and Flora were grateful when the king dismissed them; turning his attention to his own role in the upcoming battle. No man could slight Cailan's bravery; with a boldness that veered into recklessness, he had declared his intent to ride out with the Grey Wardens into the heart of the battle. Loghain could have mentioned that such a decision was one that Maric himself might have made. Instead, the general remained silent.
The two junior Wardens accompanied their commander back to their encampment; awed at how the stagnating fortress had sprung to life in the past twelve hours. There was a manic edge to the preparations: the Mabari in the stables were howling incessantly, a horse trailing broken cart-reins galloped past them. The small Chantry constructed in an annexed courtyard was overflowing with the suddenly pious. Ostagar was disgorging its contents onto the valley floor: men, beast and machine in a long queue along the clifftop road. The setting sun was a red closing eye on the horizon; darkness came creeping in its wake.
Flora was brought to Duncan's tent for a final time; although he did not seek her attention straight away. Encased in leather and silverite, he paced the narrow space adjusting a buckle here, a strap there. His swords were resting on the low table, his shield against the canvas. He ignored her for so long that she thought perhaps he had forgotten that she was there. She returned her attention to the embroidered blanket, tracing the Rivaini patterns with her fingertip.
When Flora looked up again, he was watching her closely, his face still with thought. As she caught his eye, he half-smiled at her.
"I know that it's your first battle. But you mustn't be frightened. The Tower of Ishal is far from the fighting, it'll be safe."
Flora nodded, her eyes lifting to the silver griffon emblazoned across the commander's breastplate. It seemed to shift in the glow from the brazier, raising a wing and extending a claw: the illusion of light over medal. The last time that she had seen Duncan dressed in armour had been at her Joining. Only a few pieces were yet to be donned: the gauntlets, the gorget, the helm.
"My dad says that fishing the Waking Sea in winter is like going into battle every day," she said, thinking wistfully on her home.
The channel that divided Ferelden from the Free Marches was the most capricious in Thedas; capable of summoning storms that brought down entire cliffs in a night. The beaches of the Storm Coast were littered with wreckage; the shattered remains of ships that had fallen foul of the Waking Sea's vengeful nature. It had even dared to claim Maric himself, the old king and Hero of Ferelden.
"I've crossed the Waking Sea in summer," the Rivaini replied, recalling a week spent hurled about in the hull of a boat, alternately praying and discharging the contents of his belly. "Once. I would not do it again. Your dad must be a brave man to sail its waters in winter."
Flora's forehead creased: she had not thought of her father as brave. The men of Herring set out each morning, leathered faces grimacing into the salt-spray as they shoved their boats into the angry shallows. It was no use waiting for the storm-clouds to clear, because the storm-clouds never cleared above the Waking Sea in winter. Sometimes the boats came back whole and untouched; sometimes they came back missing a man; sometimes, they washed up broken on the shore. Flora's father had been fortunate to avoid the worst of the sea's wrath; an elder brother had not been so lucky.
Flora blinked, woken from her reverie by Duncan sitting heavily on the bunk beside her. His face was clouded with thought; he seemed suddenly older than his five decades. She peered at him - wondering at his expression - then put an impulsive hand on the rippled silver of his vambrace.
"'The sea will take what it takes'," she said, repeating an old adage of her father's. "'We set out anyway'."
Duncan looked at her small, miraculous fingers, the nails bitten and the knuckles smudged with the dust that constantly blew about the old fortress.
"Is that a Herring saying?" he asked, wondering why he was delaying the inevitable. "I haven't spent enough time in the north. Do you have another?"
To the whale-boats, to the whale-boats. The urgent chant rang through Flora's mind: the frenzied rush to drag the boats down the sand, spears in hand, whenever a whale-spout blew above the surface of the water. To the whale-boats.
Flora bit back a giggle, not entirely sure that this was an appropriate saying for the occasion. Duncan stared at her for a moment; she did not notice the maelstrom in the well of the dark iris.
"Come on then, little one," he said roughly, brushing past what he might have said. "Give me the strength to fight a dragon."
Flora turned to him, taking his face between her hands as she had done on a half-dozen occasions; then pressing her mouth to his. This time, Duncan did not sit passive on the bunk beside her. Made bold by the knowledge that - if all went to plan - he would not see the dawn, he cupped the back of her neck with a palm, his thumb stroking the smooth, white flesh. She made no protest at the touch, and so he kept his hand there; her pulse humming beneath his fingers. He made no effort to count the fifty heartbeats, intent on branding the heat of her skin, the salt-soap scent of her hair, the softness of her mouth, into his memory.
At last they drew apart; breathless. Flora shot him a startled, slightly awed look beneath her eyelashes, unsure if what started out as mending had ended that way. She touched her bitten nails to her lips unconsciously, then blinked at him. The Warden-Commander, reluctantly removing himself from further temptation, rose from the bunk. After pushing his hands into leather-lined gauntlets, he retrieved a slender bundle of rolled parchment from his writing desk.
"Flora," he said, and she looked up, still wide-eyed from what had just transpired. "These letters are too important to take into battle, and I don't wish to leave them here. Will you look after them for me?"
Duncan knew that she had no way of reading the faded ink on the parchment; that the instructions the letters contained would make no sense to her. Sure enough, she reached out a hand for the scroll, barely glancing at the curling line of visible text before tucking it within her tunic. Duncan waited for her to enquire what they were, but Flora did not presume to ask; assuming that it was none of her business. He gazed at her for a long moment, savouring her in the firelight as he had done so often in the daylight; then raised his voice and called for Alistair.
Alistair, who had - as usual - been waiting outside the tent, entered immediately. He was tall enough that he needed to duck through the canvas-hung doorway, grimacing as the damp material clung to the back of his neck. He looked at the pink-cheeked Flora, a flicker of curiosity in the bruised hazel iris, then turned his attention to Duncan.
"I hope this fog lifts for you in the battle later," he commented, in a tone not quite casual enough to hide the undercurrent of hurt. "It'll sink right down to the bottom of the valley, and there's not much of a moon."
"Be that as it may, Alistair," Duncan replied mildly, "we must fight regardless. Come, fix me in this. Your fingers are more dexterous."
Alistair moved forwards, circling his commander with an appraising eye. With a practised hand, he made a half-dozen small adjustments; pulling taut a strap here, fixing a buckle there. When he had finished, he gave a small nod and stepped back to survey his work.
"There. All ready for the battle," he said, his lightness fooling no one.
Duncan rested a heavy, silverite clad palm on his shoulder for a moment, then gestured towards the bunk.
"Sit for a moment."
Alistair took a seat beside Flora on the bunk, moving aside the rumpled blanket.
"Careful," she whispered, peeking at him from beneath her eyelashes. "There ain't no breastplate-barrier between us."
He shot her a dour glance in return, the braised light of the fire warming his skin and gilding his hair. Duncan looked at his two youngest recruits sitting side by side. The muscled bulk of Alistair, too long-limbed and broad-shouldered for such a narrow bunk, emphasised the small bones of the girl beside him; her outer fragility deceptive. Even in this confined area, the young man had managed to find a few inches of space to put between himself and her.
There's something of the monastery still about him, Duncan thought to himself, rueful and fond. Those ten years with the Templars have left their mark. He'll need to overcome that.
"Alistair," he said softly, meeting his junior officer's eye. "I'm proud of how far you've come this year past. Follow my lead and take some pride in yourself."
Alistair gave a nervous half-laugh, glancing swiftly up at his commander.
"I'm not sure I like you talking like this with battle approaching," he said, forcing joviality into his words. "It sounds like - like you're not planning on coming back!"
Flora turned her pale eyes on Duncan, a faint line creasing itself across her brow. Duncan ignored Alistair's comment, continuing steadily.
"I want you two to stay together," he said, so quiet that they could hear the grunted conversation of men leading horses outside the tent. "No matter what happens. Alistair, your sister will shield you in battle and keep you safe. I want you to do the same for her when you're not in battle. You know more of the world than she does. Flora- "
The Warden-Commander hesitated for the briefest moment, feeling his throat inexplicably tighten. She looked at him with eyes the shade of clear water; opaque and ambiguous.
"Flora, do you remember the words said to you on the ramparts?" he asked, recalling how her hair had streamed like a tourney pennant in the wind.
Flora had revisited them in her memory time and time again, uncovering them like a child drawing out a favourite toy.
Your magic is a gift from the Maker. You are a spirit healer. You are not limited, you are specialised.
You are unique.
"I remember," she breathed, her face bright and earnest.
He nodded, half-smiling.
"Good. Remember me speaking them for the rest of your life, qalbi ."
That was indulgent, he thought to himself, wryly. Remember me speaking them.
Remember me.
Duncan knew that if he made any further show of their farewell, Alistair at least would begin to suspect that something was amiss. He cloaked himself in nonchalance, glanced towards the pile of letters on his desk.
"And now, I have a few matters to see to before the battle," he said, easily. "Good luck in the Tower of Ishal, though you'll most likely only encounter rats and cowering grooms. Farewell, both of you."
He made himself turn away as Alistair nudged Flora to rise; keeping his eyes fixed on the stack of papers; denying himself even a parting glance lest something slip unrestrained from his throat. Denied sight, his ears strained to hear the gentle pressure of boot against mat, the rustle of hair sliding over a shoulder, the almost-inaudible sigh of her exhalation; and then the heavy veil of canvas came down and parted them forever.
Except not, because then she elbowed her way back in, thrust herself upwards and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek. Then she had gone again, leaving a few damp leaves and a sigh of air in her wake.
"Why'd you do that?" Duncan heard a perturbed Alistair asking, but her answer was carried away on the wind.
For the rest of the evening Flora kept catching glimpses of her commander, though this was impossible since he had already descended to the valley floor. And yet she saw the glint of a golden earring in a crowd of grim-faced marching soldiers, his grey cloak whisked around a column and vanished. At last the sightings melted away like the shadow of a man fading in the dusk; and it was time for them to go.
AN: I loved writing this chapter! It's completely new, the old one was DIRE! Sigh, it's so hard to kill off Duncan wahhh. I had to give him a snog from Flora before sending him to his death XD lol!
I've made Duncan have the assumption that he was going to die because he thinks he's going to be sacrificing himself against the Archdemon! Also ooooooh what could that roll of parchment contain?!
