The sun had reached its apex by the time that Lothering came into sight; a smudge of civilisation nestled within the rolling farmlands. It was perhaps too small and ramshackle a settlement to deserve the description of town, but it had hosted several significant events during the many iterations of Orlo-Fereldan war and thus held an air of lofty self-importance: on this spot, King Vanedrin Theirin was beheaded! Due to its proximity to the Imperial Highway, the town had more recently developed as a trade post between Redcliffe and the east. The emerald portcullis of South Reach fluttered above its gate; alongside the personal arms of Arl Bryland.

The two young Wardens and their unwilling companion had left the Kingsway behind and were now only a quarter-mile from Lothering. The town itself was obscured by a hastily-built barricade; wooden staves driven into the earth with their crude points angled outwards. More disconcerting were the tents clustered before the improvised barrier; packed dense as mushrooms and ringed with campfires. An array of pale and frightened faces stood out against a backdrop of well-trodden mud.

"Alistair," breathed Flora as they neared the end of the dirt road. "Alistair, are these the refugees?"

Alistair had inadvertently slowed his pace, brow furrowing as he cast his gaze around the desolate crowd. There were men and women, families and the elderly; they were mostly human, but with a few elves grouped in tight knots near the fringes. Despite their disparate appearances, all bore the same greyish pallor of worry etched on their faces; except for the children, who darted giggling between the tents as though nothing was wrong. The older refugees sat hunched with their scant possessions drawn close, clinging to what little they had left. The smell of the unwashed mingled with the acrid tang of smoke, beneath it ran the sordid odour of desperation.

"I - I think so," the young man replied softly, shifting his pack from one shoulder to the other. "There are so many of them. Look, there are soldiers, too. They must have fought at Ostagar."

As Alistair spoke, his face changed; a shadow passing swiftly across his features like cloud obscuring the sun. Without offering an explanation, he left Flora and Morrigan on the road and strode towards the nearest armour-clad figure. The two mages watched him exchange a few lines of conversation with the reclining soldier; partway through, Alistair's shoulders hunched with disappointment. Moments later, he had rejoined them, disappointment souring his face.

"He didn't know anything about what happened to Duncan," he said, quietly. "He was part of Mac Tir's rear guard, they got ambushed during the - the retreat."

The words Mac Tir and retreat slid strangulated from Alistair's throat, his lip curling with uncharacteristic bitterness. Duncan, submerged beneath a tide of Darkspawn, rose to fill his mind's eye for the thousandth time. He wondered if his commander had seen the signal fire ignite, and if he had looked towards the valley in expectation of the general's charge. He wondered at what instant Duncan had realised Mac Tir's betrayal, or if he had died still believing that there was hope.

Blind to the world, trembling, he looked down at his clenched fists; the blood pulsing painfully within the contorted fingers. When he looked up again he saw her in front of him, her head turned up to his. A cool, citrine sunlight fell across the exquisite architecture of her face and he noticed a scattering of freckles the colour of weak tea across her nose. The anger coursing around his body slowed, the wild race of his heart pulled back by a gentle tug of the reins. It was the first time, he thought, that her beauty had not intimidated him. Instead he found himself able to appreciate it without feeling the need to lower his eyes.

"Let's return this coin to the Chantry," Flora said softly, patting her rustling cleavage - Morrigan let out a low growl - "and then we can see if they'll give us some lunch at the tavern."

"How will we pay for it?" he asked, as if speaking from a dream.

"I'll sing them a song," she replied, solemnly. "A Herring sea shanty. Something nice and upliftin', like the one about the killer octopus."

"Can you sing?" With each part of their exchange, Alistair found himself drawn out from the storm of rage and grief; like the slow raising of an anchor.

"Not really," Flora said, shooting him a sly look from beneath her lashes. "I'm hoping they'll pay me to shut up."

Alistair laughed, feeling the sun on his face once again.

"Come on, let's get this on you. Don't want to be attracting any more attention than needs be."

They had found a riding cloak amidst the bandits' stash; the grey wool was faded but good quality, the sort worn by the wives of merchants. It was only a little too large for Flora, but that was not necessarily to its detriment considering that its purpose was to conceal her as much as possible. Alistair drew the hood down over her face as she tucked in stray strands of hair. Morrigan, who had refused the offer of a cloak and only reluctantly agreed to hide her staff alongside Flora's in the hollow of a tree-trunk, let out a snort of contempt.

"Do you assume that she will draw less eyes clad in that ridiculous garb? Cloaked and hooded?"

Alistair stepped back and contemplated Flora. As much as it irritated him to agree with the witch, he had to admit that she had a point.

"We'll just say that you've got a disfiguring disease."

"They won't let her in," Morrigan pointed out, eyes glinting.

"A disfiguring, non-contagious disease. Sound good, Flo?"

The shrouded figure gave a shuffle; he could sense her confusion.

"I ain't never had a disease before," she protested, mildly indignant. "I don't get sick."

"Just… don't overthink it," he said hastily, nudging her forward. "Come on."

The road took them directly through the masses, though they attracted little attention. The distraught and dishevelled had turned their backs to each other, huddling closer to their fires. A stagnant pall hung overhead; as though the mute apathy of the crowd had coalesced into a physical miasma.

Two soldiers clad in the livery of South Reach stood at the break in the hastily erected palisade, faces hard as flint beneath their helms. One held up a warning hand as the travellers approached.

"Halt," he called, face hidden behind a cage of steel. "There's no more room for refugees inside the town. You can set up camp with the rest out here."

Morrigan laughed, which gained them no sympathy. Alistair had to resist the urge to elbow her, clearing his throat and hoping that his face bore a convincing cast.

"We aren't refugees," he replied. "We're continuing on to Redcliffe, but my… my sister wants to pray at the Chantry here. For healing."

The two guards looked at the cloaked Flora in mild alarm.

"She's diseased?" One clutched the hilt of his sword, the other inched backwards. "There are no healers here."

"No," said Alistair, hastily. "She- "

"My nose fell off in the night," intoned Flora solemnly, her voice emerging from the depths of the hood. "I must pray to the Maker that it grows back."

Alistair opened and then closed his mouth, blinking several times. The guards looked equally nonplussed, their jaws slack with astonishment.

"Please let me in," added his sister-warden, pitifully. "I can't smell nothin'."

Fortunately, a tangle of shouts and frenzied movement drew the attention of the soldiers. A scuffle had broken out in one corner of the refugee camp; an altercation over a loaf of bread had swiftly turned to blows. The pair unsheathed their swords and strode towards the commotion, bellowing for calm.

Worried that they might ask to see her noseless face on their return, Flora took the initiative and scuttled through the break in the palisade. Morrigan and Alistair followed swiftly in her wake; the witch biting back an acerbic remark. Not wanting to linger near the town entrance, they headed past a collection of ramshackle cottages and through a market square that now housed tents instead of stalls. A windmill was silhouetted black against the sky, sails stretched out like some elongated, many-armed scarecrow.

"'My nose fell off in the night,'" repeated Morrigan as they came to a halt beside an unhealthy trickle of a stream that divided the town in half. "If only my mother were here to witness such foolery. 'Tis certain that she would regret condemning me to your company. Even more so placing the fate of Ferelden on your shoulders. We are all doomed."

Yet Flora's head was already turning back in the direction of the refugee camp.

"I'm sure I heard the frostcough back there," she said, craning her neck. "Did he say that they had no healers?"

"Never mind that," Morrigan cut across them, her voice slicing through the air. "Unless you use your eyes, you will miss the first stroke of luck that we've had on this blasted journey."

A crimson nail jabbed through the air towards a noticeboard erected nearby. A few scraps of parchment still clung to the wood, including several yellowing bounties and a plea for a missing Mabari. An old lampoon of King Cailan had been scrawled over with the phrase: Maker rest him. Beneath that was writ a single word: betrayed.

Alistair felt a flicker of hope: perhaps news of Mac Tir's treachery had spread?

He then looked to where Morrigan's finger was thrust, while Flora - who had as much chance of reading the notices as she did the Ancient Tevene on the Kingsway - waited patiently.

"'Reward: One gold coin per highwayman slain,'" he read aloud. "Bring proof of your deeds to Ser Bryant at the Chantry."

"You ought to have killed the lot of them," retorted the witch. "There's no profit in kindness."

"One gold coin," said Flora, astonished. "I didn't know coins came in gold ."

Alistair hid a smile.

"Come on. We haven't got any proof of killing the bandits, so we should try and look trustworthy."

Morrigan sneered, the beads and small bones rattling in her hair as she shook her head.

"Bah!"

A bridge spanned the shallow stretch of water that meandered through Lothering; dividing the mercantile, the residential and the divine. The Chantry perched on the town's highest point; geography mirroring its supervisory role. Wood and white-plastered stone rose in angular formation; a low spire was flanked by four empty flag poles. The windows were set high in the walls, the iron-banded glass clouded with age. A few were gathered outside its walls - a refugee family huddled together beneath the baleful eye of a guard, a merchant loaded up goods on a cart - but their meagre presence could not counter the general air of desertion. Lothering seemed to be missing half of its residents.

"They've probably fled," Alistair said in low tones to Flora, who was staring at the boarded-up dwellings. "Anyone with the sense - and the coin - to do so, anyway. I suppose the rumours of the Darkspawn have reached this far."

Flora was clutching her chest: the bags of coin had slipped out of place and were threatening to tumble free. The cloak was hindering her movement and restricting her vision: at that moment, she hated it more than the Archdemon.

"Let's hand this in," - a leather pouch slithered to the ground and Flora snatched it up before Morrigan could seize it- "and then find Ser Bryant."

There were two guards posted at the entrance to the Chantry, their faces terse and weary. After assessing the party in a single, sweeping glance - a vast, broad-shouldered swordsman, a woman that reeked of the arcane with animal bones woven into her hair, and a cloaked figure between them - they bluntly refused entry.

"Ah, well, 'tis a shame," observes Morrigan gleefully; she had no desire to enter a bastion of human worship. "I shall obtain my dinner elsewhere."

To the relief of her companions, the witch restrained herself from transforming into a bird on the spot. As she stalked off, Alistair returned his attention to the guards.

"We have to see the Revered Mother," he said, thinking why does everything on this journey have to be so hard?

"The Chantry is full," retorted one of the guards, eyeing Alistair's bulky frame nervously. "There's people sleepin' on the floor. You got to make camp outside with the others."

"We won't take long," Alistair said, a note of frustration creeping into his words. "Look, what's the harm in just letting us in? We need to speak with the Revered Mother."

Both guards bristled, fingers sliding imperceptibly towards the hilts of their blades.

"Mother Dorothea is not seein' visitors! She's far too busy with the refugees."

Flora had grown tired of the guards' protests; she had a northerner's distaste for wasting time. She shook the hood away from her face, stepped forward and turned her unblinking stare on the two armour-covered men.

"Move now , please," she said softly, with polite, flinty bluntness. "This is important."

The two men looked at her unveiled face; the full, imperious curve of the mouth, the cold, and fathomless depths of the eyes. Confusion scrawled across their frowning brows: the girl was unwashed, spoke like a commoner, was dressed like a commoner and yet, and yet there was an air of inexplicable command that radiated from her. It was the sort that was bred meticulously over generations in certain families; so ingrained by a certain point that it exuded from the body naturally and effortlessly.

Alistair looked at Flora; Flora looked at the two guards; the two guards parted as though in a dream. Flora led the way inside the hollow wooden heart of the Chantry, and then seemed to settle back into her former self as though pulling the cloak back over her head: shy, obedient, a little confused by the world and those in it. It was as though a hand had brushed aside the sand to reveal something hard, sharp and glittering; then the tide had swiftly covered it up again.

"This is a lot bigger than our Chantry in Herring," breathed his sister-warden, wide-eyed and head swivelling. "Which looks like a shed. Also is a shed. Our Chantry is where we keep our lobster pots."

Many nations of Thedas garbed their Chantries in finery: marble-hewn and draped wirh sulks, enamelled tiles in prismatic array competing with exquisite artwork from the most gifted painters and sculptors in tbe land. The Chantry at Val Royeaux was famously gilded from nave to domed ceiling; it was rumoured that a lay brother had been inadvertently blinded when a penetrating sunbeam glanced off a freshly polished floor tile. Ferelden did not have coin to spare on beautifying their Chantries; nor did such an ornate aesthetic appeal. Instead, they worshipped the Maker in bastions of wood and stone, seeking His perfection instead in ascetic, geometric simplicity. Wooden ribbing flew across plastered ceilings; the columns were squat and unadorned; the windows set high, small and plain. The exception to these were the two arched apertures that flanked the entrance, the glass stained a rich amber so that they gleamed like flame. Most Chantries within Ferelden had this same appearance, with only minor regional variety.

However, Lothering's Chantry was currently fulfilling a dual role: a refuge as well as a house of worship. The most vulnerable had been given shelter beneath the vaulted roof; the very old, the very young, and those unable to fight. They huddled as though nesting alongside the benches, surrounded by what scant possessions they had managed to carry. They paid little attention to their surroundings, or to each other; their faces slack with misery. The only movement within the Chantry was the lazy writhing of Andraste's flame, which sat in a low, burnished cauldron of copper within the eastern apse. Alistair and Flora made their way down the central aisle, aware of the hollow beat of their footsteps against the tile. Yet no one paid them any mind; preoccupied with their own sorrowful situation.

The stillness was disturbed by a figure sweeping their skirts across the nave; a spectre in long white robes and an elongated crimson hat. They exchanged a few words with a lay-brother standing near Andraste's flame, then vanished into a side-chamber.

"There's the Revered Mother," Alistair murmured, self-conscious at the echo of his voice in the silence. "Mother Dorothea, I think the guard said. Shall we have a word with her about the coin?"

Flora nodded, setting off purposefully down the aisle in pursuit of the white-robed figure. They passed two men sitting near on a bench, their clothing soiled from days of wear; exchanging conversation in low tones. Brief snatches of their exchange carried through the still air, drawing the attention of the two young Wardens.

"... ain't surprised… didn't one of 'em try and assassinate a king, years back? I don't…."

" - aye. Only recently they was allowed back in. I always thought…. old saying. Never trust a man wearing Grey. Just shows that- "

Alistair slowed, but his not-inconsiderable shadow had fallen across the aisle and alerted the two men to his presence. They spared him only a disinterested glance, but the rhythm of their conversation had been interrupted and they spoke no more.

"Flora," said Alistair in an uncertain undertone as they continued towards the side-chamber. "Were they… were they talking about the Grey Wardens just then?"

"Dunno," said Flora, who had heard even less.

"Why wouldn't they trust a Warden?"

A cloud had settled across Alistair's handsome, olive face; dimming its natural light. Two fine lines had drawn themselves across his brow, as though someone had scored them there with the point of a blade.

"Not sure," she said, unhelpfully. "There's the Revered Mother. I can see her hat."

Mother Dorothea had just taken a seat at a desk groaning beneath the weight of papers, books, collection platters and various other detritus. The bookshelves crowded around the room were spilling their contents onto the floor; dust motes danced in a narrow finger of sunlight. A spare set of robes hung from a dead-eyed mannequin in the corner.

"Brother Mathias, there's nothing more that we can give - oh," the old priestess said, half-rising from her seat. "Greetings, beloved children of the Maker, and welcome to Lothering's Chantry."

Despite the kind veneer coating her words, the woman was clearly exhausted and short of time; her eyes darted back to her straining desk even as she spoke.

"I'm afraid that I don't have time to perform a marriage. As you can see, we are quite overwhelmed here."

"A marriage?!"

Alistair almost fell over, while Flora looked bemused. Mother Dorothea waved a brief hand of apology, her eyes drifting back towards her desk.

"Forgive me. I saw a young couple seeking my presence, and these are desperate times, as you know. Many are seeking to gain the Maker's blessing for their union."

Alistair felt beads of sweat prickling uncomfortably on his forehead. Flora pressed on, the words spilling out in her haste to voice them.

"You have to get everyone to leave," she said, soft and urgent. "All the people who came here. The Darkspawn are coming this way. I don't know when, but they'll be here soon."

The priestess sat down and pressed the crevassed tips of her fingers together. Her rheumy, pale green eyes rose to meet Flora's imploring gaze; and despite her advanced years, they were as keen as a hawk.

"And where do I evacuate these people to, young lady? March them along the road to Redcliffe? With what supplies? Who would keep order?"

Flora made no reply, her eyebrows furrowed together. The priestess continued:

"And how would I even persuade them to leave? Many are tired, sick, starving. There is a frostcough outbreak in the camp. They are in no condition to make a journey in winter. We have no healers."

"I," began Flora, and then yelped as Alistair elbowed her swiftly in the ribs. "Ooh, ow."

She swivelled her face up to her brother-warden and eyeballed him. He ignored her beady stare, returning his attention to Mother Dorothea.

"Have you heard any news from Denerim?"

"Denerim?" The old woman looked as though she dearly wished their conversation over. "I have no time to keep abreast of politics. The King is dead - Maker guide his soul - but I am sure that Teyrn Mac Tir will prove a sound regent while his daughter is in mourning."

For a moment Alistair was so consumed with anger that he could not speak. He felt like a blasphemer from a past Age set aflame, except that it was rage and not heat that charred a ragged hole in his belly.

At that moment, one of the coinpurses slithered out from beneath Flora's jumper and landed on her foot. Retrieving the leather pouch, she deposited it - and a half-dozen others - onto the cluttered surface of the desk.

"It's stolen," she said bluntly, as the priestess raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Not by us. There were bandits on the Kingsway and we scattered 'em like fish in the main."

Mother Dorothea sat upright, her gaze turning with interest on the small pile of pouches. The next moment she yelped as Flora landed both palms on the desk, leaning forward and fixing her with a stern and unblinking stare.

"You have to promise to use it to help people to leave, though," she insisted, pale eyes boring into those of the astonished priestess. "Because the Darkspawn are coming, I swear it. Promise that you'll use it to help people leave?"

Mother Dorothea seemed to recall at that moment that she was an esteemed figure within the Chantry, and the girl before her was a grubby little nobody. She drew herself up like a bird fluffing its feathers, lips pursing.

"Young lady, I need promise you nothing. The Maker knows that all charity we receive is used for the benefit of the poor. Now, I have much to see to," the woman cast about her for an incentive that might encourage the unwelcome visitors to leave. "Here, take this with my gratitude for dispersing the bandits. Maker bless you and preserve you."

It was a clear dismissal, accompanied by the thrusting of a silver candlestick. Flora took it uncertainly; glancing across at Alistair. The young man forced himself from the well of anger and grief that he had been drowning in since Ostagar, and gave a short nod.

"Thank you, Mother. Come on, Flora."

As they made their way from Dorothea's study, Flora waved the candlestick in the air. This, at least, was a familiar currency: bartering was the standard transaction in Herring.

"What can we get for this?"

Alistair took it, frowning at its lightness. The base was weighted, but the shaft and tapered points seemed to be hollow.

"Not much. Not enough to get all that we need, anyway."

"Ooh." Flora glanced back towards Dorothea's study, the corners of her mouth turning down. "I hope she uses that coin to help people leave."

"Hm." Alistair had his doubts, but did not voice them in front of his unworldly sister-warden. "I hope so, too. Anyway, we should- "

The young man noticed then that Flora was not at his side: that she had halted with alarmed eyes fixed on something just beyond him. He turned and saw a Templar, clad in full sword-and-flame regalia; flanked with sword and flail.

"He doesn't know you're a mage," he had just enough time to hiss down at a quivering Flora's head. "And you've got your Circle dismissal. Don't worry- "

"I heard that you cleared out the bandits from the high road," the Templar said, removing his helm and tucking it beneath his arm. Beneath, he bore the exhaustion of a man attempting to deal with a crisis far beyond his capacity. "I am Ser Bryant, the bounty on their heads was mine. How many were slain?"

"Just one," began Alistair, and was interrupted by Flora, who had swiftly overcome her initial alarm at the prospect of gaining enough coin for lunch.

"Just one, but he were the leader," she intoned solemnly: a northerner always had an eye for a bargain. "So he's worth more, ain't he?"

Ser Bryant peered at her, then let out a snort more becoming of a tavern-keeper than a soldier of the Church.

"Aye, I suppose. Here."

Since Alistair was still clutching Dorothea's candlestick, Flora held up an expectant palm and he placed two gold coins into it. While she boggled at their very existence - coins came in gold?! - the Templar let out a weary exhalation.

"These are dark and desperate times. If it's the same man I'm thinking of, he used to make honest coin here in Lothering. Ran the old smithy, the one boarded up near the bridge."

The Templar shrugged, armour shifting around his shoulders. "The world's been out of sorts for months now. Good men driven to banditry. Darkspawn coming up from the earth. The Grey Wardens turned traitor."

There came a discordant clatter of metal against stone as the candlestick fell to the floor.


AN: I spent a lot of time on this chapter! Since I now know that Lothering gets destroyed later, and that it becomes a big part of Flora's motivation, I wanted to develop it more. I also wanted to highlight a few more things, like Alistair's continued grief/anger about Ostagar, bearing in mind it's only been just over a week since it happened. In terms of Flora's character, I think this chapter reflects her personality well - the blunt northerner, the compassion, the faintly ridiculous (MY NOSE FELL OFF) as well as the clues towards her heritage. I've delayed the arrival of Leliana a little, too!

Thank you for the reviews! I'm so happy that people seem to be enjoying this newer version too. Replying to reviews in the reviews, I think that's a bit easier!