The autumnal sun, still swaddled in cloud, hung low over the marshes. The sky was darkening in slow increments and the air was laced with the taste of impending rain. Now that the two junior Wardens had decided on a course of action, Alistair seemed to regain his lost inches; straightening up and squaring his shoulders. Demolishing the plate of smoked meat with one hand - he had barely eaten over the past few days - he scraped out a crude map for Flora in the mud with the point of a broken branch.
"This is where we are now," he said through a mouthful of meat, jabbing the toe of his boot towards a ragged X. "And Redcliffe is here , at the southernmost end of Lake Calenhad."
Flora, sitting cross-legged on the wet grass, peered at the lines dug into the earth. Although there was no scale on the improvised map, she thought that there seemed to be a rather long distance between the two locations.
"Is there anywhere we can stay on the way?" she asked, absentmindedly threading two strands of grass together. "Where we could… get some food?"
Flora was not entirely sure how you obtained food by use of coin: in Herring, they either fished their meals from the sea or traded salt biscuits for a neighbour's turnip stew. In the Circle, meals had arrived with regulated punctuality on trays borne by silent Tranquil.
Alistair thought hard, ploughing through his memories. At last, he pointed the end of the stick halfway along the meandering eked-out line.
"There's a town here. I think it's called Lowery, Lothering - something like that. Duncan and I stayed at the inn there once on our way to Denerim. Nice place, quite small. Quiet. Discreet. We probably shouldn't draw too much attention to ourselves, now until we know what in the five hells Mac Tir is up to."
Flora nodded in solemn agreement, twisting a stray strand of hair around her finger until the tip of it turned white. Alistair looked at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth in a rueful curl.
"Eh?" she asked, noticing his stare.
"Well, I was just thinking that it's going to be hard not to draw attention with you," he said, wryly.
"Because I'm a mage?"
"No, because you're -well... you're so… "
Alistair started to reply, before trailing off and coughing; gazing hard at the opposite bank of the marsh with the faintest spray of pink across his nose.
Flora understood, and drew up her knees to her chin; furrowing her brow in a familiar frustration at the accident of birth that had left her with beauty, but no brains.
"I can't break my nose; it'd just mend itself. My hair grows back overnight if it gets cut, my dad were always trying to shave me bald in Herring." She shot him a mournful look, out of ideas.
The young man snorted, glancing sideways at her.
"We aren't cutting your hair, or breaking your nose. Duncan would be furious if we even considered it. He told his lieutenant that you were the… the most exquisite girl he'd ever set eyes on: I overheard them talking last week."
They both fell into a melancholic silence; thinking on their lost commander. The billowing hum of crickets rose to fill the air, accompanied by a toad's hoarse cra-craic. It had just passed noon, and their shadows fell short on the wet grass.
"I could put a bag over my head," Flora offered at last, and a laugh finally broke free from Alistair's throat. It was the first time in four days that he had laughed, and he felt the iron bands wound around his chest loosen a fraction.
"No bags are going over anyone's head. We'll just…put you in a big hat, or something."
Flora, who had never owned or tried on a hat in her life, let out a squeak of barely suppressed excitement. Alistair smiled down at her, then offered a hand.
"Come on, Flo. Let's tell those two witches that they won't have to host us for much longer."
The amber-eyed stork let out a grating caw and took off with a flurry of beating wings; pushing its gangly frame into the air.
Inside the hut, Morrigan was stirring the cooking pot with a vengeance, the ladle rattling around the iron. Her face was set in a mutinous expression; her lips pressed flat together. She did not verbally acknowledge the two young Wardens as they entered; though her nostrils flared a fraction wider.
"Are you always this welcoming to guests?" Alistair asked mildly, albeit warily. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the hospitality, but- "
Morrigan opened her scarlet mouth, lips curling in preparation to deliver an acerbic response, when a pointed ahem! arose from the corner of the room. Both Flora and Alistair turned in astonishment to see Flemeth perched on a bench, her hair even more dishevelled than usual and her eyes sparking wickedly. She rose to her feet with an effortlessness that belied the lattice of wrinkles across her face; the embodiment of expectation.
"So?"
"So," repeated Alistair, his eyes wide. "Are we going to talk about how you just appeared out of nowhere, or not? Because I'm certain that the only person in this hut when we came in was your charming daughter."
Flemeth let out a cackle, tapping the tips of her fingernails together in a frenzied rhythm.
"So," she said, ignoring the question. "Have you two little Wardens decided how best to proceed, then? You cannot mope around in the Wilds for the rest of the Age."
"She's little," hissed Morrigan, then cursed as the ladle slipped from her fingers and submerged itself within the stew. "He's a hulking brute."
Flora decided to interject: arguments wasted time, and northerners had no time to waste.
"We're going to use the Warden treaties," she said, patting her breast to hear the reassuring rustle of parchment. "Get help from the dwarves, the mages and the elves. Then we're going to kill the Archdemon."
Before it reaches Herring, she thought to herself, fervently. It's bound to be headed north first. Why would anyone want to go in any other direction?
Flemeth looked down, the corner of her lips flickering.
"I see," she murmured, gazing thoughtfully at the cauldron. "Just the two of you are to accomplish this? This great feat?"
Flora could feel Alistair wilting at her side, his powerful frame folding in on itself as he was reminded yet again of the unfortunate odds. She elbowed him surreptitiously; firm but gentle.
"My spirits will help," she insisted, lifting her chin. "And then, we'll have all the dwarves, mages- "
"Yes, yes, and elves, I heard you the first time. And you expect to slay an Archdemon? If indeed it is a true Blight and not just a swarming."
"Yes," replied Flora, still picturing the Archdemon as some sort of vast flying lobster after Duncan's description of impenetrable scales and jagged claws.
I'll twist off it's claws and peel off it's shell. I'll snap it's legs.
I'll eat it as a tribute to Duncan! Yes!
Her general-spirit let out an exasperated sigh just behind her right ear. Flora was so absorbed in her fantasy that she paid no further heed to the conversation, until Morrigan's sudden shriek of dismay made her almost fall over in shock.
"Mother! You can't be serious. 'Tis a poor joke."
"Do I appear to be laughing?"
The two women could have been transplanted from some dramatic Tevinter tableaux: the younger on her feet, head down as though about to charge, her face contorted with anger and incredulity; the elder perched nonchalantly on the stool, her latticed face serene. Alistair's jaw dropped as he looked between the mother and daughter; dismay creasing his forehead.
"We honestly don't need a third person," he interjected hastily, shooting Morrigan a wary look from the corner of his eye. "Flo - Flora and I will be fine by ourselves."
"Me and you, just us two," intoned Flora solemnly, wondering what was going on.
"Really," replied Flemeth, a smirk in the word. "Could you and your sister-warden even find your way out of the Wilds for starters?"
Alistair opened his mouth and then closed it again, the creases in his brow deepening.
"No," said Flora, still clueless. "Eh?"
"Then you need her assistance. No, boy, don't try to argue - you are far too young to engage with me on any sort of meaningful level. Indulge an old lady and accept the assistance of my daughter on the road."
"Mother," whined Morrigan, suddenly more petulant child than crimson-nailed woman. "Am I worth so little to you that you'd cast me out with these two strangers?"
Flemeth rose to her feet, her eyes meeting the identical gaze of her daughter. The old woman suddenly looked weary; casting off the fraudulent vigour.
"Daughter, I order this because I care. The Darkspawn have claimed half of the Wilds already. These stone walls will not protect you when the horde arrives."
Just as Alistair had done earlier, Morrigan's lips parted and met again: unable to think of a persuasive counter. A thin snarl of frustration escaped her throat and she began to pace the narrow breadth of the hut like a caged panther. Flemeth eyed her daughter with an unreadable expression for a moment, then turned her gaze towards the two young Wardens.
"I suggest you spend some time gathering supplies for the road. There is food to be found in the marshes if you know where to look."
The witch stalked to a side cabinet, and proceeded to pluck a selection of mushrooms from a wicker basket.
"Poisonous - poisonous - poisonous - extremely poisonous - poisonous - edible."
"Why do you have so many poisonous mushrooms?" asked Alistair, in mild alarm. "And why are they all mixed up?"
Flemeth smirked and ignored the question, moving smoothly on.
"As for berries, anything that's not red or speckled should be safe. Oh, but avoid the ones that grow near the water unless you want to spend the next week vomiting."
"Great," said Alistair faintly, while Flora looked vaguely unconcerned.
As they left the hut with baskets hanging from each arm, brother-warden elbowed sister-warden.
"It's alright for you . Not all of us are lucky enough to have bodies that can mend themselves."
It was perhaps the first time that he had complimented her magic. Taken by surprise, Flora beamed at him; the imperious coolness of her beauty broken by the curve of her full mouth and the small white teeth. Alistair stared back at her for a long moment, then coughed and swung his gaze abruptly away.
It was decided that Alistair, being tall, would scour the bushes for berries; while the foot-shorter Flora was tasked with hunting down mushrooms. She spent the next two hours rooting on her hands and knees amidst the unbridled vegetation; digging mushrooms from the damp earth with her fingers. She had forgotten which mushrooms Flemeth had identified as edible, so surreptitiously nibbled each stalk to test the reaction of her body. If she felt a tingling in her throat as the poison was neutralised, she wedged the unwanted mushroom carefully back into the earth.
As a weary sun settled below the horizon, the two junior Wardens surveyed the bounty of their hunt. They had collected two baskets full of mushrooms and a single basket of berries. Alistair, lacking the ability to test for toxin, had been more cautious than Flora.
"A vegetarian diet," observed Alistair, rather gloomily. "I never thought I'd miss the mystery meat stew that they served us back in Ostagar."
"I'll get us some fish," Flora said, through a mouthful of berries. "There's always water near a road."
Alistair glanced at her, then let out a startled laugh.
"Your teeth are red!"
Back in the stone hut, which seemed all the more claustrophobic for Morrigan's sulking presence, Flemeth cast her eye over their acquisition. She inclined her chin, then canted her head towards the overflowing chests in the corner.
"Take what you need for the journey from my - ah - souvenirs collection. I promise you that the owners won't be returning to claim them."
Alistair barely suppressed a shudder, while the oblivious Flora nodded. After rummaging through the contents of the chests, the two young Wardens set aside a pair of leather packs, bedrolls that only smelled faintly of mildew, a rust-laced cooking pot and a couple of blankets. While Alistair reluctantly tried on a set of Templar armour - if anyone questioned them on the road, he would claim that he was escorting an apostate back to the Circle - Flora dug out several small bowls. Morrigan refused to answer any questions about whether she would be sleeping near , or eating with them on the journey; as though still convinced that her mother would change her mind and allow her to remain.
"Did you find a tent, Flo?"
"No," Flora said, eyeing a suspiciously stained blanket. "Ain't none here."
"We'll have to sleep in barns, then," Alistair replied, an involuntary grimace creasing his handsome face. "Or stables. We can't sleep outdoors in winter. Maker, even the practicalities of doing this are hard! If only Duncan could see us sleeping in a haystack."
"I think he'd be proud," said his sister-warden, after a moment's thought. "Proud of us."
Alistair closed his eyes tightly for a moment, the corners of his mouth tautening; as though someone had threaded a string through his face and pulled hard. When he opened his eyes again, they glittered in the light of the central fire.
"I - I hope so."
Late that night Alistair awoke with a start, staring up at the shifting light of flame against the wall. He had no idea what hour it was, then realised that it no longer mattered: keeping track of time was important when he had duties and routines to adhere to, when he was expected to be at a certain place at a certain moment. The need to adhere to a schedule had died with the rest of the Wardens: he had no commander's agenda to follow, no bell would ring to mark the arrival of a new day.
The realisation disconcerted him, and Alistair turned his head to look at the other person who had also been set adrift by the fall of Ostagar. To his alarm, the furs beside him were rumpled but empty. He felt something constrict within his lungs - a brief clench of fright - and then reason overrode reflex.
She's gone to make water, he told himself. Or to fetch a drink from the well.
I'll wait a little while.
Two minutes later, Alistair pushed back the furs and went in search of his sister-warden. The hut was - seemingly - empty, but he still took care to make as little noise as possible as he crept around the smouldering embers beneath the cooking pot. The door made a rough groan of protest as he eased it open, but nothing stirred in the shadows behind him.
A sickle moon hung somewhere in the east of the sky. The Wilds were as pallid and colourless at night as they were during the day; except now they were cast in silver grey instead of shades of brown. The reeds sat on the edge of the marsh like a sparse black fringe. To his relief, he caught sight of her straight away; sitting hunched over on the damp grass with a golden glow illuminating the sculpted lines of her face.
Flora looked up as he approached, focused in a frowning concentration. She was sitting in a shirt and smalls, her breeches in a crumpled heap beside her.
"I went to make water," she said, perturbed. "And when I took off my trousers, a swarm of nasty bugs flew up and bit me!"
Alistair realised then that she was pressing her fingers methodically against an array of red bumps scattered across her thighs. Each one took only a moment to heal, but there were a lot of them.
"Ah," he replied, sitting heavily down in the grass next to her. "Those are from midge-flies. Irritating little buggers."
She muttered something under her breath, continuing to prod grumpily at each itchy bite. Alistair watched her for a minute; then worried that she might interpret this as him staring at her legs. He hastily averted his gaze to the sky overhead. A constellation had just erupted from behind a vein of cloud; blazing against the pallor of the moon. Alistair recognised it as the Peraquialus; known for its habit of wandering randomly across the heavens in defiance of astrologers' attempts to chart it.
"I'd like to have a funeral for Duncan," he said, after several quiet minutes had passed. "Not anytime soon. When - when all this is over. Maybe… maybe even build a statue for him. A memorial. I don't know how I could afford it. But it would be nice to have somewhere that we could go to… pay our respects."
The unspoken truth hung in the air like a shroud: there could be no true funeral, for there was no body left to burn.
"I think that would be nice," said his sister-warden, wistful as she healed the last of the bites. "You have good ideas."
Him, embarrassed: "Me? No."
"Mm."
They both fell silent once again; the low hum of crickets swelled in the background. The sickle moon had acquired a veil of diaphanous cloud, as though it too were grieving.
"We have a story about the Boat back in Herring." Flora glanced sideways at him, shy. "Do you want to hear it?"
Alistair noticed that she was still hesitant; as one is with a friend that was new enough to potentially offend.
"Yes," he said. "Go on."
There was a distance writ across her face as she spoke: the five hundred miles that stretched between herself and the northern coast; or perhaps the unchartable expanse between herself and the man she had spent hours renewing.
"When a hero dies," Flora said, in her soft, slightly gruff northern cadence. "Their soul boards the Boat, and they sail the night sky forever. That's it: it ain't a long story."
"Do you think it's a true story?"
"All stories are true in some ways," she replied carefully, after a moment of thought.
"Do… do you think Duncan is up there?"
"Definitely," she said, and this time, there was no hesitation.
AN: Ok the old version of this was much shorter so I wanted to develop it! It's a bit of a bitty chapter but I really liked writing it. I wanted to show an Alistair who was still in mourning for his commander, and I wanted to show Flora's naivety and immaturity when it comes to her understanding of the task ahead.
thank you all so much for the reviews! sorry I didn't reply individually this time, travelled back from Wales to London after a month at home and the baby is teething so i haven't had much time! i really appreciate every one 3
