The Maker had bestowed another mild and clear morning on His Wardens; a day so fine that it seemed almost impossible that a ravenous horde could be devouring the countryside somewhere to the south. The air had the sharp, sour crispness of a citrus fruit; the sky so cloudless that the light loaned the land an extra clarity. It was such a fair morning that it almost compensated for the sudden drop in temperature overnight. The hoarfrost clung stubbornly to the ground; save for where the remnants of the campfire still smouldered.

They broke their fast with the last of the fresh berries; Alistair reminiscing about the meat stew that had been served to them at Ostagar.

"I can't believe I used to complain about getting hot food for breakfast," he said wistfully, shoving the tin plate back into his pack. "I wouldn't even care what unfortunate creature it was made from now. I'd eat the whole cauldron."

"You said it was made from the King's lame horses," Flora reminded him, licking her fingers to remove the crimson juice. "The stew."

"Ha," said Alistair, driving his boot into the gleaming remnants of the fire. "Did I?"

"Mm." She sat down on the grass, frost crackling, and began to pull on her socks. "Lame horses, and a Mabari that bit his hand. Weren't you raised by Mabari? Didn't you feel bad eating one?"

Flora was looking at him with her clear grey stare: transparent and yet yielding nothing. He could not tell if she believed everything that he told her, or some parts of it, or; perhaps she believed none of it and was only humouring him.

"Well," he replied and then laughed, glancing around the ruins of stone walls to see if they'd left anything behind. "Perhaps I wasn't being entirely honest. I'll tell you more on the road."

There was still no sign of Morrigan, but there were several birds circling against the whitish-blue sky above them; little more than moving inks flecks to the naked eye. Once Flora had healed Alistair's blisters - an activity that he would have found oddly intimate if she hadn't babbled on about the difference between northern trout and southern trout for the duration of it - they were off once again. The Kingsway grew in gradual increments as they neared, rearing up from the ground like the spine of some vast and long-buried creature.

"Remember I mentioned Eamon Guerrin the other day?" Alistair said, once they were about a half-mile from the meandering structure. "The Arl of Redcliffe?"

"Mm," replied Flora, skirting a pothole. "I remember. We're going to see him after we get supplies in Lothering. This road looks like it's been trampled by sea giants."

"Yes, with the coin that we don't have." Alistair grimaced, then thrust the thought from his mind. "Anyway, that's actually where I grew up. My mother was a servant in the arl's castle, but she died just after I was born. My father didn't stick around for the birth - well, he didn't stick around at all "

He stated this in the dispassionate tone of a story told many times before; his eyes fixed on the uneven ground ahead. Flora glanced sideways at him, adjusting her staff from one shoulder to the other.

Look at the corner of his mouth. Observe how it pulls taut when he mentions it.

You're so nosy. His parents ain't got nothing to do with anything!

Hm.

Flora stopped paying attention to her spirits when she realised that she could not simultaneously listen to them, to Alistair, and avoid the potholes on the road.

"Anyway, the arl was kind to me - kinder than he had any need to be. He found me a wet nurse, gave me a bed and then, when I was old enough, a job in his stables."

Alistair still had his gaze fastened to the Kingsway ahead, oddly reluctant to look at Flora. Flora peered at the back of his head, the blond hair bronzed by the sun so that it shone like an Alamarri shield. Even the ill-fitting armour could not hide the raw power of the muscle beneath dented metal; yet the tall and broad frame was kept in careful coordination. Alistair had the control of movement of one who had always been too large and too strong for his years; he had learnt, out of necessity, to harness his strength.

"The horses must have liked you," she said to the broad span of his shoulders, skirting around a frost-laced puddle. "You're a very calming person to be around."

He looked back at her, then laughed.

"Well, they did like me, as it happens. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. I wasn't really raised by Mabari. But…. I've no family to speak of, either."

And now he's lost Duncan, too, Flora thought to herself, feeling a surge of sympathy deep in her belly.

"You do: you have a sister-warden," she said, doubling her pace to catch up with him. "Me. OOOOOH."

Her exclamation was drawn from her by the sudden nearness of the Kingsway, which reared up before them in all its decrepit glory. The foundations were stained green with climbing moss, but the higher parts - the road itself, the skeletal towers, the herringbone archways spaced in intervals - still gleamed white and brilliant; the stone hewn from the finest Marcher quarries and transported across the Waking Sea.

"It's so big," Flora breathed, her head turning to follow the meandering rise and fall of the Tevinter construction. "How long is it?"

It took a moment for Alistair to register her question; he was still jolted from her nonchalant declaration that she was his family now . With effort he summoned the living Ferelden to his mind; planting the Brecilian Forest to the east and raising the Frostbacks to the West, pouring out Lake Calenhad to the south of the Circle's lonely spire. The highways unravelled across his mental map like wool, connecting east to west and north to south in a ragged, meandering loop.

"Hundreds of miles in total," he said eventually, then remembered that she could not count above the number of ribs in a human body. "Long. The old Tevinter emperors built them across all their provinces. Most have fallen down or been dismantled for stone, but there's a lot of intact bits round here."

From the confusion writ across Flora's face, it was clear that she had no idea who the Tevinter emperors were. Still, she thrust her ignorance aside and quickened her pace; the pack lurching as she scuttled past Alistair. Avoiding a final scattering of potholes, she came to a halt at the base of the elevated highway. A ramp, wide enough for two carts to pass, rose from the earth nearby; doubling back on itself twice until it reached the elevation of the road. Letters were carved into the stone at the bottom of the ramp, though the passage of Ages had blurred their ascetic edges.

Flora tugged away a few damp lumps of moss, peering at the strange etchings. They made no sense to her, but then again, no writing ever had.

Can you read this?

Yes.

What does it say?

There followed only an irritated silence. Flora had expected no less; despite having the wealth of all knowledge at their disposal, her spirits were notoriously taciturn when it came to bestowing information. She had never understood why - perhaps even spirits had some rules to follow when it came to their interactions with the mortal world - but they remained tight-lipped.

Instead she asked Alistair, who had just caught up: "What does this say?"

"Eh?" He bent to peer at the blurred lettering, which had been etched at a height appropriate for a regular-sized man. "Flo - this is Ancient Tevene. Do you think I can read Ancient Tevene? I'm not a scholar. I never learnt to read anything other than kingstongue."

"Hm," said Flora, pushing her fingertip into the groove of the first letter. "Well, I think it says: 'welcome to my road'."

"'Welcome to my road?'"

"Here are the rules of the road: 'Do not run.'" she intoned, in the self-important drone of a minor Ancient Tevinter official. 'Do not drop litter.'"

Alistair followed her up the ramp, suppressing the urge to laugh. The realisation that he could still laugh, after Ostagar and all that had happened since, was a welcome one. It had not been the first time that he had laughed since Duncan's death, but it was the first that he recognised that his former self, his humour and levity, had not perished in the valley alongside his commander and their brethren.

"'Do not run,'" he repeated, watching her scuttle up the elevated stone. "Well, no chance of that in this armour."

Reaching the road level, Flora vanished from sight. Alistair continued in her wake, determinedly ignoring the violet smudge of the Southron Hills on the horizon. Instead, he fixed his eyes to the north; to where the shadow of a town lay nestled in the crook of the hills. When he focused, he could just about see the spire of Lothering's Chantry; rising above the clustered rooftops like a chiding finger.

"We should be there by midday," he called up in Flora's wake. "Just in time for lunch. Maybe one of the taverns will feel sorry for us and give us a free meal?"

There came no reply. Alistair felt a small, irrational clench of alarm in his gut and increased his pace.

"Flo? Flora?"

Flora had emerged onto the highway, and come to an abrupt halt. The road was in fair condition considering its age: the stone well-trodden but smooth and the pale archways overhead mostly intact. The elevation allowed for a good view of the surrounding landscape; the air still clear and cold as glass.

However, taking precedent above both environment and engineering were the group of a half-dozen men stationed in the centre of the highway. Their positioning seemed deliberate; two carts at angles blocked the view of the road beyond. Several crates and bags were stacked in careless piles nearby. The men were clad in an eclectic selection of leather and mail, metal gleamed in their hands. Their eyes fastened themselves on Flora like small hooks; swords were slid back into sheaths and fingers flexed.

"What have we here? A little girl."

"Needs a bath."

"So do you, idiot."

Flora felt her spirits give a flare of caution.

I know, she thought to herself, lifting her face to gaze back at them. I know, I know.

"Can you speak Ancient Tevene?" she asked them, hoping to distract. "This road has got RULES, but I can't read 'em. I like following rules."

They stared at her, mildly incredulous, as though she was speaking Ancient Tevene. Flora stared back, implacable and entirely unsure how to proceed. Eventually, the man in the forefront gave a rough shudder of a laugh and began to close the distance between them. Stubble crawled over his face like a disease, greyish and unhealthy.

"Come and sit on my lap, darlin'," he said, his voice thickening. "Don't you worry about no rules. I make the rules round here."

"Flora."

There was a tension in Alistair's voice that she had never heard before, even during Ishal. Before Flora could turn, she felt him at her side; sword singing a metal dischord as it was drawn from its sheath. He took a single step forwards and the vastness of his frame caused several of the group to hastily rethink their strategy.

"Now, now," smiled the leader, stroking his chin even as he inched backwards. "No need for swords to be drawn, eh? We're just… tollkeepers, charged with the maintenance of the Imperial Highway."

"Tollkeepers," repeated Alistair, and gave a short laugh. "Right."

"A token fee of ten silver will permit you to continue onwards to Lothering," added a second man, boldly.

"And a loan of your girl," murmured the first lasciviously, just loud enough for Alistair to hear.

Alistair bridled, fists tensing. "What? What did you say?"

"We ain't got ten silver," Flora pointed out, anxiously. "We ain't got ten copper. Will you take mushrooms instead?"

"Flora." Her brother-warden lowered his voice, drawing closer to her side. "Flora, they aren't tollkeepers. They're bandits. Thieves. They probably steal from any refugees heading this way to escape the Darkspawn."

Flora's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in accusatory fashion.

"ROBBING," she intoned, solemnly. "Is against the rules of the road."

"I don't give a nug shit about your rules," hissed the leader, his face turning ugly. "I want coin."

Flora's eyes widened into accusatory roundness.

"Swearing," she began, "is against the ru - "

The leader raised an arm, perhaps to grab her shoulder, or perhaps to strike her; regardless, before he could move, a shimmering ripple of light materialised in front of Flora and slapped the man backwards. He lurched and lost his balance; two of his henchmen scuttled forward to steady him. Flora looked equally astonished, her mouth dropping open.

"Boss," one of them yelped, coming to the sudden realisation that the plain length of wood slung over Flora's shoulder was not, as previously assumed, a walking stick. "She's a mage. A mage."

This was enough to send two of the bandits haring off down the trodden stone, the drumming of their panicked feet chasing them. Four men remained, faces hardening into raw hostility; weapons unsheathed and raised.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at Flora, who was now biting her nails absentmindedly and scowling. He wished that he could take his sister-warden to one side and consult with her about how to proceed.

"Have you been robbing everyone who comes this way?" she demanded, finally taking her fingers out of her mouth. "Taking their things? Their money?"

The bulging crates and sacks that spilled from the carts were answer enough. Flora face was indignation personified.

"You're no better than wreckers!" she hissed, pointing a finger. "Ooh, you should see what we do to wreckers in Herring. It ain't nice."

"Neither is what I'll do to you, you little bitch, once I've killed your boyfriend," snarled back the bandit leader, his blade naked and jabbing.

This was all the excuse that Alistair needed; lunging forwards with his sword mirroring the sunlight. The man stood no chance, staggering backwards for a second time while attempting to block the blow with his hands. Metal cut into flesh and he let out a howl, folding at the waist. Alistair seized the opportunity and drove the point of his blade at an angle into the man's shoulder; shoving it down through his throat. He gaped, gobbets of blood surging up within the ragged wound.

Only once the man was shuddering in the final throes of life did Alistair notice an odd, percussive thudding. Looking up from the fresh-made corpse, he realised that two of the other men were firing crossbow bolts at him, one every twelve heartbeats. Their faces fell grey and slack with fear: the bolts were colliding with a filmy, gilded net; the light shifting across it like a soap bubble. Flora was glowering at them from several yards away, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're all worse than scabby begs from Skingle," she intoned, grimly. "We have important stuff to do ! We cannot be wasting time with you… you bottom feeders."

The crossbows went clattering to the ground and the men scattered; one ran straight through the crimson puddle of gore leaking from his leader's ravaged throat. A trail of bloody footprints was left in his wake as he hurled himself towards the ramp in a blind panic.

The quiet that followed was like a hushed sigh; as though the ancient highway was grateful for peace restored. Alistair lowered his sword, feeling the adrenaline wane; fingers slackening on the hilt. A half-dozen crossbow bolts lay scattered on the flagstones nearby. Eyeing them, he wiped the flat of his blade against the dead bandit's cloak, then looked around for Flora. She was frowning, watching the blood flow in rivulets from the dead man.

"I wonder why he chose this ," she said, waving a vague hand across the discarded weaponry, the bloody aftermath and the ill-gotten spoils. "Robbin' from others."

There was a thoughtful note in her tone that made Alistair glance more closely at her as he sheathed his blade.

"Some people just don't want to do an honest day's work, Flo," he replied, heading to the parapet and peering over. The other bandits were fleeing for their lives down the potholed road, their weapons abandoned. "Not sure I can catch up with them in this armour."

Flora roused herself and eyed the leader's leaking corpse; puddled wet and crimson against the grey stone.

"We can't leave it here," she said, avoiding a branching trickle of gore. "Some…children might see it."

Alistair looked up and down the Kingsway; which stretched long and pale in both directions, desolate and void of travellers.

"I'm not sure that- Maker's Breath! "

He leapt back in alarm: the bandit leader's body had suddenly combusted in a flare of heat and light. The flames were tinged with violet and gave off an acrid, arcane odour that prickled the nostrils. Within seconds, the corpse was reduced to a heap of charred white ash on the stone; which Morrigan sauntered through with a curling smile.

"Well, well," she murmured, her pale gold eyes narrow and amused. "I see we've been making friends. My, what a windfall this is. Let us hope that your bandit friends were successful in their endeavours."

Covetous as a magpie, she turned towards the tangle of chests and sacks spilling from the carts. To her annoyance, Flora was already there; perched on the backboard and in the process of stuffing several fat coin purses down her shirt.

"There's a Chantry in Lothering," she said, tucking another jingling bag beneath her armpit. "They can sort out how to return it to the refugees. They ain't got nothing."

As one who had been parted from her beloved Herring against her will, Flora could empathise with those who had also been driven from their homes.

"You haven't got anything either," hissed Morrigan, the tiny bones in her hair quivering with disbelief. "You are coinless, friendless…! 'Tis the most ridiculous notion. You do nothing to defy my initial thought of you: foolish little girl. Agh! Why are you smiling?!"

"You remind me of Herring," Flora replied wistfully, slithering down from the cart. "Back home, people are just horrible to each other all day. They insult each other. They throw things, they beat up their neighbours for fun if they have to wait on the tide. Ooh, you'd fit right in there."

Morrigan gave an avian squawk of horror, while Alistair suppressed a smile; mind racing behind the casual cast of his face.

But, from the way Flora describes Herring, she wouldn't. She wouldn't fit in. She's kind, and soft-spoken. She's gentle.

What did Duncan say? There's something about her that doesn't quite make sense.


AN: A few things here! One of the main reasons why I wanted to rewrite at least the first section of my story was that I had a better sense of Flora as a character, especially how she'd be at the beginning of her journey: the naivety, the immaturity, the irreverence and the eccentricity. I wanted to convey how, since she had spent so much time conversing with her spirits and since she has such a lack of real-world experience, her interactions often come off as a little strange. Like, being confronted with bandits and straight away asking them if they can read the language of Ancient Tevinter so they can translate the inscription on the road for her lol.

Thank you for the reviews! 3