The campfire clung to life for several hours, before subsiding into a messy heap of embers and charred ash. The muted ochre glow, hidden by the lie of the landscape and a line of ragged trunks, evaded the attention of a band of armed men riding southeast to Lothering. Rumour winged its way swiftly to the capital these days; the news of errant Wardens had already reached Mac Tir's ear.
Flora woke abruptly in the monochromatic hour before dawn; with a strange, metallic taste in her mouth and dread draped over her like a burial shroud. Her mind felt rattled, as though someone had grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her until her brain had loosened from the moorings within her skull.
Did I have a bad dream?
She was perturbed: usually, her spirits protected her from the mundane terrors of sleep. It had been years since the last, but she had woken from it in a similar manner.
A nightmare? Not exactly.
Ehh? What do you mean?
Her general-spirit was oddly evasive. Flora inhaled the warmth of her brother-warden's shoulder, blinking as the tent interior came into soft, colourless focus. Their packs, and Alistair's weapons emerged from the shadow as a heap of indistinct grey; the flaps of canvas at the end of the tent parted by a thin wedge of light. She was curled against Alistair like a prawn, his palm rested lightly on the back of her neck. He was snoring, his mouth open, and he looked younger in sleep.
If it wasn't a nightmare, what was it? she persisted, rubbing her woollen toes together beneath the blanket. The hard, muscled bulk of her brother-warden was reassuring; he lay beside her like a small mountain range.
A vision.
Flora was astonished.
A vision! Visions come to important people. Not… people like me.
A vision which has sought to penetrate your mind for some time. We have been shielding you from it.
Her general's tone suggested that it had not been it's own choice to protect her; but the direction of Flora's other spirit. Compassion had been wandering the voids and valleys of the Fade for generations before her general had died a mortal death; it was infinitely more powerful and it's will inviolable.
But no longer. It must take root.
Flora did not like the sound of visions, let alone visions taking root . Thanks to her protective spirits, she had always experienced a peaceful coexistence with the Fade, untroubled by demons or other malevolent energies. Nothing entered her mind save for what they permitted; it had been so for the entirety of her existence.
I don't want to be the kind of person who receives visions, she thought in alarm.
There was no reply. After brooding ferociously for several minutes, Flora decided to distract herself by preparing the fire for breakfast. It had been five years since she had last woken up in Herring, but her time in the Circle had not erased old habits. Her father and the other fishermen used to set out at sunrise to catch the dawn tide; they broke their fast during the blue hour and it was the child Flora's first job of the day to refill the firepit. She was sent, wobbling on skinny legs and bleary-eyed, along the beach to scavenge driftwood. If there was none to be found, she would heave out some chopped logs from the woodshed. Sticking her small fingers in her mouth to mend the splinters, the little girl thrust the fuel into the flaking iron crucible that held the remnants of last night's blaze However, it was never difficult to leave her 'bed' in Herring: the child had slept inside the riveted wood of an overturned barrel, beneath a torn piece of sackcloth. When she had outgrown the barrel, she had slept on the floor. The younger Flora had never woken up warm, or even comfortable; but then again, nobody in Herring ever did. It was part of the daily hardship that moulded the unique northern temperament; like the waves gnawing away at the soft shell of the cliffs until their old granite bones were exposed.
Now, Flora was astonished at how reluctant she found herself to move. Leliana's blankets were dense and tightly woven; their heaviness pressed her into the pallet. Alistair's palm rested warm on the back of her neck, the fingers curving along the contour of the skin.
Get up , she told herself, sternly . You are not a limpet. You are not STUCK.
Her body ignored her, curling up even tighter within the nest of blankets.
Order me to get up, she entreated her spirits, sleepily. My legs won't listen.
Not our prerogative. Get yourself up.
Pre...pre- whaa?
Alistair felt his sister-warden fidgeting against his ribs. He opened one eye, squinting to create some sense out of the coalescence of shadow within the tent. Hair spilled over the blankets beside him like red wine; Flora's hopeful braid had not survived the night.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm going to build the fire," she whispered reluctantly, yawning. "It's gone out. We need to cook breakfast."
Alistair's thumb traced a slow circle on the back of her neck. Neither one acknowledged it; nor did he stop.
"It's not dawn yet, Flo," he murmured, darting a sidelong glance at the sliver of grey light between the entrance folds. "Get some more sleep. You barely had any last night."
She mouthed protest but did not move; eyes wandering over the strong bones that made up her brother-warden's face. The lack of light inverted his colouring: tawny skin and bronze hair transformed to mineral paleness, as if the features were sculpted on the facade of a Tevinter temple.
"Sleep," Alistair instructed, more forceful this time. "I'm not letting you out of this tent until the sun is up."
He kept his stare on her, his thumb now brushing back the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Flora gazed at him for a thoughtful moment, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder in acquiescence.
The narrow wedge of grey between the canvas folds began to lighten in imperceptible increments; thin fingers of sunlight creeping within the tent. One ray hit the edge of Alistair's shield, and splintered into a dozen gleaming points. Alistair watched the flecks of light dance against the canvas, unable to follow his own instruction and return to sleep. His fingers had crept up to cradle the back of his sister-warden's head as she slept against his shoulder; her breath warming his neck. He could feel the curve of her skull in his palm, fragile as a bird beneath the chaos of her hair.
Eventually, his thoughts began to wander. His mind glanced swiftly away from Duncan - I have been kissed, she had said - and settled on the undertaking ahead. As much as the young man tried to avoid pessimistic rumination, the enormity of their task weighed on him like the old leadstone breastplates worn before smiths had learnt how to bend steel to their will.
And now we have assassins set on us as well, he thought to himself, glumly. Bounties on our heads. Loghain Mac Tir is hunting us down like halla in the woods.
"Eh?" This was northerner-speak for: what's wrong?
Flora was peering at him from down by his shoulder. She had been woken by a shaft of sun moving across her face; the tent now filled with jaundiced light.
"To make a comparison you'd appreciate," her brother-warden said, half-smiling without humour. "It feels like Mac Tir has got a net around us."
"A net?"
"Mm. One that's closing in."
Flora propped herself up on her elbows beside him, her hair falling in a torrent of autumn around the folds of the overlarge coat. She inspected her fingernails as she spoke, each oval small and gnawed.
"There's no net," she said thoughtfully, nibbling at a ragged edge. "No net. There's just… holes between rope. We're small enough to swim through them."
"And when we're no longer small enough to escape?"
Flora turned her pale eyes on him: the grey stare cold and forceful as a current in the Waking Sea; washing away assassins, bounty hunters, and Mac Tir himself.
"Then," she replied, as though it were a given. "We break free."
Alistair felt a rush of desire so potent that he was almost swept along with the would-be assassins. Horrified, he jerked his gaze from his sister-warden's face, focusing instead on the water stained canvas overhead.
Flora watched him mouth silently for several minutes, her brow furrowing.
"Are you talking to yourself?" she enquired eventually, with the nonchalance of one who had spent years conversing with non-corporeal entities.
"No," Alistair replied, through gritted teeth. "I'm… reciting the Chant. What I can remember of it."
Flora was astounded. "But - but WHY?"
"Morning prayers," he said gloomily after a moment. "I'm feeling… particularly devout this morning."
She looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head; one draped with prayer beads and sporting a Chantry mitre. Just then, Leliana - who had clearly been eavesdropping - called through the canvas from her own tent.
"Why don't we pray together, Alistair? I know the matins service by heart!"
Alistair groaned and dragged a palm over his face, fingers parting on the proud peak of his nose.
Just then came a noise from outside the tent; a step that was not percussive enough to belong to the Qunari, nor subtle enough for the barefoot witch. A clumsy limb knocked over a cooking pot that had been left beside the fire. A flank brushed against the canvas, it's silhouette indistinct. Alistair and Flora looked at one another: the recent exchange about assassins fresh in their minds. Then, in a rumble of blankets, Alistair scrambled for the canvas folds; flailing a hand towards the hilt of his sword.
He half-lunged, half-fell out of the tent entrance; narrowly missing impaling himself as he emerged into a sallow dawn. Flora, on his heels, collided with his back as he stopped abruptly. The next moment Alistair had begun to laugh, the sword descending to his side. A dozen sheep were wandering freely around the camp; several more stood dotted about the periphery. One had its cloven hoof squarely in the overturned cookpot, another was chewing on the edge of Leliana's tent. They all bore a similar, stupefied expression; as though hit over the head with something hard. Their mule stood beside the fence, sullen and outnumbered.
"Maker's Breath," he said, regaining some evenness of speech. "At least it's not a band of dagger-wielding assassins."
Flora eyed the woollen horde with some trepidation. There were no sheep in the vicinity of Herring; the terrain of the northern coast was rough and uncultivated. There had certainly been no sheep in the Circle, or else they were very well hidden.
"What do they eat?" she asked, nervously.
"Redheads," commented Morrigan evilly, strolling out from the line of trees.
"Grass," corrected Alistair, giving one a gentle nudge. "And leftovers, apparently. Go on, move. Go home."
Not entirely convinced, Flora put a tentative hand on a woollen back.
"It's greasy. Hello," she said, as the sheep swung a mindless eye towards her. "Ooh, my coat is made from your brothers. Sorry."
The witch made no effort to help Flora and Alistair clear the campsite. She leaned against a tree trunk and laughed, yellow eyes gleaming as she watched their efforts; which mostly resulted in the sheep drifting from one side to the other. Alistair's hammering of sword against shield prompted them to run in circles. Flora waved her arms, then unhelpfully shielded herself whenever one ventured too near.
Eventually, the sheep dispersed when the Qunari emerged from his tent, vast and glowering. They took one look at him and scattered, reforming in a white streak as they thundered down the grassy slope. Leliana, who had not wanted to begin her day corralling recalcitrant sheep, came out from her tent shortly after. She was - somehow - washed and fully dressed in pristine leathers; her hair braided around her head to keep it from her eyes.
"Goodness me," she remarked lightly, surveying the carnage of the campsite and the two dishevelled Wardens. "It looks like the Darkspawn have been running amok. Shall we tidy up and get underway?"
Once they had broken their fast, they deconstructed the camp and packed their belongings back into the cart. A westerly wind from the Frostbacks had swept the cloud towards the coastal forests. A clear wash of sky was left in its wake; the same insipid shade as a watercolourist's palest blue. The fee for such a crisp and cloudless day was a drop in temperature: frost veined the trunks of trees and clung to the grass, splintering underfoot.
After a half-day on the road the rolling rural landscape began to take on the characteristics of the region known as the Hinterlands. The hills became higher and more sharply angled, the cultivated fields yielded to rocky bluffs and ridges. Fir trees rose and fell in bristling fringes, boasting evergreen foliage to their bare-branched counterparts. Reminders of the arling's seat were strewn throughout the landscape. The smaller streams ran a ruddy orange; the cliffs were veined with iron ore. Red clay lay exposed wherever the soil was broken, like muscle beneath the skin.
The road was in better condition here; fewer trees blown across it and several of the larger potholes had been filled in. This was most likely due to their proximity to the trading post known colloquially as Barterton, its original name known only to scholars and mapmakers. The small party decided not to visit the village; they had drawn enough attention to themselves within Lothering. Leliana donned her Chantry robe and an air of unobtrusiveness; venturing into the settlement with a handcart to obtain supplies.
While the lay sister was coercing donations from the inhabitants, the other members of the party waited beside the wagon. They had stopped near the hollow remnants of a burnt-out barn: little remained of the original structure save for two charred walls and the outline of a door.
Alistair, drawing on his years in Eamon Guerrin's stable, was attending to the mule's hoof; murmuring to calm it as he worked out a stone. Flora, after an unsuccessful attempt to initiate conversation with the Qunari, decided to try her luck with Morrigan. The witch had just returned from a lazy scouting circuit overhead; after much entreating, she had agreed to survey their immediate surroundings.
"No assassins on the loose, or else they've disguised themselves as goats and farmhands," she drawled once her crow's beak had widened and softened into a more recognisable shape. "I spied nothing of interest, more's the pity. All those years I spent in thrall about the world beyond the Wilds; now I am here, 'tis…. unimpressive."
Flora, perched precariously on the cart rail, turned her attention to the witch.
"We do have something in common," she said, triumphant. "I knew we weren't wholly different."
Morrigan curled her lip, deliberately averting her eyes towards the scorched barn. A true northerner: Flora either ignored or had no knowledge of social cues. She continued, oblivious.
"I grew up in Herring. You grew up in the Wilds. Neither of us left, but both of us wondered about… what was beyond."
She beamed; Morrigan scowled. The painted scarlet lips parted to deliver a scathing rejoinder; to the witch's surprise, an entirely different sort of comment emerged.
"I admit, that is not… incorrect," she admitted, begrudging. "One time, when I was a child, a noblewoman's carriage came through the Wilds - it must have been lost - and I followed it for miles. I had never seen wood that was painted, nor metal that had been shaped for purpose other than cooking, crafting, or war. I wished that- "
She cut herself off abruptly, frowning at the uncharacteristic lapse in discretion. Flora tried to disguise the fact that she had nearly fallen off the cart rail in shock by clinging on nonchalantly for a few moments, before lowering herself to the ground.
"Noble carriages never came to Herring on purpose," she replied, gazing up at where Morrigan perched, birdlike, atop the crates. "The lord of Highever visited us once, but I think he'd got lost. My dad took me out on the boat so I didn't get to see him."
But Morrigan made it clear that the conversation was over by shrinking in a ruffle of feathers; her shape compacting and contorting in impossible angles as a beak sprouted from the centre of her face. The Qunari made a sound of disgust; curling his lip at such unnatural practises.
A spiteful wind had sprung up again, robbing the nearby elms of their last remaining leaves. It danced within the spokes of the cart wheels; ruffling the rolls of canvas and teasing free strands of hair. Flora pulled the loose folds of her coat more tightly around her body and went to retrieve Alistair's travel cloak, which hung with vulnerable openness from the edge of the cart. Bundling it against her breast, she wandered to the front of the cart. Alistair had just finished removing the stone from the mule's hoof; and was patting its neck with the broad flat of his palm, murmuring into its whiskered ear.
At her approach, her brother-warden smiled and straightened; dwarfing the mule with his six feet and three inches of length.
"Thanks," he said, then furrowed his brow down at her. "Sure you don't want it? Is that coat warm?"
Suspicious, Alistair rubbed the coarse wool between his fingers, then reached inside the sleeve to feel her wrist. The skin was warm and dry; her pulse throbbed in vital rhythm against his thumb.
"I'm fine," Flora replied, gazing up through the foot of air that separated their faces. "Thank you."
He released her wrist reluctantly. She blinked back at him, then turned her gaze on the village that clung to the nearby hillside. The rooftops were covered in grass so that each building seemed part of the natural landscape; there was no discernible centre or market square, just an untidy tangle of footpaths. An old stone monument, features blurred, jutted from a crag of exposed rock; a lone merchant had set out his goods at its feet. For a village known as a trading post, there was little visible activity.
"Doesn't look like there's much going on," observed Alistair, his thoughts running a similar path. "Slow day, maybe."
"Mm."
Flora extracted her hair from the mule's mindlessly chewing jaw. Wandering to the scorched remnants of the barn, she went in through the ruined doorway, then clambered up onto the decaying foundation of a wall. This afforded her a better view of the buildings scattered across the hillside before them. An old woman was hanging clothing out to dry on a line suspended from the stone monument.
"Do you think the Darkspawn will get this far?" she asked, digging the toe of her boot in for balance. "We're a long way from Ostagar."
Alistair scratched the mule's ear a final time, then came to stand below her.
"Probably, if they aren't stopped," he replied, thinking grimly, to be accurate: if we don't stop them. "They'll probably reach Denerim. Or, we could get lucky and they head west to Orlais. Pity about the Frostbacks in the way."
Flora leaned on the half-fallen wall, belly pressed against the crumbling stone. An ant ran over the back of her hand and she watched its meandering journey towards the ground. Denerim, she knew, was the largest city in Ferelden: it lay to the east in a blur of remote obscurity. She envisioned it as a bloated elder cousin of Lothering, sprawling for miles and stuffed to bursting with people.
"Have you ever been to Denerim?"
"Twice," he replied, propping his lengthy frame against the wall she was leaning on. "Once with Arl Eamon, though I was too young to remember it. And then again a year or so ago, just after Duncan recruited me."
"What's it like?"
Alistair thought for a moment.
"It's split into different districts. The nobles live in one bit, the merchants in another. There's a big alienage. And a huge Chantry, though it's probably the ugliest one in Ferelden. The city's built on the bank of a river estuary, so there's a lot of docks and jetties. The whole place stinks of fish when the wind blows off the sea."
Flora had not been impressed until his final remark, when she perked up.
"I don't know nothin' about Denerim," she confessed; it was as distant and alien to her as the marble-veined, decaying glory that was Minrathous. "But my dad told me that Highever was built by three giants."
Alistair cast her a sideways look. "Giants?!"
"Yes." She waved at Leliana, who was making her way up the grassy slope towards them. "Named Gorbal, Uzgal and - I don't remember the third one. But anyway, once they'd built Highever, they walked into the Waking Sea and went to sleep."
At first, when Flora had shared her peculiar northern anecdotes, Alistair had thought that she was teasing him; testing the limits of his naivety. Yet he had quickly come to realise that she wholeheartedly believed each strange superstition and story: they were stitched inexorably into the sailcloth of her childhood.
"And my dad says that whenever Ferelden is in danger, the three giants will walk out of the sea and come to its aid."
She gazed at him; her irises a clear and lucent grey. The surrounding eyelashes were very dark and defined, as though drawn directly onto the skin with a fine-tipped inkpen.
"We could do with a couple of giants in the party," Alistair replied cheerfully, reaching for her hand as she began to inch downwards. "I'd like to see one of them boot Mac Tir across the Landsmeet chamber. Careful, now."
"Hm," said Flora, clutching his palm to steady herself as she slithered off the wall. "I don't think they'd fit in the tents."
He laughed and squeezed her fingers briefly before releasing them.
"Ah, well. Let's go and see what the lay sister has managed to extort from the helpless villagers."
AN: I once read somewhere that a good writer will use the least possible amount of words to get their point across. I unfortunately like to use 28948292 words where one will do, plus I love dragging the arse out of everything, which is why we're 37 chapters in and not even in Redcliffe yet, lol. In the original story, we'd done Redcliffe; the Circle and the Sacred Ashes by chapter 37, ooooooops. That's why I'll never be a 'good writer, I like taking my time XD Thank you so much for your patience!
Anyway, I love a good travelling chapter! I wanted to get a fraction more of Morrigan opening up, plus develop the relationship between Flora and Alistair. I also wanted to emphasise how amateurish (wrong word but I can't think of the right one) they are in the beginning - their camp is overrun with sheep, the tents are too small, they have issues getting supplies…. I think it's a bit more realistic? Also I slightly love the idea of Flora shielding herself whenever a sheep gets a bit too close lol
