Flora made her way through the spaces between tents, turning her face away from the campfires to avoid attracting attention. The sighs and sorrows of the refugees had not ceased with the sunset. Sleep was a luxury for those with a hearth, a roof and a lockable door. Resting the eyes for too long amongst the desperate was a sure way to wake with fewer possessions than one had begun the night with. Weary figures sat hunched beside their dying fires; children fidgeted in the arms of their parents.
Nobody seemed as though they would be packing up and leaving with the advent of dawn. Flora had to resist the urge to run around the tents, bellowing the Darkspawn are coming! The Darkspawn are coming! You have to leave!
Yet her knee would not tolerate such frenzied activity: the joint was already radiating sharp needles of pain. Flora felt melancholy settle on her like a shroud; dwarfing any fulfilment she had gained from her previous mending.
Maybe I should go round all the tents again and try to persuade them to leave.
No.
But -
You have done all that you can.
Flora crept around the makeshift dwelling belonging to the family with the arguing sons. As she sidled past, the arcane prickled on her tongue like smoke from a distant fire. She wondered which of them was the mage, then recalled what the dark-haired girl had said: are you forgetting what I am?
Tents and fence posts became menacing in the absence of light; their silhouettes elongated into the unfamiliar. Flora did not dare ignite her palms lest she attract unwelcome attention. She was uncomfortably aware that her position as a mage and as a Warden was doubly compromising. More worrying still was the knowledge that Loghain's captain had correctly identified her as both. Flora wondered if she ought to have lied to him about being a Warden. She felt as though she had entered uncharted territory; where a single misstep could lead to catastrophe.
The world is so confusing now, she thought, miserably. I thought that maybe I was starting to understand it. But Ostagar changed everything.
Suddenly, Flora wanted nothing more than to return to the company of her brother-warden and let the low rumble of his breath soothe her to sleep. Ever since she had been taken from the Circle, his snoring had been one of the few certainties in her life: a nightly constant that she now found it difficult to sleep without.
Lothering, part obscured by its hasty barricade, rose before her. The buildings seemed to be huddled together for protection, thin veins of smoke blown into a cold and clear sky. The Chantry crested the hill like a watchful sentry ; the twin flame-lit windows on its facade gleamed a dull orange. Flora felt a brief flicker of relief - such a squat and authoritative building was surely filled with capable people who would know what to do if the Darkspawn horde appeared on the horizon? The respite was swiftly overcome with an irrational foreboding as she realised that the windows were facing the wrong direction; to the east, away from Ostagar.
Stop worrying, Flora told herself sternly, yawning as she crept through the gap in the barricade. There's only a few more hours until dawn. You need to sleep.
The moment that her boot crossed the town threshold, a gloved hand came down on her shoulder.
"Got her!"
"Ha!"
The voices were higher than usual, nervousness mingled with the excitement.
"Did you think you could run around using magic all night and escape our attention?" came the triumphant demand. "An apostate, right under our noses!"
"ARGH," said Flora to the heavens, pulling at her face in frustration. "Really? REALLY?! Why didn't you warn me?!"
One wide-eyed guard nudged another, metal rustling.
"See how she communicates with her unseen demons! Maker preserve us, we've had a narrow escape."
"I'm not an apostate," said Flora as she was shunted across the damp earth; looking longingly over her shoulder at the rapidly diminishing tavern.
"Where's your Templar chaperone, then?" hissed the captain of the garrison, who seemed to have roused most of his men to assist in her apprehension. "Knot that rope nice and tight, boys."
"Um," said Flora, uncertain whether Alistair counted or not. "In bed. Ooh, that ain't a good knot. I would redo it."
The younger of the guards began to undo the knot - slightly mesmerised by her light-eyed beauty - before being brutally elbowed in the gut by a senior officer.
"Idiot! No Templar would sleep while escortin' a mage. Stop with the lies! Once you've got her in the cage, chain her up. Can't be taking chances."
Why didn't you warn me? Flora repeated inwardly, stumbling as she was tugged across the uneven mud. The tavern, her bed and her snoring brother-warden were growing more distant by the moment; what appeared to be the entirety of tbe Lothering garrison were hauling her towards an isolated corner of town.
What? Her spirits were elusive.
WARN me that the patrol was near. You've warned me before about things. Why not now?!
Hm.
I just want to go to bed!
This is important.
How? raged Flora, petulant as a child as she was manhandled towards a row of iron cages standing near a half-collapsed gallows. She was so preoccupied with her own misery that she paid little attention to her surroundings.
You said that you wanted allies.
I WANT SLEE-
Flora's reply was interrupted as she was shoved inelegantly inside one of the rusting prisons; a lopsided structure that had seen better days. Several chains were tightened around her, the cold metal links digging through the thin fabric of her shirt. The guards responsible for her capture seemed reluctant to look straight at her, and showed visible relief when the door of the cage was shut fast. Their faces were pale smudges of flesh against the shadows; fingers touching their hilts for reassurance.
"The Templars will be back by noon," their senior told her, keeping a cautious few yards between himself and the bars. "Then they'll deal with you."
"The Darkspawn are coming," replied Flora, brow furrowed. The ropes and chains had been wrapped around her with nervous haste; crossing each other around her body so that her arms were pinned at her sides. "You need to evacuate everyone by noon."
The Lothering vanguard turned their backs, torches leaving faint orange streaks in their wake. Flora watched as they were swallowed by the shadow, resisting the urge to screech her irritation into the gloom like a Herring fishwife. Most of her ire was reserved for her spirits, who could have warned her, but - for some obscure reason - chose not to. She did not appreciate it when they spoke in vagaries that she could not interpret.
If I stay in this cage, I'll get no sleep, she thought sulkily, fingertips tingling as the chains bit into her wrists. I'm knackered. I'd even take that mattress in the tavern now.
I don't care if it's the rules that an unaccompanied mage be locked up if caught. I ain't following -
Something caught the corner of Flora's eye; a mass of darkness that fell in elongated diagonal across the earth before her. It took her a moment to realise that it was not a shadow but a silhouette ; originating from a neighbouring cage. The next moment, she heard a low, foreign murmur: the words flowing around and within each other.
"Shok cbassit hissra. M'raad hastarit. M'raad itwasit. Maraas shokra Qun."
Shuffling within the constricting embrace of the chains, Flora managed to rotate herself a few inches. The next cage came into partial view and her jaw dropped. Unable to stop herself, the word came surging uncontrolled from her throat.
"Whaaaa- "
While Flora had crouched beneath the tilt of a table with a little boy struggling for air before her; half a mile to the north in a tavern bedchamber, her brother-warden woke with a start, tangled in blankets. At first, staring up at the dark wood that spanned the ceiling, Alistair felt mired in confusion: where was the mildewed canvas? the damp patch in the shape of a Mabari?
Then he remembered - as he had done each morning since - that the junior Warden tent was no more. It was most likely now only a scrap of canvas twisted around a pole, ravaged by the victorious Darkspawn hordes as they streamed up from the valley below. What few possessions he had owned were most likely scattered in the snow; until some future adventurer decided to brave the ruins of the fallen fortress.
The hearth had died to gleaming cinders. Alistair reached for the poker and gave the remains of the fire a hopeful prod. They flared for a moment, then subsided into an ash that had the fine, powdery texture of bonemeal. Abandoning the poker, he rolled over with some difficulty - the sprawling length and bulk of his body meant that most of his limbs dangled over the edge of the mattress - and peered up through the gloom to the bed. He could not see the undulation of his sister-warden's silhouette.
Assuming that she was face-down on the far side of the bed, Alistair sat up. The baseboard bore nothing but a crumpled blanket and he felt an irrational clench of alarm in his gut. He had grown used to Flora's sleeping presence; belly down, cheek resting on her folded arms.
She's just gone to the privy, he told himself, glancing around the bedchamber. She'll be back in a moment.
The cat-Morrigan was asleep, her tail twitching. Alistair averted his gaze with a grimace, eyes falling on the door. Something glinted in the dying hearthlight on the floorboards nearby; for the moment, it went unnoticed. Alistair settled back down against the mattress, ears pricked to hear the scrape of wood against board. No scrape came: the door remained shut.
The young man's mind returned to their conversation at dinner.
Have you ever kissed anyone?
A thoughtful pause, then: I have been kissed.
It was hard for Alistair to imagine his stoic sister-warden locked in a passionate embrace. Her pale eyes were as cold as glacial meltwater and her beauty was of the unapproachable sort that radiated an aura of warning: look don't touch. He was relatively certain that she had been kissed by their now-deceased commander. Flora had spent far longer than usual in Duncan's tent on the eve of the final battle. When he had entered to retrieve her, no residue of mending mist gilded Flora's lips, but a flush had blossomed in the hollow of her throat.
Alistair did not know quite how he felt about this. The Rivaini, despite a slow ruination of body and mind by the taint, was the most hot-blooded and vital person that Alistair had ever known. He had clearly managed to coax some ardour from the solemn young mage. Alistair let his thoughts stray down this new, dangerous route for a few moments, then realised with a start that his sister-warden had still not returned.
Not wishing to be accused of overreacting, Alistair counted to two hundred - one Mabari, two Mabari, three Mabari - and there was no sign of her; the air preserved exactly as it had been when he had awoken. Morrigan had curled herself back up into a dark knot, one paw stretched across the faded velvet. He remembered what Duncan had said to him a few hours before the massacre in the valley: Flora will keep you safe in battle. You keep her safe in the world; she knows so little of it.
Alistair sat bolt upright on the mattress, one large hand already stretching for his boots.
"Witch," he said into the darkness, not caring if he woke her. "Morrigan."
There came no reply.
"Morrigan!"
A pause, then a ripple of arcane energy rolled across the chamber. By the time that Alistair had clambered to his feet, Morrigan was sprawled languid across the chair; lips pursed. She was twisting one of the slender bones from her hair between her fingers.
"I presume you wish to know where your simpleton sister-warden has gone."
Alistair bit back his retort, because he did wish to know, as soon as possible; without getting into an argument. The woman snorted, adjusting the heavy fur hung around her shoulders. The fur had a warm, fleshy scent that crept across the room: as though fresh stripped from the hide.
"She's run off back to her beloved Mackerel," Morrigan informed him, snidely. "The place she keeps talking about. I'm afraid you are all alone."
Alistair gaped; instinctively wanting to deny such an outlandish claim. He then remembered how originally Flora had only thought about saving Herring from the Blight; the rest of Ferelden came as an afterthought.
"She- " he began and then trailed off, blinking. "She wouldn't- "
Morrigan grimaced, then averted her eyes to the ceiling with a small huff.
"Well, I am lying for my own amusement," she admitted, begrudgingly. "'Tis obvious, surely? Where she has gone?"
Alistair stared at her. His frame seemed too tall and broad at the shoulder for the constrictions of the bedroom; as though it were intended for larger chambers, greater halls. The witch relented, dropping her gaze to his face.
"Surely, your sister-warden is with the sick and wounded masses beyond the town boundary? Remember how she persisted irritatingly on the topic earlier."
Relief coursed across Alistair's face; at the same time, he spotted the chamber key gleaming on the floorboards near the door.
"You're right," he said, then, with wry astonishment: "Thank you. I'm going to find her."
A long-nailed hand waved dismissively through the shadow.
"- aaaaaat are you?!"
Flora realised that her incredulous question might be interpreted as rude by anyone who lacked the coarseness of a northerner. In her defence, the man in the next cage did not seem the type to be easily offended. He stood almost a foot higher than Alistair - who was the tallest man that Flora had seen prior to this moment - and his skin was the dull grey of old ash, stretched taut across a body that seemed to consist entirely of bulging, corded muscle. His head, large and square, bore hair in a series of knotted white skeins. Small, scarlet eyes, like red beetles, peered down at Flora with vague contempt.
Flora, equally used to receiving stares of derision as she was those of lust, gazed back. She wondered if perhaps it was a dwarf who had been artificially inflated by some magic. The chains and ropes wound around her body were limiting her ability to gain a full view of the neighbouring cage. A pulse of magic rippled out from her body like a drop of oil fed into a candle flame. The chains broke apart with a rupture of red steel rings; the ropes tore as though made from parchment. Now, her movement unrestricted, Flora could turn fully towards her silent neighbour. She pressed her face against the bars, sweeping her gaze up and down his formidable height.
The clatter of the fragmented chain against the cage floor had caught the man's attention. He still had not said a word, but the pupils within the wine-red irises sharpened to a point.
"Are you a dwarf?" breathed an enthralled Flora, wrapping her fingers around the bars of her prison. "Are you two dwarves stacked together?"
There was a prolonged, incredulous silence, followed by:
"Are you a fool, bas-saarebas ?"
Flora had been asked this question on countless previous occasions. Her fingers gleamed sufficient to throw light on the man's unamused expression; his mouth barely moved when he spoke. He had a deep, even voice with little in the way of modulation or inflection, it slid from his throat like the scraping of an old barrel.
"Just ignorant," she replied, noticing the additional chains wrapped around the trunklike wrists. "I want to know more. What are you?"
"I am a Sten of the Beresaad, an adherent of the Qun," the giant man said, clearly hoping that the explanation would be sufficient to sate her curiosity. "Now, may I return - undisturbed - to my meditations? If I am to be consumed by the Darkspawn, I wish to spend my remaining hours in tranquility."
"The Qun," said Flora, then her eyes expanded with almost comical swiftness. "You're a Qunari?"
Herring folklore tended to be either depressing or doom-laden; the Qunari featured with regularity in the second sort. The 'bull-men', as they were colloquially known, were portrayed as pirates who rampaged across the choppy peaks of the Waking Sea; ravaging and raiding the northern coast. They were the monsters that mothers warned their children about when they grew old enough to understand: behave, or the Qunari will take you east and carve out their prayers on your bones. It was rumoured that there had once been a village between Herring and Skingle, a wealthy little settlement renowned for the quality of its fishhooks. One squalling night, the Qunari had landed their sickleback craft on the beach, crept up the sands and slaughtered every man they could find; seizing the women and children as chattel before putting the village to the torch. Any unfortunate creature who protested was skewered in their chains, or dropped unceremoniously overboard. Flora's mother had shown her the roots of the buildings once; lines of charred stone half-buried in the sand.
Now Flora's shield blossomed instinctively around her; rippling like spilled water. The bars of the cage bowed elegantly outwards until they almost touched the earth: the metal bars splayed as though some vast palm had pressed down on them from above.
Was that necessary? demanded her general-spirit, buzzing around her skull like a wasp. He poses no threat to you.
He's a Qunari! A raiding, murdering, pirate!
You are three hundred miles inland.
Is… is that a lot?
Yes.
Her shield receded like the tide. Flora picked her way gingerly over the fragmented chains and the ruins of the bars, feeling a flash of guilt at how comprehensively she had destroyed her prison. Maintaining a cautious distance, she hovered at the periphery of the Qunari's cage. He had watched her bend the bars of her enclosure as though they were made from water reeds; but made no comment, nor petitioned for his own freedom.
"Are you a prisoner?" she asked tentatively, her eye travelling from the man's braided head to his booted foot. He had the remnants of armour, but bore no weapon. She assumed that the guards must have taken it from him; though it was hard to imagine simply taking anything from such a behemoth.
"I am in a cage," replied the Qunari, without emotion. "I am quite clearly a prisoner."
Flora was reminded oddly of Morrigan; although the witch's retorts dripped with sarcasm, while the Qunari delivered his with total solemnity.
"Why are you a prisoner?" she continued, glancing over her shoulder to check that the guards were still on patrol. "The Darkspawn will be here soon. Being in a cage won't save you."
The Qunari did not hesitate, his small, red eyes fixed unblinking on her.
"I murdered a family," he said, without emotion. "The local authority does not know what to do with me, so they have put me in this cage while they procrastinate."
Don't run away.
He's a murderer! I don't associate with murderers.
You consorted with Duncan Rivaini. Extensively.
Flora hesitated, fingers twisting in her linen hem. The Qunari watched her, still and dispassionate.
Duncan killed someone?
He was conscripted into the Wardens as a result.
She bit her lip. Her spirits did not often share such information with her. Their knowledge - vast and incomprehensible - was like a veiled lantern that they rarely allowed her to glimpse.
But a family, though.
You needed allies. Here is one.
You mean - ask him to join us?!
Yes.
The wind bit at the exposed parts of her body: wrists, throat, face. Flora pulled the fraying shirt more tightly around herself, wishing fervently that someone senior could instruct her on how to proceed. The more practical part of her mind - in concord with her general-spirit - informed her how useful it would be to have such a companion. There was a bounty on their heads and Morrigan was less than reliable. The emotional part recoiled at the thought of associating with one who admitted so freely to slaughter.
I don't know what to do. Who's to say that he would even want to come with us?
Before her spirits could reply, a voice cut through the gloom. It was suffused with relief, although mildly accusatory.
"Thank the Maker - I've been looking for you for ages."
AN: Lol at Flora's "WHAT ARE YOU." Not the most tactful greeting ever!
I wanted to show how her spirits coerce certain events into happening: by failing to warn her about the guards, she was put in a cage and therefore meets Sten! I also changed the way that she meets Sten because in the original, Morrigan recruits him "off screen" because I was too lazy to write it, lol
Also, a Herring rumour that's not true - about the burned village! I love dodgy folklore with obscure origins, hehe
WHAT ARE YOOOOU
