The approach of winter meant a late dawn. An icy sliver of sun crested the horizon mid-morning; illuminating the Wilds with a sallow, unwelcoming light. Hoarfrost clung to naked branches like dusted sugar. Yet, despite its frigid appearance, the temperature was still mild and the wind had not yet gathered its strength; reluctant to exert itself beyond a petulant whisper. Flemeth's hut, the only structure as far as the eye could see, rose from the melting mist like a stony spur of island.
While they waited for the fog to clear, Alistair checked over their packs for a final time. He had found some plate that just about fit his tall and brawny frame; it had once belonged to some Templar, judging by the etching on the breastplate. The steel was tarnished but good quality, and Alistair was relieved to be clad in armour once again. He had spent much of the past two years sheathed in metal, and was more comfortable with sword in hand than without. The unfortunate Templar's blade was plain but sturdy; the shield rippled with dents.
"Once we get to Redcliffe, I hope that the arl will lend us some supplies," he said with uncertainty to a just-entering Flora; it had been a decade since he had last seen Eamon. "But this'll serve for now."
Flora, who had spent the past quarter-candle filling waterskins from the well outside, deposited her armful on the floor. Squatting, she began to divide them between the two packs. Morrigan had still refused to divulge how she was intending to carry her belongings. The witch had ignored them all morning, staring at the ceiling as though she planned to murder it.
"Mm," she mumbled, wondering which of the skins had leaked over her shirt. "I ain't never met a noble before. The teyrn of Hiver came past Herring once but my dad took me out on the boat all morning."
"You've met the king," replied Alistair, surreptitiously transferring the bulk of her pack into his.
"Is he a noble?"
"The top noble." He thought for the hundredth time, how little she knows of the world outside her own head.
"Ooh." Flora absorbed this information for a moment, then decided that if Cailan was chief representative of them, she did not like nobles very much. "My dad says that all nobles are knobs. I don't know what that means."
Alistair snorted, leaning an elbow on a blanket to squash it into a more packable shape.
"I'll tell you when you're older," he said, then bridled as the atmosphere in the hut shifted; another presence making itself known with a slithering rush of air. "I hate it when she does that."
Flemeth had appeared as though birthed from the shadows, her merigold eyes gleaming. She held out a plain length of wood, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Flora let out a squeak of delight: "My staff! You fixed it. Thank you."
When she clambered to her feet her knee gave a twinge of protest; she put a hand on Alistair's shoulder to steady herself.
I really did a bad job on my knee, didn't I?
Yes, replied her general-spirit, tersely. We warned you not to rush the mending.
Compassion added a soft hum of sympathy to lessen the reprimand.
"It is not entirely as it was before," the old witch warned as she handed over the staff. "Prolonged or extreme use will take its toll, and the charm will not last forever. When you arrive at the Circle to seek the aid of the mages, ask their most powerful- " there was a disdainful smirk in the word, "- to renew it."
It is not entirely as it was before, Flora thought to herself, taking the staff and hugging it to her chest. Just like me.
"Thank you," she said, remembering that southerners valued manners.
Flemeth was not listening: her eyes had settled on her scowling daughter.
"The mists have cleared," she said, not unkindly. "Time to be off."
"Mother- "
"Time to be off."
The old witch had not been altogether truthful: remnants of fog still clung to the skeletal trees and swirled around their ankles like a shallow tide. Yet they could see their road well enough, though most of the cobbles had long since sunk into the earth. Flora and Alistair had a leather pack each on their shoulders; she had strapped her staff across the top of hers. Morrigan, most unsuitably clad for both activity and season, bore nothing except her blackthorn rod.
"Do you want to borrow one of my jumpers?" Flora offered anxiously, eyeing the swathes of exposed tawny skin. "It's freezing."
Morrigan ignored her, turning instead towards her mother. Flemeth was leaning against the broken fence that ringed the hut, her eyes moving slow and thoughtful between them.
"I wouldn't linger in Lothering," the old woman warned them, although neither Flora nor Alistair had informed her of their plan to stop there. "It lies in the direct path of the Darkspawn horde."
"Right," said the young man, lifting his pack out of an indignant Flora's reach: she had discovered the weight disparity between them and was trying to take the cooking pot. "Flo, stop. I'm twice your size, I ought to be carrying the heavier load."
"I'm as strong as a MULE!"
"You're tiny!"
" Small but dense!"
While the two Warden-recruits squabbled over the cooking pot, Morrigan shot her mother a pleading stare.
"Mother, would you really inflict these two children on me? I shall be driven mad."
The old woman's face twisted, her eyes gleaming and distant. Her fingers tightened on the fence and she flinched, as though some brutal truth had been delivered direct to her ear. An astonished Morrigan gazed at her and for once no acerbic remark rolled from her tongue.
"Ferelden is in mortal danger," Flemeth said at last, so quiet that her daughter had to lean forward to hear her. "An Archdemon has risen. They have the old Warden treaties of aid, and the little girl's beauty will make men fight all the harder."
At that same moment Flora succeeded in yanking the cooking pot away from Alistair, promptly hitting herself in the face with it. Morrigan let out a soft but audible moan of despair.
"Fine. Fine. I hope you enjoy your peace and solitude, Mother!"
The old witch's sharpness returned in an instant.
"It is probable that I will be surrounded and consumed by the Darkspawn horde before the year is out, daughter! So bite your tongue."
"You're more like to consume them," muttered Morrigan, but she appeared somewhat chastened. "Mother, I- "
"Go, go!" retorted Flemeth, already turning her back. "I can feel the Archdemon breathing down my neck already."
Her daughter seemed on the cusp of saying something, but then pressed her lips tight enough to whiten them beneath the crimson stain. She lifted her blackthorn rod from her shoulder and cast a contemptuous look at her two new companions.
"I suppose you want me to guide you out of the Wilds?"
"Yes please," said Flora, so absorbed with triumph over the cooking pot that she failed to notice Alistair sneaking the rest of the bowls and filled waterskins from her bag.
Morrigan nodded, stalked several steps forward, and then vanished in a whirl of arcane wind and shadowy feathers. A crow emerged from the gleaming cloud, winging its way skyward. Flemeth cast a final look at her daughter - who was now eyeing them resentfully from the balding treetop - then ducked inside the hut without another word.
A groan eased itself from Alistair's throat; he closed his eyes for a moment.
"For the love of Andraste. The witch is a shapeshifter," he said, resignedly. "I had my suspicions. That's it, no more privacy. She could be a gnat on your arm, or a mouse in the corner, or- "
"CAN YOU TURN," bellowed an uncharacteristically excited Flora, running after the startled bird. "INTO A FISH?"
Many Ages ago, humans had made a valiant effort to tame the Korcari Wilds. They drained entire marshes to build houses, and cleared acres of poisonous foliage to plant their own crops. After only a few years, they abandoned their settlement: stone walls collapsed as swampy ground subsided, the people were made sick by foul water and tainted grain. They left to seek better prospects elsewhere, leaving a convoluted tangle of roads and bridges in their wake. Much of this network had been reclaimed by the Wilds: cobblestones sunk into the earth, bridges collapsed as water eroded their foundations. Only the raw veins of the roadways remained visible, crossed only by darting animals and, sometimes, a drifting shade.
Morrigan wheeled in the skies overhead; an ill-tempered compass that frequently abandoned directional duties to go on the hunt. Still, both young Wardens made good time, heading north-east along the remains of a road. The occasional obstacle presented itself - a fallen tree, or a flooded junction - but were easily navigated. Neither one spoke. Alistair had fallen into a brooding silence that was part-grief and part-worry; Flora, as a northerner, was naturally taciturn.
They ate a sparse lunch of mushrooms and berries near the ruins of a decayed Tevinter temple. Morrigan did not join them; indeed, she had not yet bothered to leave her avian form. Then, as a fine, misting drizzle blew across the marshes, they resumed their journey. The ground became slippery underfoot as earth turned to mud. Alistair was weighed down by armour and a heavier pack; he trudged along with the grim determination of a shire horse. Flora fell over three times.
The edge of the Wilds was pronounced by a standing stone, the ancient markings around its base eroded by the passage of Ages. It was not the only indicator that they were nearing the border: the marshes had gradually dried out, the land easing itself into rolling slopes. The unfriendly tangles of decaying scrub were replaced with verdant bushes that sprouted pale green leaves the colour of Orlesian soap.
They could have pressed further into the grain-fields and pastures of the bannorn, but the sun was resting atop the Frostbacks and night came early during a Fereldan winter. Alistair had spotted a shepherd's hut a few dozen yards from the road; the two Wardens were picking their way across the field's naked stubble when Morrigan came wheeling ill-temperedly from the sky. The body of a woman unravelled itself from the hollow bones and grey, feathered skin; her eyes equally fierce.
"Why have we stopped?" she demanded, watching Flora wriggle out of her pack. "There is still an hour of daylight remaining."
"Yes, well, I don't fancy hunting for firewood and cooking dinner in the dark," Alistair replied tersely, easing his own pack to the hardened mud. "And it's the first roof we've seen all afternoon, so we're sleeping under it."
Flora nodded in relief: her knee was throbbing after an afternoon spent treading on it.
"Speak for yourself," retorted Morrigan, folding her slender arms. Despite the scant cover of her garb and the sly bite of the breeze, she showed no sign of being cold. "Wait, why is it necessary to ' hunt for firewood'? You have a mage, 'tis sufficient to find a single branch and have her summon a blaze."
She canted her head towards said mage, who was now rooting in Alistair's pack for the cooking pot.
"I ain't that kind of mage," Flora replied, pulling out blankets. "I can't make fire."
Morrigan reacted as though Flora had informed her that she did not breathe air.
"What? But it is the most basic of spells. Any child gifted with magic can accomplish it."
"Not me. I can only do two things."
"Two spells?! Surely, 'tis a joke!"
Flora gave a shrug. "I don't know any jokes," she said, apologetically. "Being funny is not one of the things I can do. Ask Alistair if you want a joke."
"But- but… it's unheard of. Such breathtaking incompetence! Such limitation."
Alistair realised that he was watching a conversation in which Flora knew her responses by heart; she must have enacted it dozens of times during her stay at the Circle. Thinking of the Circle brought back memories of the first time that he and Duncan had set eyes on Flora; the maleficar's magic dissolving into nothing against her shimmering sheath. He had heard Duncan's breath catch in his throat; the Rivaini had tilted like a magnet towards the girl.
I have not seen the like of her, Alistair, not since I was a youth. Isn't she remarkable?
"Flora isn't limited," Alistair heard himself saying, the words emerging without prior thought. "She's specialised ."
He could feel Flora's clear, grave eyes resting on him, her face wondering; he swallowed and kept his eyes on the incredulous witch. Morrigan let out a squawk of disbelief, then shrunk down in a rapid flurry of feathers; winging her way skyward once again.
"Right," said Alistair, watching the crow vanish into the fading light. "Well, good riddance. Hopefully she never comes back."
Together, they managed to scavenge enough branches from the hedgerow to build a fire; which Alistair lit competently with the aid of a firesteel from Flemeth's 'souvenir' collection. As the moons rose, one high and white, the other small and blue, their fire blazed out a pinprick of light against the fallow field. There was still no sign of Morrigan, so, huddled in blankets, they ate their dinner - strips of smoked meat and cooked mushrooms - while their marsh-sodden footwear dried in front of the flame.
Flora nudged at one of her wet socks with a twig, trying to get it as close to the heat as possible without roasting it. Alistair watched the reflection of flame writhe across his sister-warden's face, adding warmth to the high cheekbone and the line of her jaw.
"It just occurred to me, Flo," he said, with deliberate casualness. "That I don't know much about you. And I think that ought to change. Seeing as- "
Seeing as there's only us left, now.
What was it you said? Me and you, just us two.
He flinched; the grief was still a raw wound. Flora leaned back on her elbows, the blanket caught in a tangle around her knees. Her hair was making a valiant attempt to escape the plump length of braid, which fell to the earth and coiled there loosely like a snake.
"There isn't much about me to know," she replied to the sky. "I'm not an interesting person."
"I'm sure that's not true," he replied, kindly.
Flora shot him a solemn look. "It is."
Alistair shrugged, prodding the woven base of branches with a twig. White chunks of ash crumbled; a fresh flurry of sparks rushed skywards with a hiss. They had not seen Morrigan since she had departed in disgust a candle-length earlier. He returned his gaze to his sister-warden. She was still sprawled on her back, rolling her staff back and forth across the earth with her naked toes. Her exquisitely crafted face bore a rather gormless expression; the contrast between the fair and the foolish was strangely comedic.
"Tell me anyway. How long were you in the Circle for?"
"Four years," Flora replied after a moment of thought. "I got taken there when I were fifteen. The worst day of my life. Don't ask me about it! The day I was… I was stolen. From my beloved HERRING."
Alistair had to bite down on a laugh: it was not that he found her removal to a Circle funny; but he had never heard her sound so melodramatic before. She scowled up at him from her prostrate position, perhaps detecting a hint of a smile. He hastily fixed his expression into one of concerned interest.
"Tell me about your family. Are your parents still alive?"
Flora brightened, the scowl melting away like sparks from the fire.
"My dad - Pel - he owns the second biggest boat in Herring. He's the best fisherman on the north coast. There ain't nothing that he can't catch."
His sister-warden hesitated; Alistair saw that she was chewing on a thumbnail.
"My mam's name is Gerda," she said, more quietly. "She… she makes good fish stew."
It was impossible not to notice the marked contrast in her enthusiasm. Alistair bit back a question; instead, he leaned forward and turned her leather boot so that the damp interior also received the heat of the fire. The temperature had dropped during the course of their dinner, and the shepherd's hut - little more than a heap of piled stone - looked most unwelcoming. To delay the inevitable, he turned his attention back to Flora.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"None that are living," she said, then - seeing that he was about to offer condolences - quickly continued. "My parents had a son, but he died a long time before I was born. I never knew him. If I'd been alive, I would've saved him."
It was not a boast, but a simple statement of fact. A branch collapsed into the heart of the fire with a loud crack that made them both jump. The darkness seemed suddenly very near around them; the shadow lurked at the edge of the firelight and crept ever closer. Loghain Mac Tir, who had given a command that had doomed the king, Duncan, and perhaps all of Ferelden, could have been standing close enough to hear them breathe. There were rumours that he had turned to religion after the death of his wife, and that thirteen holy charms rattled like loose teeth beneath his armour.
"I don't have anything else to say about me," said an apologetic Flora, breaking the silence. "I told you: I'm not interesting. All I am is a mender from Herring."
Alistair rose to his feet, grimacing at the stiffness of his limbs. The fire had almost burnt out; some gleaming embers still clung to life amidst the ashes. He stifled them with the heel of his boot, reasoning that the farmer would not be pleased if his fallow field was set alight.
"What about you?" Flora's face was so pale that it was bluish in the moonlight; her eyelashes stood out like ink-strokes against the skin. "Do you have any family?"
"Oh, no," he said, blithely. "I was raised by a pack of wild Mabari."
AN: Hiver is what the peasant residents of the teyrnir call Highever!
Knob is UK slang for dickhead lol, and gormless is one of my favourite words ever, I don't know if it's used outside the uk... it basically means mindless/blank... like a cow chewing cud in a field haha
Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm really pleased that people seem to be enjoying this new version!
