A new moon rested against a sky the colour of a week-old bruise. Night brought neither peace nor respite to the refugees huddled on Lothering's fringe. Vigilance had to be maintained lest their scant belongings be stolen by some equally desperate neighbour; the children had lost their earlier energy and were whining to return home. Lothering's guards, clad in the forest green livery of Arl Bryland of South Reach, made the occasional patrol. Any appeal to them was ignored: their task was to keep order rather than provide aid. The hoarse bark of frostcough pierced the gloom in a half-dozen places, accompanied by the groans of men injured during the flight from Ostagar. Between the sounds of the sick and dying, the bite of a callous wind and the complaints of the young; there would be little rest in the camp tonight.

Within Lothering's tavern, the innkeeper yawned as he scrubbed the worst of the stains from ale-ringed tables. A rhythmic scrape of wood over stone rose to the ceiling beams as the innkeeper's wife swept up the detritus of the day. Overhead, those who had the coin to purchase a bed beneath a roof, huddled miserably under motheaten blankets and brooded over all that had been snatched from them.

In the simple end-chamber, all was quiet save for the rustling murmur of the hearth. Morrigan, still in the form of a sleek black cat, was curled in a knot on a side-chaise; her tail draped deliberately over her eyes. Alistair, his frame too long for the mattress placed beside the bed, lay with his feet dangling over the floorboards. Despite the inconvenience, the rise-and-fall of his chest suggested that he too was deep in sleep.

Flora lay awake on the naked baseboard of the bed, clutching the blanket up to her chin. She knew that she too ought to try and rest - tomorrow, they would set out on the Redcliffe road - but her mind clung to the crowds beyond the town wall. She thought that she could hear the frostcough's distinctive rattle from the corners of their own bedchamber; as though someone with ice-cold hands and frothing lips was lurking in the shadows.

It's just in my head, isn't it?

Compassion was humming around her skull like a swarm of bees. Flora rolled from her back onto her belly, peering down through her elbows. She could see the dusty floorboards between the slats of the baseboard, along with threads of firelight from the tavern below.

I should try and sleep, the young mage thought to herself, glumly. We have a long way to walk tomorrow.

I'm not supposed to show my magic.

Alistair said: the less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.

Her brother-warden, silhouetted against the melting amber glow of the hearth, was snoring. Flora was pleased to see him sleeping soundly, and hoped that the spirits were granting him peaceful dreams. Rolling over onto her back once again, she gazed up at the ceiling beams. They reminded her of human ribs; their rigid lengths supporting the roof and spanning the walls.

I can't just sleep.

Then go, snapped her general-spirit, irritably. Do what you must.

Compassion offered no words, but gave a soft sigh of approval.

Careful to avoid the noisiest floorboards, Flora swung her legs down and retrieved her boots and the grey woollen cloak. There was a foot of space between the bed and the mattress bearing a snoring Alistair; she shuffled along it carefully, clutching the cloak in her arms. Halfway to the door, the wood gave a groan of protest beneath her boot. Flora froze, head rotating towards the prostrated sprawl of her brother-warden. Another snore rose from the mattress and she exhaled, turning back to the door. As she did so, she caught sight of a pair of orange eyes; gleaming with autumnal radiance in the gloom. They were focused on her with mild interest.

Flora looked at the cat; the cat looked back. It made no movement, the tip of its tail flickering. At last, not sure what else to do, she pressed a finger to her lips: shh. The cat eyed her in silence. Realising that Morrigan was not going to try and stop her, Flora returned her attention to the door. The rust-speckled key jutted from the lock; Alistair had claimed that leaving it there would prevent anyone from using a second key to enter. Flora had to take his word for it since she knew very little about keys, or indeed about locks. No building in Herring had a lock, and there was no privacy in a Circle to warrant the use of one. Recalling how Alistair had used the key earlier, she turned it tentatively to one side. A metallic clunk came from somewhere within the mechanism and the door opened when she nudged it.

The narrow corridor was drenched in shadow like spilled ink; the only light came from the dying hearth in the tavern below. Grateful for the natural light exuding from her fingertips, Flora tugged the door in her wake and inserted the key into the lock. After fiddling until she heard the distinctive clunk , she pulled the key out and crouched down, prodding it back through the gap under the door.

Navigating by the gleam of her fingers, Flora made her way along the passage and down the steps into the tavern. The chairs and benches were all shoved beneath the tables; a broom leaned against the far wall. Loud snores echoed from a room behind the bar. As she crept between the deserted tables, she could not help but feel as though she were breaking some inexplicable rule.

Why am I sneaking? I don't need to sneak, do I?

There is no need to 'sneak'.

Being awake after hours - being out and about after hours - had been a punishable offence for much of Flora's life. Now, for the first time, there was nobody to tell her what to do. She had spent her childhood obeying her father, and then the next four years in fear of the Templars. For five short weeks she had followed Duncan's command; now, she was under noone's instruction but her own. It was a disconcerting feeling.

Pull yourself together, she told herself, sternly. You have to follow your own orders now.

Ooh, what if the front door is locked?

Fortunately, it was only barred. Shrugging on the cloak, Flora lifted the wooden bar and made her way out into the night. A thin, grey light hung in the air; the moon overhead was shrouded with cloud. The buildings of Lothering seemed to draw closer together in the darkness, while the Chantry was outlined above them in authoritative silhouette. A faint bloom of frost clung to the windows, obscuring the glass.

Inexplicably nervous, Flora crept between the buildings, retracing their route from earlier in the day. The skeletal spine of the Imperial Highway rose up from the earth to the west; the granite gleaming milky white in the moonlight.

When was it built again? she thought to herself, skirting around the abandoned smithy. The raised road.

Your brother-warden told you earlier.

Flora frowned. Taking a wild guess, she named the period that her general-spirit had lived and died in.

Towers.

No.

The Blessed Age.

Certainly not. That was the Age before this one. A heartbeat of time ago.

She gave up, reminding herself solemnly that her strengths did not lie in her education. A thin, misting drizzle had begun to blow across the road and for the first time Flora did not appreciate it. She thought of the crowds of refugees camped outside the barricade, and remembered that they were southerners and not used to the rain as she was. To her, such inclement weather was a nostalgic reminder of home. To them, it was yet another misery they were forced to bear. Her poorly-mended knee gave a sudden, sharp twist and Flora inhaled suddenly, reaching down to clutch at it. After a moment, the pain subsided and she was able to continue onwards.

The moon watched her with a cold, white eye as she approached the barricade that separated town from camp. To her relief, the guards were no longer posted at the gap in the hastily-nailed wood. Beyond the fence, tents sprouted like mushrooms, surrounded by damp huddles of bodies. Fires were dotted in bright array like an earthly constellation; gleaming apricot against the darkness.

Flora pulled the hood of the grey cloak over her head, slowing her pace as she was overcome with a sudden nervousness. She still felt as though she might get into trouble for her nocturnal wandering, despite the absence of any senior figure that might berate her. She was also not accustomed to creeping around at night; the world seemed a different and more intimidating place in the absence of sunlight.

Come on, the young mage told herself, sternly. Stop being such a cowardly catfish.

Commit to your course, added her general-spirit, unhelpfully.

Flora committed. Holding her breath for no discernible reason she scuttled through the gap in the wood. When it became clear that no guard was going to pursue her, she drew to a halt and looked around at the damp walls of canvas. She was suddenly reminded of the Grey Warden camp at Ostagar, and felt a pang of sadness in her belly.

Swiftly suppressing it, Flora focused instead on the task at hand; listening out for the frostcough's distinctive rasp. Sure enough, after only a few moments she heard a hoarse bark drift past on the air. It had come from one of the nearby dwellings; a haphazard draping of tattered fabric over poles. Visible through a yawning gap in the canvas were a family huddled together; too cold and hungry to sleep. The scent of misery rose from them, alongside the odour of unwashed bodies.

Pausing outside the tent, Flora unshrouded her face; realising that nobody in such desperate circumstances would care what she looked like. Tentatively she rapped her fingers against the tattered canvas, her heart drumming within her ribs.

"'Scuse me," she whispered, recalling the polite niceties she had learnt during her time in the Circle. "'Scuse me. I was wondering- "

"Is it one of those fel-blasted guards, Baelin?" came a weary demand from within. "Go tell them to leave us alone, Maker take 'em! We've already moved the tent away from the road- "

A man's face emerged from the darkness, sallow and squinting. It eyed the hovering Flora for a long moment without comment.

"It ain't a guard," the man said, eventually. "It's a lassie. Eh, what do you want?"

"A lass?" hissed his unseen wife. "We haven't got nothin' to spare for beggars. Or is she a whore? Go make your coin elsewhere."

"Not a whore," said Flora, hastily. "I'm a- " she lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder. " - a healer. I heard someone coughing here. Can I help?"

Another face appeared, alongside the man. It was pinched and hollow-eyed; the vestiges of a once-comfortable life now barely evident.

"An apothecary? We've no money for tinctures. My brother's fate is in the hands of the Maker."

The woman's eyes slid to the side. Flora followed her gaze, and realised with a start that she had passed her patient: a slumped, white-lipped figure had been relegated to outside the tent. He lay on the cold mud alongside the canvas, shivering far more than the mild night warranted. Ice-crystals had frozen to his chin, the skin below red and raw.

"Not a 'pothecary," Flora breathed, lowering her voice. Darting a swift glance about her for guards - the coast was clear - she opened her palm in the darkness. The fine vessels beneath the skin lit up like golden thread; her nails gleaming.

The man recoiled in horror, his mouth contorting. Before he could yell out, his wife dug a sharp elbow into his ribs.

"Shut up, fool!" Her taut stare returned to Flora. "You're a mender?"

She nodded, hopefully. The woman's eyes narrowed.

"We can't pay you nothin'."

"I don't take payment," Flora replied hastily. "I never have. Please, just let me help? I can't sleep until I do somethin'."

"Aye, alright." The corners of the woman's mouth pulled tighter and she gave an abrupt nod. "He's round there. But if you ask for coin after, we're callin' the guard."

Flora had begun to move before the woman finished speaking, elbowing off the cloak to give her hands free reign. The sick man barely registered her presence; his frosted eyes staring unseeing at the clouded skies. From the cold rattle of his breath, the frostcough had sunk deep into his lungs. She knelt beside him, feeling the distinctive, comforting prickle of her magic swell in the back of her throat. One misted eye opened and tried to focus on her, the pupil drifting around aimlessly. A croak came from the throat as the man tried to speak, but the attempt at a word turned into a hacking cough. Flora did not flinch as flecks of sputum landed on her face; she knew that they would become harmless water the moment that they made contact with her skin.

"Who- " he managed after a moment, the query a painful rasp. "Who - you."

He was in his middle years, though the sickness made him appear a decade older. His clothing was torn, showing swathes of greyish skin.

"My name is Flaaa- " Flora trailed off, remembering that Loghain had named all surviving Wardens as fugitives. She decided to err on the side of caution. " - Flan ."

She was not sure whether Flan was actually a real name - she had a suspicion that it might be a type of dessert - but, having committed, ploughed on regardless.

"I've come to fix you," she breathed, dropping to her knees in the cold mud. "Keep still."

There were a dozen theories about how the frostcough managed to spread so swiftly amongst groups of people. Fishermen blamed a change in climate, priestesses suggested that it was divine punishment, apothecaries postulated an imbalance of humour. Scholars in the Orlesian universities were confident that it was transmitted through polluted air, while their Minrathous rivals insisted that the cause was tainted water. For Flora, the frostcough was an old enemy: it returned to Herring every winter without fail. She had no idea what caused it - such theorising was above her intellectual capability, and her spirits had always proven elusive on the true cause of disease. Still, it was the first sickness that she had learnt how to cure: imperfectly at age six, improving by seven, and efficiently by eight.

Now, kneeling on the muddy ground, Flora ran a quick eye over her patient. The blue-tinged lips, the saliva frozen to the chin, the hoarse bark all indicated frostcough. Still, a good healer never made assumptions - one of the first lessons that Compassion had taught her - and she let her gaze sink below the surface of his skin. As she had suspected, the hollow pink caverns of his lungs were full of cobwebbed frost.

Ooh, that's a chilly pair of air-bags.

We've been over this, snarled her general-spirit. You are a child no more: use their proper names.

Fine, thought Flora sulkily as she lowered her mouth to the man's frozen lips. Lungs.

He was so startled that he made no protest; his limbs rigid with shock. Flora, conversely, felt the day's tension drain from her body, seeping into a puddle at her feet. She was never more content than when she was healing; her ability to shield was merely a secondary skill.

This is where I'm meant to be, she thought to herself happily, exhaling her gilded breath into the startled man's throat. I'm not meant for the battlefield. I'm meant to be in the infirmary. I'm a mender. Let someone else do the fighting.

Flora could taste the sour cling of the frostcough on her tongue, melting away into harmless water. Letting her gaze slip beneath the skin once again, she could see the gleaming miasma of her breath flooding into the man's polluted lungs; chasing the disease down each tiny crevasse and curlicue. She exhaled three more times, feeling warmth return to the man's clammy flesh by slow inches. By the third breath, his pupils had lost their clouded vagueness and his lips had found a more human colour.

Once the man had also regained his senses, he focused more clearly on the face hovering above him. Flora, recognising the instinctive covetousness of the expression, sat back on her heels out of temptation's way; wiping her hands on her knees.

"There," she said, swallowing the last of her magic before it could spill from her lips. "You're mended. Do you feel better now?"

The man put a hand to his mouth, touching the fresh pink skin. Wonder crossed his face, and for the briefest moment he set aside his own prejudices to marvel at the rapidity od his recovery.

"You have my thanks," he said, astonished by the clarity of his restored throat. "My lady Flan."

"Eh?" said Flora, who had forgotten about her hastily assumed alias.

The woman had crawled from the tent to eye her brother with mild incredulity.

"By Andraste," she said, glancing swiftly at Flora. "You look healthier than you ever did before you took sick. I'm still not payin' you nowt."

This last part was directed at Flora, who was pulling her cloak back over her head.

"I've never took pay," came a muffled voice from within the cloak. "But I have to say something."

The woman and her brother both eyed her with matching suspicion. Now that he had been healed and Flora's purpose fulfilled; the sooner she was on her way, the better. A mage roaming about by cover of night, young and unsupervised, was naturally a cause for concern.

Flora paused until she was sure that she had their attention; her pale eyes moving from one to the other.

"Please," she said, very slowly so that they heard every word. "Please, you have to leave Lothering in the morning. The Darkspawn are coming this way and… and they'll destroy everything. There won't be a town left once they've passed through it."

Neither of them said anything, though the woman pressed her lips together more tightly.

Can I say anything else? Flora thought, desperately. To try and persuade them.

It is their choice to act.

I'm not eloquent enough. I'm not good at convincing people.

You spoke the truth.

"You'll leave, won't you?"

Flora realised that they would not give her an answer; that the woman was already distracted by the new pink skin covering her brother's chin. It was clear that they no longer desired her presence. Flora knew better than to expect gratitude, but she did not want to leave until they had confirmed their plans to depart. Unfortunately, they made no such commitment. The woman mumbled what might have been a thank you, then turned her attention to her mended brother and told him promptly not to expect his old bedroll back. Flora hovered for a moment more, but it was clear that she was no longer wanted. Reluctantly, she made her way back to the road, keeping her ears open for the next barking cough.

Over the next candle-length she made her way covertly around the refugee camp, avoiding the guards and offering her services wherever she heard the frostcough's distinctive rasp. To her dismay, not everybody accepted her assistance - they would rather take their chances with homemade peacebloom tinctures then with a mage - and those that did still gazed at her with raw misgiving. She healed three children belonging to a weary widow; an old man who appeared near death's door even after he had been healed; a shifty-eyed dwarf travelling alone with a rustling pack that he clung to even as she was healing him.

The paler of the two moons had ventured out from behind its obscuring shroud, illuminating the tents with a sheen like spilled milk. As the cloud overhead dissipated, the temperature dropped, the evening drizzle clung to the canvas and stuck fast there as frost. Flora found herself growing tired; the dawn start, the bandit attack and the unwelcome revelation in the Chantry had made for an exhausting day. Still, she forced down her tiredness like an unpleasant meal and set out in search of any remaining patients.

Two guards passed her by on the main track, muttering in low voices to each other. Flora hunched in on herself and wished that she had Morrigan's ability to transform into something innocuous. To hide her gleaming nails, she curled her fingers right into her palms. Fortunately, they were too preoccupied with listening out for the Chantry bell that would announce the end of their patrol, and did not notice the figure skulking at the fence.

Yawning, Flora rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve and wondered whether to return to the tavern. She had hunted down each rasping back and offered her services; everywhere she went, she warned - the Darkspawn are coming this way. You have to leave. Some paid heed to her plea, others replied with a curt dismissal.

An irate flicker of conversation nearby drew her attention. Four people - all with the same dark hair, long noses and intense dark stares, were gathered about a smouldering bundle of logs. The eldest - her face scoured with weariness and resignation - was listening to her two sons argue.

"Don't be such a nug-head, Gat," complained the younger, prodding life back into the smoking fire. "There's no way that two of us could have defended the house from Darkspawn."

"Two of you?" interrupted the daughter, her neck looped with a red handkerchief. "Excuse me, but are you forgetting what I am? I'm more than capable of- "

All three of them went to silence her; the boy who had berated his brother jabbed her with a reproving elbow.

"Shut up, Beth, d'you want to bring down the garrison on us?"

The elder son's face was set into a scowl, his mouth curling behind a youthful attempt at a beard.

"I could take the Darkspawn," he said, scornfully. "I've got our grandfather's blade, it just needs sharpening. Are you afraid of a few mindless Hurlocks, Carver? They're so stupid, you push them and they start going in circles."

The argumentative dynamic of the family reminded Flora of Herring. This gave her the confidence to insert herself into their conversation, shuffling forwards with the hem of the grey cloak trailing in the mud.

"Not during a Blight," she said, remembering what Duncan had told her as she turned her earnest gaze on the eldest son. "They ain't like that during a Blight. They've got the Archdemon telling 'em what to do. It gives them purpose."

The family stared at her and their expressions were not welcoming. The younger son's expression tautened, eyes narrowing.

"Who are you?"

Flora had already forgotten the alias that she had given to the first family, and so pretended that she did not hear the question. Instead, she pushed back the hood of the cloak and summoned her most persuasive tone of voice.

"The Darkspawn- "

"Fel take the Darkspawn," the elder son interrupted with a smile, his entire demeanour shifting. "We haven't been formally introduced. My name is Garrett Hawke, and I'm delighted to meet you."

Flora ground her teeth in frustration. The young man's mother and sister bore equally exasperated expressions; the daughter lifted her eyes heavenwards with a small sigh.

"You really can't help it, can you?" hissed the junior son, a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead. "Too busy chasing girls to think about anything else. What do you think will happen when we get to Kirkwall?"

"Lots of pretty girls in Kirkwall," retorted Garrett Hawke easily, taking sly pleasure in goading his younger brother. "I look forward to meeting them."

As the brothers began to argue once again, Flora decided to take her leave. She was disheartened by how few of the refugees had paid heed to her warning. They were reluctant to acknowledge that their dire situation could become even worse; as far as they were concerned they had reached a settlement, and the Darkspawn never came close to civilisation.

Retreating to the main road, Flora set her face towards the town. The Chantry was visible even at a half-mile's distance; gleaming from within like a vast lantern. Her mind seemed to be working at half its usual pace, slowed by the leaden chains of exhaustion. Eager to slump facedown on the bed's baseboard within their chamber, she took the first step towards the barricade.

"Mage?" A thin, tentative voice came wending out of the shadow like a skein of morning mist. "Mage, did you…. did you say that you were a healer?"


AN: OK so I've split this chapter in two because it was 4000 words already! So this is the first bit of Flora healing the Lothering refugees. I changed it to a frostcough epidemic rather than just random illnesses. I also wanted to emphasise how strongly she views herself as a healer first and a shield-mage second; she very much thinks that her place is not on the battlefield! Developed the Hawke cameo too! A clue to Flora's 'general spirit' (aka valour) identity in this chapter too