Flora turned, stifling a yawn with the loose grey wool of her sleeve. The campfires that dotted the refugee camp had died down to embers and ash for want of fuel; Lothering was surrounded by a sea of shadow and it was difficult to discern the features of the man standing a few yards away. Still, a lack of light had never unduly worried her. Relatively certain that the slender silhouette did not belong to a guard, Flora opened her palm. A pale gold radiance, the colour of lemon-flesh, drifted upwards, spilling light over their faces. Her nails had grown a quarter-inch over the course of the night's mending.

As she had guessed, he was an elf; with a slender body made up of sharp, ascetic angles. There were two violet caverns beneath his eyes, and he stood hunched like a defeated man.

"I'm a mender," she agreed, grinding the tiredness from her eyes with her fists as Compassion gave a hum of approval. "How can I help you?"

"Please," he said, so firm in his belief that she would need convincing that he had not heard her query. "I beg you. We need a healer. We have no coin, but I will find a way to repay you - somehow- "

Alarmed, Flora extended a hand to stop him, palm up in supplication.

"I'm going to help," she replied, earnestly. "I don't take no payment. What can I do?"

The elf shot her a look from an oblique eye; half-hopeful and half-incredulous.

"My son." He ducked behind a canvas tent, retracing his steps along the line of a crumbling wall. "My boy, Jendel."

Flora followed him into the darkness, wincing as her knee gave a throb of protest.

"Does he have the frostcough?"

"No." The reply came back twisted and sour through the shadow. "No, he was knocked down by some arl's knight. One of their big destriers, a hoof caught him right in the chest. Man didn't even stop."

Flora had no idea what a destrier was; though hearing 'hoof' , she assumed horse .

The elven refugees, separated in flight as they were in everyday life, had made their camp near a freshwater spring. This was a dual-edged blade: the supply of clean water countered by the inescapable boggy ground, more mud than earth. The elves had no tents; they had propped whatever material they could scavenge against the ruined wall to provide a makeshift shelter.

They approached one such improvised dwelling - an old tavern table, angled against the stone. As they came close, Flora's mender's ear, attuned to the sounds of suffering, honed in on a pained rattle of breath. An elven woman emerged, face framed by a matted tangle of hair and eyes swollen shut.

"Findore, he's dying," she said in a heavily accented tongue, the words scraped from her throat. "I know he is. He won't look at me any more. He knows he's passing- "

The boy's mother faltered as she saw Flora, who was untangling herself impatiently from the cloak.

"Who - "

Menders had no time for niceties when there were patients in perhaps a critical condition. Flora sidled past her, hunching down in the cramped wedge of space between the wall and the table. An elven child no more than seven or eight was lying on the bare mud, his chest shuddering as he struggled to draw breath. His tunic was open to his belly, his chest an ugly mass of bruises. The long-lashed eyes were tightly shut and he was shivering in the cold.

"Jendel," she said, to ascertain whether he was still conscious. Children, in her experience, were more frustrating to heal than adults; they squirmed at the prickling sensation of her magic and tried unsuccessfully to grab the gilded mist in their fists. Still, she had been treating them since she was a child herself, and had collected a sleeve-full of distracting tricks.

The elven boy opened a single dark eye and gazed at her; the pain naked. Flora rested her fingers against his clammy forehead, biting back a sudden flash of anger at the knight who had not stopped. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue even as her healer's gaze slipped beneath the mottled skin. Four of the boy's delicate ribs had been cracked; the lungs beneath them on the verge of collapsing.

"Help, help," she breathed, keeping the startled child's attention by blowing out her cheeks. "I'm a fish, I've been stolen from the sea, blub blub blub."

The child gaped up at her in confusion, the corner of his mouth twitching involuntarily. Moonlight painted his pained face with silver stripes: his flesh was as cold as a week-old offering. Flora could hear his parents exchanging urgent snatches of conversation; the woman clearly thought her mad.

"I need air, blub blub," she continued, rolling her eyes tragically. "Help me, help me. Open your mouth as WIDE as you can."

Flora opened her own mouth, flapping her hands beside her cheeks like gills. The astonished little boy copied her; she seized the moment and ducked forward. Covering his mouth and pinching his nose to make sure none of her magic could escape, she exhaled from the bottom of her belly; forcing every drifting curlicue of gilded mist down her patient's throat. As the magic blossomed inside the boy's shrivelling lungs, she sat up and began to work her fingers across his patchwork chest; orchestrating the broken ribs in small movements until they had clenched back together. Aware that the last time she had mended a broken bone - her own knee - she had done a poor job, she took especial care.

I'm doing a good job now, aren't I?

I suppose, replied her general-spirit reluctantly, while Compassion sighed in quiet approval.

At last Flora sat back on her heels, bumping her head against the sloping wood overhead. The elven boy opened his eyes and gazed at her; then spoke several words in a lilting tongue that she did not recognise. The bruising had melted from his chest like candle wax; blurring into pale pink as the skin renewed itself. Flora stifled a yawn as she patted the boy gently on the head.

"All better," she said, unsure if he could understand her. "Thank you for keepin' so still for me."

Impulsively, she then reached behind her for her discarded cloak, draping the grey wool across the child's slender body. He clutched the fabric with little, grubby nailed fingers, still staring at her. Flora waved at him, then inched herself inelegantly backwards, her hands and knees coated with mud. The soft, fresh growth of her nails had already broken off; she had added three inches to her hair that night alone. The additional volume was threatening to break free of the knot perched precariously on top of her head.

The man and his mate, who had watched with increasing incredulity, met Flora as she clambered upright. The woman murmured in her husband's ear, he cleared his throat and then offered forth an intricately woven silver bracelet.

"Please, take this as payment. You have saved the life of our son."

Flora put her hands behind her back, hunching her shoulders against the bite of the wind.

"I don't take payment," she said, then had an idea. "But… but you can do this for me . "

They looked at her.

"Leave." Flora continued, the words tangling together in her urgency to speak them. "Leave tomorrow , don't delay any more. Please. I don't know what else to say to people. The Darkspawn are going to come here and… and people aren't listening to me."

She trailed off, suddenly miserable. It was as though she could see the knight's destrier charging towards the little elven boy; but when she tried to snatch him out of harm's way, she found that her feet were bogged down in the mud. The boy's father glanced swiftly at his partner; they exchanged a few words in their unfamiliar dialect. To Flora's relief, the elf ducked his head in agreement.

"We'll head east at dawn," he said, folding an arm around the boy as he crawled from beneath the table. The grey cloak dwarfed the child, tumbling in pleated folds onto the damp ground.

"You will?" Flora's face lit up in spite of her bone-weariness. "Really?"

"Yes. My mate says that anyone who has the aid of the spirits ought to be heeded."

If she had not been a Herring girl - Herring girls never cried in public - Flora could have wept. Instead, she took a deep gulp of cold air and nodded. This proved a bad decision: several ropes of hair escaped from the knot and fell beyond her shoulders.

She took her leave before they could offer her any more of their scant possessions, waving goodbye to the little boy as he eyed her with wary curiosity.

A curious moon had emerged fully from behind the cloud now; filling the channels between the scattered tents with a glinting grey light. Without any muffling blanket, the air was crisp and cold as the first bite of an apple. Flora tucked her shirt more tightly into her breeches and rolled down the sleeves, winding her fingers into the fraying linen. The wooden barricade ringing the town was only yards ahead; to her relief, it was still unguarded.

Bedtime, she thought to herself, yawning. I can sleep now. I've done something to-

A groan rose from the tangle of shadow to her left, low and anguished. It was followed by a murmured reassurance; cut through by another guttural sob.

"Hush, lad. Hush."

"He's poisoned, captain." A third voice entered the fray, thin and urgent. "He'll spread it to us all."

"The taint don't work like that."

"How do you know?" The response was agitated. "He could be infecting us right now !"

Thrusting thoughts of bed from her mind, Flora turned away from the barricade, pressing the soft, jutting lengths of her nails against her palm to snap them. Gulping down several more mouthfuls of air to wake herself up, she approached the cart that obscured the source of the noise. The dull gleam of metal beyond the wagon made her slow her pace; the dozen men gathered around the fire were no ordinary refugees. They were soldiers, surrounded by discarded armour that had seen recent conflict. A tattered forest green pennant hung from the cart, torn nearly in two.

Hidden by shadow, Flora thought how young most of them looked: this battered fragment of Cailan's army. She supposed that they must have been caught up in some violence during the retreat.

Ooh, she thought, suddenly furious as her fingers dug into the edge of the wagon. These are soldiers who didn't go to help Duncan and the other Wardens. These are the men who abandoned him!

Think with your head and not your heart.

I suppose they were just following the instructions of General Mac Tir. Oh, it's going to be odd now that there are two generals in my life. What should I call him so I don't mix you up in my head?

One of us is a six-hundred year old spirit of Valour residing in the Fade, retorted her general, testily. The other is not.

But Flora had stopped listening: she had spotted her patient. He was still a youth, perhaps even younger than her, naked from the waist up and kneeling with his head in his hands. He was rocking back and forth as though his mind was gone; the pain so intense that it had driven out all reason. The slender boniness of his back was exposed: a pulsating wound driven between the shoulder blades. Black veins radiated from the seething flesh, down the length of his spine and out towards each arm. The other soldiers were reluctant to look at him; their fingers straying to the hilts of their blades as they thought of their own solutions.

His wound is blighted, she thought, recalling a soldier lying before the front gate of Ostagar with his chest opened up. I remember this.

Yes, replied her general, speaking on behalf of voiceless, ancient Compassion. You recall how to withdraw the taint?

Flora felt a prod of melancholy in her belly. The memory stood out with such salinated clarity that she brought her fingers to her mouth in reminiscence.

Yes, she replied, wistfully. Like what I did for Duncan.

Pining over your lost Rivaini will not mend this man any quicker.

It took her a few moments to pluck up the courage to approach the group of soldiers; although they were not Templars, and there was no reason to assume that they could identify her as a Warden. Eventually - after the third huff of frustration from her general - Flora lifted her chin and strode out from behind the wagon.

"Evenin'," she announced to the audience of startled soldiers, resorting to northern bluntness. "I'm going to heal this man. 'Scuse me."

It was difficult to tell whether the men were more astonished by the girl's startling looks or her candid admission of magehood. Still, her tactic of surprise worked: no one made any motion to stop her as she crossed the space between them. The only soldier who had not gaped at her in astonishment was the injured youth; who was groaning softly with his face pressed into his palms.

Flora knelt behind him, feeling waves of tiredness lapping at her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, suddenly anxious.

Am I too sleepy to heal?

No. If you can breathe, you can cast.

This was one of the very first lessons that her spirits had taught her; one that they had repeated over and over until it was branded in her consciousness.

If I can breathe, I can cast. Let nothing take my air. If someone puts their fingers around my throat and squeezes, or if I fall into water and open my mouth, I may as well have no magic at all.

Focus.

Ignoring the murmuring of the soldiers, half-aware that they were drawing in around her and yet secure in the knowledge that her spirits would shield her from any sudden advance; Flora turned her attention to the youth's naked back. The hard ridge of his spine stuck out like a lizard's frill, knobbled and oddly vulnerable. The flesh was torn just below his shoulder; a black mass pulsating within the raw wound. Its dark veins expanded outwards in an arterial spiderweb to cover the pallid skin.

Inhale death. Exhale life.

You remember how.

Mm.

Recalling that the first few mouthfuls of the taint brought on a dizzying nausea, Flora took several breaths to steady herself. She then ducked her head, swift enough to overcome the body's natural recoil when faced with raw decay. Planting her lips on the open wound, Flora took a deep, deliberate gulp of air. Her mouth was immediately flooded with the sweet, rotten odour of the taint: her belly lurched in horror.

Fortunately it took only seconds for her body to neutralise the taint; breaking it down into harmless biological compounds. Swallowing the remnants; she exhaled from the bottom of her lungs, feeling the gilded mist surge over her tongue like a wash of cool water.

Just breathe.

After eight breaths, the dark veins of corruption had faded to faint violet lines; the youth's whimpers died in his throat. He kept very still, aware of Flora's presence but unable to see her, or what she was doing. After twelve breaths, the veins had vanished entirely. Only the pulsating mass remained, stretching out sickly tendrils into the youth's opened flesh. Flora impulsively dug her fingers into the heart of the dark matter as she leaned down for a final time; feeling vital energy leaking from beneath her nails. The pollution melted away like sea foam, clear water running down her fingers.

"Maker's Breath," said one soldier, his voice tinged with shock. "Look at that."

"The taint's gone. By Andraste."

Whispers rustled around her like autumn leaves crushed underfoot. Flora stifled a yawn, stopping herself just in time from rubbing her eyes with her hands. The youth's cleansed wound had taken a half-dozen heartbeats to mend; now only the faintest smear of pink remained to commemorate the blighted injury.

Inhaling the taint had reminded Flora of the dozen times that she had drawn the foul miasma from Duncan. The sadness was like a small pebble within the hollows of her heart; rattling with each beat. There was a discarded waterskin nearby: she rinsed her mouth and sluiced off her hands as the soldiers spoke loudly around her. She paid no attention to their conversation - the youth had clambered to his feet and was trying to peer over his own shoulder - until a low voice cut through the incredulous babble.

"I never went up to the fortress at Ostagar," mused the captain, curiosity and accusation twining through each word. "But I knew a man that did. He came back talking about a sight he saw up there. Could hardly believe it, even then."

Flora looked at him, a cord of anxiety starting to knot itself in her belly. The bearded captain gazed back at her steadily, knowing eyes moving across the fine-hewn features of her face.

"A man had been attacked by the Darkspawn. Chest clawed apart; and not only that, but the wound blighted too. They'd brought him back but there was nowt t'be done. They were calling a priestess for the rites when… along comes this girl."

Keep your calm.

I am calm.

"A girl with wine-red hair," his eyes lifted to the untidy bundle atop her head. "And a face to make a man lose his balance. A mage. One of the Warden-Commander's newest recruits."

Flora looked down at her cold, damp fingers. She wondered how long it would take them to find her if she scuttled off into the warren of tents and campfires.

"She put her lips to the lad's wound and breathed the taint out of it. No staff; no spells. Just her mouth, and her hands. He said it was the weirdest thing he'd ever seen."

Weird! It ain't weird. It's beautiful. Why does everyone call my magic weird?

Stay focused!

"And then the man was mended."

The captain looked at her, then across at the youth she had healed. He was laughing, pulling a tunic over his head with ease, accepting a bottle of ale. Slowly, the lined and clever eyes swung back across to Flora.

"You know, lass, General Mac Tir decried the old Order as traitors," he said conversationally, as though they were discussing the weather, or the price of grain. "He put out a bounty for any Warden that escaped Ostagar."

Flora met his stare with her own pale, cold, unblinking gaze. She could feel her magic webbing between her fingers, throbbing in her palms; not the mending magic this time, but the only other thing that she could do.

One trick pony.

"I wonder how much he'd pay for the Warden-Commander's bedwarmer herself?" The captain picked at his teeth. "My men and I are in sore need of coin."

Shield yourself and run.

No, no, wait a minute. He don't look like a man who wants to drown a cat.

?!

He was in the valley. He knows that Loghain Mac Tir called for a retreat before they'd even entered the fray.

Then the captain sighed and stuck out his fist for an ale; a passing underling thrust a bottle into his hand. Tugging out the cork, he drained half of the clouded liquid in a long, gulping draw. Flora watched him without speaking, feeling her hair collapse around her shoulders.

"Ah," he said roughly as the bottle lowered, his voice made hoarse by the sourness of the liquor. "Get out of here, lass. I won't say nothing, and these fools are none the wiser."

Flora did not need telling twice. The tiredness swelled as she clambered to her feet, relief mingling with a great yawn that began in her belly. As she reached the wagon, she turned around; catching another glimpse of the captain in the firelight.

"You… you ought to go," she mumbled, her words blurring in her throat. "Leave, tomorrow. Your general lied, there is a Blight. The Darkspawn are coming."

The captain looked at her, his lips pulling taut at the corners. If Flora had been standing closer, she might have glimpsed a flicker of resignation in the well of his pupils.

"Aye," he said at last, a shoulder jerking in a shrug. "We'll see. Now git , before I change my mind."


AN: Ok I know I've spent a lot of time in Lothering but its loss becomes such a huge motivation for Flora later on that I wanted to emphasise it more now! I also wanted to bring up Flora's main weakness: that if her air supply is restricted in some way, like if she's underwater or if someone puts something around her neck, she can't summon her magic!