Stone faces, their features blurred with age, gazed sightless down on the two junior Wardens as they made their way across the shadowed floor. Ishal towered above them like a silent sentinel from a century past, armoured with buttresses and vaulted archways. There was no light save for the sallow trickle of the moon through the windows, and the pale lemon-flesh glow of the young mender's staff. A cold, suffocating darkness claimed both the air before them and behind them.

"Do you think there are ghosts here?"

"Ghosts?" Alistair repeated the word as though it were foreign, frowning over his shoulder at her. "What? No, no - I doubt it."

Flora did not look entirely convinced. Nor was she convinced that her shield could keep out an enemy of phantasmagorical nature.

Can my shield keep out ghosts?

Concentrate!

At the foot of the steps, they found the corpse of a priestess. From the front, she appeared as though she were sleeping - eyes closed, mouth slack - but her back had been opened by claw-marks so deep that the white of her ribs was visible. There was no time to tend to her body in the manner that her faith expected: there was a beacon awaiting them many floors above.

Alistair advanced cautiously up the steps, which curved to follow the contour of the tower. He found himself reluctantly grateful for Flora's staff; gilded light swelled around them in defiance of the lurking shadow. He had his sword aloft in one hand, his shield strapped to his other arm. Flora followed a step behind, her mouth turned unhappily downwards. She was no stranger to corpses - in Herring, they washed up on the beach every week or so - but the brutal manner of the priestess' death had upset her. In her mind, the Waking Sea was entitled to its tithe of lives: it allowed men to fish it, to harness its waters and journey across it. The Darkspawn were entitled to nothing; they inflicted devastation for no discernible reason.

"Is this tower as tall as Kinloch Hold?" she whispered, tugging on her staff to avoid it colliding with the wall. Her question reverberated in the air around them and she flinched; it felt as though she had inadvertently disturbed a tomb.

"What?" Alistair was distracted, the point of his sword leading him onwards. "Oh. I don't know, maybe? How many floors did Kinloch- "

The Genlock erupted from the upper landing towards them, emerging from the shadows with a ghastly shriek. It hurled itself forwards, gravity aiding its deadly flight; its blade carving up the air. Letting out a yell, Alistair thrust his shield up to deflect the creature's lunge. Genlock flesh collided with flat steel; the blow staggered the young Warden as he fought to keep his balance on the narrow stair. Flora, receiving a flailing elbow to the belly, fell into a nearby alcove.

The creature thrust its mass of bulbous, putrid flesh towards Alistair for a second time, eyes burning with heat and madness. Bracing himself against the wall, Alistair swung his sword towards it, but the curving steps were so narrow that he was unable to put his full strength behind the blow. It cut a slice into the Genlock's shoulder, but the Darkspawn shook the blade off as though it were a child's toy.

At the same moment, Alistair realised that there was no way that a swing of his sword could penetrate the Genlock's rusted armour and wiry flesh. He dropped his shield with a metallic clatter and angled the blade so that its point was directed towards the creature's throat. He lunged for it as it threw itself towards him; but it ended up colliding with a shimmering, soap-bubble curve of a shield. It's claws scrabbled momentarily against the filmy layer of magic, broken fangs bared like a rabid Mabari. Then, at once, it found itself thrust back against the wall by the force of a blade shoved brutally through its throat.

The rough, tugging removal of the sword almost decapitated the Genlock. Alistair stepped out of the way of the putrid black-red streams that poured forth from its corpse; running in rivulets down the steps. The arcane shield had melted away like dawn mist after sunrise. A funereal stillness was restored once again, broken only by the ragged, panting breaths of the young Warden.

Flora clambered out of the alcove, alarmed at the vast quantity of spiderwebs that now clung to her body. Avoiding the bloody seepage, she retrieved her fallen staff and ascended to the step below the one occupied by Alistair. He was still trying to catch his breath, skin pale beneath the fading summer tan.

"My spirits are shouting at me," she said, shamefaced.

"Why?" he managed, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. "Your magic saved us."

"I didn't shield you the first time," Flora continued, the corners of her full mouth turned downwards. "I fell in the spider-hole. You had to use that - that thing. That… shiny square."

She waved her fingers towards the thing in question, barely able to look at it.

"Right. My actual shield," he replied, deadpan.

Flora shook her head, determination flooding the finely hewn lines of her face.

"I'm your actual shield from now on ," she said, stubbornly. "I'll try not to fall into any more cobwebs - argh!"

A spider had just dropped onto her nose; she flung it away in terror. Alistair stared at her for a moment; then suppressed a sigh.

"You're still very inexperienced," he said gently, in the tones of a battle-weary general with decades of warfare under his belt. "I think I'll still keep my shield as a backup, but I… I appreciate it. Come on, let's go - we've got to get to the beacon."

Flora shivered: for a moment, she had forgotten the men fighting in the well of darkness below them. She thought of Cailan, gleaming like a bright golden coin against the shadow, determined to imprint himself on Fereldan legend. Nearby stood Duncan; the lupine features tinged with grey and yet still he possessed the strength of three men. He had taken her place at the king's side, if circumstances had been different it would have been her submerged in the deep, oceanic dark of the valley. Then a pack of slavering Darkspawn crowded into her mind, bestial and white-eyed with war-lust. She thrust them bodily from her skull, not wanting to picture her commander surrounded.

Can't you tell me what's going on down there?

No.

Just a hint?

No.

They ascended to the second and then the third floor without incident; skirting the edge of the vast hollowness at the tower's core. Their footsteps sounded loud and foreign against such a muffling silence; as though they were intruding on the tower's meditative stillness. They saw no more Darkspawn, but Alistair pointed out a ragged pile lying half-hidden behind a column that might have once been a man. Near the foot of the next curving stair, a spreading stain clung to the tiles. It had an liquidous sheen, and gleamed a crimson response when light fell across it. Flora adjusted the angle of her staff against her shoulder, looking about for the origin of the stain.

"They don't usually leave their dead," said Alistair in a hushed voice, shooting a nervous glance into the mass of oily shadow behind them. "They take them underground, or - or eat them."

Flora took an unsteady gulp of air; like something physical, it hurt her throat as she swallowed it. Fear was running in her veins like saltwater along the rippled tracks made by a retreating tide. She was grateful for the constancy of her face; which masked what lay below with a veneer of haughty indifference.

Alistair took each step warily, his sword held before him like a torch. The wall above seemed lighter in comparison to the inky darkness below; the stone shimmering and silvered. As they arrived on the fourth floor, the reason for this altered appearance became clear. The circular chamber was ringed with arched windows, each like a gleaming eye gazing out into the night sky. The moon sailed in, pale and watery, through these ornately carved archways; daubing the flagstones with diagonal strokes of light as though an artist had crossed out his work with luminescent paint.

Neither Flora nor Alistair appreciated the sudden illumination. They had frozen at the top of the stair - her standing so close that she was treading on the backs of his heels - staring into the vast, circular chamber. Yet their eyes were not seeing what lay before them, light and darkness in dappled accord. Instead, their eyes were following the sounds that their ears had picked up: four floors below but carried upwards by the sly, echoing acoustics of the old tower. Scrabbling, the insect-like skitter of claws against stone, grunting and slathering and snarling; as though a pack of rabid Mabari had been loosed below them. The animal noises were hung with the dressing of war: the grate of ill-fitting armour, blades crying out as they were scraped along rusting sheaths. Then, dwarfing everything, a terrible crash that made them flinch: the sound of the iron-studded doors caving in as though they were paper.

Alistair turned to Flora, the whites of his eyes standing out stark against the gloom. Their faces were identical: stripped of subtlety and complexity, and reduced to the same, raw base of fear.

"They're below us," he said, as Flora dug the stubby remnants of her fingernails into her palms.

"What broke down the door?" she whispered, the moonlight stealing all colour from her face until it was the milk-white of a Tevinter statue.

"Probably an ogre." Alistair looked sick. Flora, who had no idea what an ogre was, frowned.

"A noger?"

"Let's - "

The cacophony had resumed but with a slightly different timbre, as though the noise had been concentrated through a funnel.

"They're coming up the stairs," said Alistair, fear slackening the handsome construction of his face. "Come on!"

They abandoned the effort to be quiet; to creep along the curving walls like mice; to preserve Ishal's entombed stillness. Now they ran straight across the chamber, fracturing the streams of moonlight into a thousand shifting shards. Alistair's steel sabatons hammered against the flagstones, echoed back by the encompassing cradle of stone. His strength now showed itself as it had never done before: he bore the seventy pounds of heavy armour as though it weighed nothing, easily keeping pace with the scampering Flora. She had no armour to weigh her down, but her staff tangled between her legs as though it were wilfully trying to trip her.

The noises below were closer now, and clearer: they could discern the sounds of individual creatures now amidst the faceless mass. Alistair threw a glance around to check that Flora was still at his side: at that moment, she sprawled face first onto the stone. He swung down a gloved hand, clamping fingers around her shirt and hauling her roughly upright.

There came another crash from downstairs that seemed to shake the tower to its foundations.

Another noger? Flora thought, clutching her staff to her shoulder to keep it from snaring her legs again. Are they big?

Ogre. And yes. Run!

They had reached the steps that led to the fifth floor, clattering up them with no heed for the noise they were making. The stairs followed the curving contour of the tower, wide and shallow; pitted with the tread of seven generations. Sconces set into the walls housed only dust and cobwebs. Alistair led the way, sword held out before him as though it were a torch. The only light came from the head of Flora's staff, and it swung a golden swathe with every rapid step.

The shadows at the fifth floor landing disgorged something half-formed towards them: a Hurlock, but one missing an arm and half of it's face. A spiked chain crashed against the wall with a shower of papery dust, one end gripped by the Darkspawn's only remaining hand.

Alistair ducked the chain - it went straight over Flora's head - and lunged forward, the hilt of his sword grasped with both hands. The second swing of the chain collided with the glinting egg-shell of Flora's shield; which clung to Alistair like ethereal armour. A howl slid from the Hurlock's throat as it fell back, dazed by the sudden blaze of light against the gloom. Alistair seized the advantage, thrusting the blade bodily through the creature's chest as if it were a blunt object.

His brutal shove aimed true: the blade cut through the corrupted heart like it was rotten meat. The Hurlock swayed and seemed about to plunge forwards, Alistair gave it a shove with his boot and it fell back into the shadows. Exhaling a taut lungful, the young Warden withdrew his sword with a grunt and wiped off the excess gore on the edge of the step.

Was that better? Flora thought as her shield melted away in a soft cascade of fading sparks. I was faster that time.

Yes. Hurry!

With each floor that they ascended, the stairs curved more tightly and the landings grew smaller. The strange acoustics of the tower cast up the dread cacophony from below, as though the horde was slavering at their heels. They had no way of knowing the distance between them and the pursuing enemy. All the while, as they ran, their hearts beat out a similar panicked rhythm: why are Darkspawn up here? Something must have happened.

Flora, who had never been in a battle before, could not comprehend that they could go wrong. She had seen the king, the general, her commander all standing in their armour at a table covered in maps: the king had talked confidently of victory, the other two had made sounds of agreement. They had been so tall, so stalwart, so brilliant in their light-reflecting armour: how could a plan devised by those three go astray? Duncan had pointed out to her the thousands of men encamped in the alley below, tiny as crawling ants from their lofty position. Each man had arms and armour; there was no lack of provisions. How could it all go wrong?

Disaster struck on the seventh floor: the reverberation of the tower's foundations had caused a collapse of the main stair. By the time that they had navigated the rubble - no easy task for Alistair in his full armour - and found an alternate route upwards, the horde was so close that they could discern individual snarls within the mass of sound. Just ahead, Flora could hear her brother-warden muttering in a low, continuous stream to himself as he lurched up the steps. She did not know whether he was praying or cursing, but there was a desperate edge to the words.

A nondescript door emerged from the shadows: it shuddered, but did not yield when Alistair tugged at the iron handle. He put his shoulder to the venerable wood and shoved, fear augmenting his strength. The door gave way, and suddenly the corridor was filled with a shrieking wind, and rain tossed into their faces.

Shielding his face, Alistair made his way through the doorway, emerging onto a precarious stone walkway that encircled Ishal's upper reach. Only a crumbling parapet stood guard before a dizzying drop to the main fortress; and an even greater one to the valley floor, still eerily submerged in darkness. The flagstones were slick underfoot, the rain blown sideways into their faces by a callous mountain wind. Cruelly, the moon had now emerged in its plush white mantle; as though determined to illuminate the precariousness of their situation.

At the same moment, a roar came blasting out from the bowels of the tower; echoing down the passage that they had just emerged from. A foul, animal stench followed them onto the balcony. It became clear in an instant: the horde had caught up.

"Alistair!"

Alistair turned around, his face ragged with panic. What, his lips formed; the word stolen by the sly whipping of the air swirling about the tower. What?

"You go and light the beacon," Flora bellowed, hurling her words from her throat to drown out the wind. "I'll stay here."

He stared at her for a moment, flicks of damp golden hair plastered to his forehead. His expression was unreasonable, the corner of his mouth twitching compulsively.

"What?"

Flora pulled her staff over her shoulder, fumbling with the rain-slickened wooden length. One end still blazed away like a sun in miniature; the heatless light waxing over her tunic without consequence.

"Go," she shouted back over the increasing howl of the wind. "I'll stop them from coming after you."

There was a distance in her pale eyes: her spirits were whispering from beyond the Fade. Alistair half-reached a hand towards her, then retracted it rapidly as a snarl came echoing down the passage. He swore under his breath, then gave a taut nod; at the same time, flinching as though he had been struck.

"Flora- "

"Go!" she ordered, flailing a pointed finger upwards. "They're waiting for us!"

It was unclear whether she was referring to the King, the other Wardens, their commander, or perhaps all three. Alistair stared a moment longer, then turned, ducking beneath a protruding stone buttress and vanishing from sight.

Flora returned her attention to the hissed instructions coming from beyond the Veil; their voices unimpeded by wind or rain.

Quickly. Use your staff: the barrier will be stronger.

What's happening in the valley?

Don't get distracted.

As Flora held out her staff, a thread of golden light streamed from both ends. The delicate strand looped itself around until the staff hung suspended in the air. Letting go, Flora tried not to focus on the terrible noises echoing down the passageway. She had once been frightened of the cacophony coming from the Mabari kennels; that was as nothing compared to this infernal howling.

As the shield began to weave itself into a glinting, fibrous existence, Flora nipped round one unfurling edge.

I'll just close the door, she thought naively , shoving the warped wood back into place with her shoulder. That'll keep them out a little longer.

Get back! yowled her general spirit, angrily. The door will do nothing, silly girl.

Flora obediently scampered back around the shield, which now resembled a great golden fishing net, stretching the width of the balcony. Each intertwining strand flowed into the next like liquid metal, reflecting shards of light in each falling raindrop. It was oddly beautiful, and she found herself gazing at it in astonishment.

I didn't know I could do this.

You never had cause before.

How are we going to get off this tower?

There was no reply. Flora sighed, prodding one of the liquid strands and watching the light flow over her nail. The wind had yanked much of her hair from her ponytail, the rain was blown sideways to soak her tunic. She put a hand to her breast, feeling the soft crumple of parchment against her skin. Duncan had said: keep this safe.

"What kind of fish could I catch with you?" she wondered out loud, returning her attention to the suspended, gleaming net. "A shoal. A whole- "

The door blew outwards, smashed into smithereens by a fist the size of a cartwheel. The shards of wood hit Flora's shield and were deflected in all directions, scattering onto the flagstones. A shape appeared in the doorway, vast and crouched over to fit the constraints of the passageway. It's features were hidden by shadow, but Flora could see a pair of small, deep-set red eyes gleaming against the gloom.

Is that a noger? Not as big as the giants that wander near Herring, Flora thought, staring at it from behind her fish-net shield. Uglier, though.

It raised a length of iron-studded wood which served as a makeshift club, lashing it against her shield. Although she had not been physically struck, the shock jolted the balance from her. Flora fell backwards, and for a horrifying moment thought that she was about to tumble over the edge. As she clutched the parapet, she saw the fishing-net shield flicker; the glow diminishing. The staff, caught in golden tangles, began to droop.

Focus! her spirits screamed at her. Focus, or it will fail.

A guttural noise slid from the ogre's throat like a corpse clambering from the grave. It raised it's club for a second blow; Flora scrambled to her feet and reached out to clamp the staff in her sweaty fist. Immediately it rose to its former position, the net flashing like wire in firelight.

Flora cringed from the blow when it came, feeling her heart swell in her throat until she was almost choking with fear.

You wouldn't let anything happen to me, would you? she thought, seeing more malformed silhouettes blocking the light in the passage. You've always protected me.

There came a long pause.

Keep your focus.

Flora did as she was told, feeling the familiar, effervescent prickle of her magic beneath her fingernails. She knew that she was merely a conduit for the favour of her spirits; a medium for them to reach through the Veil and touch the mortal world. Darker shapes swarmed from the passageway, clustering on the other side of her shield; cast into shadow by the pulsing light.

Then, overhead, something equally bright blazed into life. It was bright, coppery orange of an autumn leaf, and twisted in the wind like a hanged man from the gibbet. Flora realised that it was the beacon, that Alistair must have reached the top terrace and completed their task. The smoke curled acrid on her tongue and she felt a swell of pride in her belly.

"Alistair!" she shouted, her words snatched away by a swirling wind. "Alistair!"

The horde were hurling themselves at her barrier now; clambering over their twisted brethren to claw at the effervescent net. The fatty hiss and crackle of the bonfire above was accompanied by the sound of their clamouring for death; undercut with the triumphant shriek of the wind.

Then, the flagstones began to tremble beneath her: a great rumble rolling up from the very base of the tower until the whole structure seemed to be shaking from root to roof. There came a cascade of falling stone; expelled dust mixing with the mass of smoke. The Darkspawn were little more than seething silhouettes in the miasma; her fishing-net shield gleaming like half-sunk treasure in a billow of sand.

Disorientated, Flora groped around for the parapet; her fingers closed around empty air.

What's happening!?

Don't fall.

Is the tower coming down?

Help is coming.

Is it the other Wardens?

There was no reply. The skies above darkened as something passed over the cold white eye of the moon. Flora felt the flagstones breaking apart beneath her and she dropped to her knees, groping blindly for her staff. Her barrier disintegrated into a shower of golden sparks; illuminating the smoke and dust like a thousand tiny lanterns. Then, without warning, the world seemed to shrink to a small, dark point and she dropped into darkness; her fall accompanied by the beating of leathery wings.


AN: Sigh RIP Daddy Duncan D:

In the original story I had just one chapter that included everything from the meeting with Duncan and Cailan, the preparation for the battle, and the tower of Ishal stuff! So I decided to break it up into 3 chapters. I also added more detail to their ascent up the tower - made it so they faced less enemies, but more descriptive. I also wanted Flora to come across as more naive and inexperienced in dangerous situations.