Lake Calenhad was the greatest body of inland water within Thedas; so vast that many who lived nearby knew it colloquially as Cal's Sea. The people of Ferelden had many differing tales about the creation of the lake; but one presided above all others. Long ago, when the liquid terrain of Thedas was first shaped into peak and trough and dale by the hand of the Maker, He had accidentally leaned a divine elbow into the western part of what would later be called Ferelden. When He saw the vast dent in His creation He wept, and filled the valley with his tears, until it had become a vast lake. This interpretation was not endorsed by the Chantry - they did not appreciate a fallible Maker, nor an emotional one - but it was popular amongst those fortunate enough to avoid a formal education.

As the sun dipped below the Frostbacks, the Wardens and their party were a quarter-mile from the lake's southern shore. The meander of the landscape had become sharper and more prominent over the past hours of their journey; as though someone had pushed a swatch of fabric into stiff pleats and laid a road over them. To stop their mule going lame on the steeper slopes, the party walked alongside the wagon; Alistair and Sten shouldered the heavier baggage to avoid over-burdening the beast. Morrigan, who never walked if she could wing, circled overhead; though the crisp, cool air and lack of uplifting currents made it more exerting. Leliana was the only one still perched on the wagon, the reins clutched in her hands as she guided the mule up the uneven incline.

With each step she took, Flora became more convinced that she had done some permanent damage to her knee. They had walked for over fifteen miles and the joint throbbed as though someone had smashed it with a warhammer. A jolt of bone-white pain jagged up her thigh each time she put weight on her left leg. Naturally, she made no complaint: her practical heart saw that there was nothing that her companions could do, and she could not heal a bone that had already been mended, albeit poorly. Northerners did not whine; you were expected to either solve the grievance yourself, or bite your tongue.

Why didn't you warn me that I was doing myself damage when I was mending it?

You were distracted.

Morrigan had said: all the Wardens are dead.

All? Even Duncan? The question resonated like the shudder of a Chantry bell.

Her spirits had confirmed it, and her fingers had clamped down hard on her broken knee; growing fresh cartilage where there should be none.

Preoccupied with feeling sorry for herself, Flora stumbled over a pothole on the track. Alistair, several yards ahead, looked over his shoulder at her sharp intake of breath; but he was leading the mule by the head over the uneven ground and could not abandon his post.

"Alright, Flo?"

She offered an ambiguous grunt in return, not wanting to lie to her brother-warden. He eyed her suspiciously for a moment; then returned his gaze to the steep incline ahead, lips pulling taut.

"Is this 'arl' your commander, mage?"

Flora almost fell over for a second time in as many minutes: it was the first time that Sten had voluntarily addressed her. Forgetting about her knee, she spun her head towards the Qunari.

"What! Sorry, what?"

Sten fixed her with a flat, ember-red stare; the penetrating sort that caused men and dogs to quail. Flora, who was used to such laconic derision - it was a valued trait in Herring - was enchanted.

"The arl we are travelling to see: Guerrin. Is he the commander of your forces?"

He pronounced it: Gu-aryn. Flora shook her head and wondered if she would ever hear the word commander again without hearing its mournful echo in her ear: my gifted girl.

"No," she replied, pricking her ears as she heard the distinctive sound of wind over water, somewhere unseen but near. "He's Alistair's… Alistair's…"

She did not know quite how to describe the relationship between Eamon Guerrin and Alistair. Granted, Alistair had not seemed altogether sure himself when he had explained it to her.

"Alistair's man friend," she said, finally. "He's an important noble. He might be able to help us. Actually, he has to help us. He's not got a choice."

"Assist with the defeat of the Darkspawn?"

"No… well, maybe . But mostly with General Mac Tir. The one who's named the Wardens traitor. He's sending assassins after us."

The Qunari was uninterested in the political intrigues of a third-rate nation; he diverted the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Who is your military commander? The one who will lead the armies in the field? He?"

The great, bull-like head canted towards Alistair, who was hauling half the wagon's contents on his shoulder while simultaneously guiding the mule up the hill. They had almost reached the crest now; a dark curve set against the apricot-streaked sky.

"Um," said Flora, her belly matching the downwards trajectory of the sunset. She felt as though she were in a Circle classroom once again, during one of their many futile attempts to give her an education.

"He seems to defer to you frequently, despite his status as a physically dominant male. Who is in charge?"

Flora wished that the Qunari had not begun to speak after all.

"We're both in charge," she said at last, her knee throbbing. "And he only asks me things because he ain't yet realised that he makes good decisions."

Sten's lip curled but he said no more. Flora noticed that he had crafted a weapon for himself from a fence post; honed to a spike at one end. It was an economical length: long enough to penetrate vital organs but not so much that it would snag on bone and sinew.

"We'll find you a sword," she said as they neared the apex of the ridge. "The arl might have one to spare."

"I had a sword."

The Qunari's gaze shifted away from her, smooth as a snake shedding its skin.

"What happened to it?"

Flora was not surprised when no answer was forthcoming.

"Regardez!" called Leliana suddenly from the head of the wagon, rising to her feet for a better view. "Le lac."

Calenhad lay before them in an airy haze; turned molten by the hues of sunset. The edge of each ripple gleamed like glass, reflecting a thousand points of light across the water's surface. The cliffs that surrounded it were a fleshy red; ribbons of rust-coloured water tumbled down the rockface and bled into the edges of the lake. The northern part of the lake was not visible; the water extended as far as the horizon, and then beyond for two dozen leagues. Anyone who scoffed at its colloquial name - Cal's Sea - suddenly acknowledged the truth in the title; for such a vast body of water surely deserved a grander label than lake.

"C'est magnifique," breathed Leliana, inhaling as though she were imbibing Calenhad's very essence. "The Miroir du Mère pales in comparison."

Flora had no idea what the lay sister was talking about, but she was fascinated to see the lake from a different perspective. Kinloch Hold, the Circle which had netted her for four years, had reared up from a rocky archipelago at Calenhad's upper end. The surrounding terrain could not have contrasted more: here, iron-stained cliffs plunged several hundred feet to the water's surface; at the northern end, the landscape lay flat and forested.

"It looks like a different lake," she said, recalling the view from the Circle Tower. "Is that Redcliffe?"

An hour's ride away a sizable town lay within an inlet. An array of timbered buildings crept up the ruddy hillside and clustered on the lake shore. A dock snaked along the water's edge, flanked by a dozen small boats and a protruding jetty. The sails of a nearby windmill stood motionless as it presided in hollow authority over the buildings below.

Redcliffe itself could have been any town in Ferelden, but the accompanying castle was far more distinctive. A crenellated sprawl of high walls and round towers fortified a colossal crag of granite; two hundred feet above the water and accessible only from the mainland by a single spur of rock. Even at a distance, the heraldry hung from the battlements was visible: a grey keep on a crimson mound. It was a bastion built for defence; reliant on the effectiveness of its natural geography to keep enemies at bay. Mindful of its proximity to Orlais, none of its features had been constructed for aesthetic purpose. As a long-dead king had once commented: to take Ferelden the enemy must first take Castle Redcliffe, and that is no small feat.

Alistair nodded without speaking, his gaze fixed on the place where he had spent the first decade of his life. The mule's reins were still clenched in a motionless hand, his expression unreadable.

"We could press on to the town," Leliana suggested, glancing sideways. "It would take an hour, perhaps two."

Flora ground her teeth, feeling her knee give a sharp stab of protest. Still, she did not want to slow the party down and so resigned herself to continue - hopping if necessary.

"No."

Alistair's reply lacked any hesitation; and when she looked up, his eyes were fixed on her. "We'll stop here for tonight and carry on in the morning."

He dropped a swift hand on Flora's shoulder as he headed towards the wagon: I see you.

It was the second time that they had set up camp as a party of five, and a routine began to establish itself. The Qunari gathered wood for a fire by snapping loose branches the breadth of a human arm; Morrigan lit the fire with the touch of her staff and a curled lip; Leliana organised the cooking apparatus and selecting foodstuffs. The two young Wardens took charge of the tents; extracting tentpoles and swathes of canvas from the wagon.

The smell of herbs and roasting vegetables drifted along the grassy ridge as the sun sunk out of sight. Stars began as distant lanterns, set deep in silver wreaths of cloud. Calenhad seemed as vast as any sea at night, stretching across the land like ink spilled across a desk. High on the ridge overlooking the lake, the camp began to shape itself. Flora, draped in canvas, rotated slowly on the grass as Alistair pulled out the fabric; checking for holes or tears that needed mending. This was their third tent: the first two leaned at drunken angles beside the fire. The Wardens were not yet entirely adept at constructing their new accommodation.

"This one seems fine," Alistair said at last, letting the fabric go. "Ha, you look like a Tevinter emperor with that sheet wrapped round you. All hail!"

"What's a nemperor?"

"Like a king."

"Ooh."

Flora waved an arm in what she believed was a royal fashion; the canvas slithered down to her elbow. Her brother-warden snorted, using the bulk of his body to sink the tentpole into the earth.

"Go on, Imperator Florus Maximus: say something regal."

Flora paused, thinking on the few sentences that Cailan had directed towards her during their limited time together.

"'Take off your shirt,'" she said at last.

"Whaa- "

"Stew is ready! Mangeons!"

Before they ate, Leliana proposed that they begin their meal with a short prayer. When this was met with either incredulity or unenthusiastic silence, she suggested instead that they share something that they were grateful for; for the purpose of giving thanks to the Maker. Morrigan laughed when she was prompted to speak, yellow eyes gleaming like tourmaline in the illuminated shadow. Sten flatly ignored the lay priestess while Flora, who had started to surreptitiously eat, had her mouth full and said nothing. Alistair, tired of Chantry ritual after a decade of religious routine at the monastery, said that he was grateful for newly mended socks.

The bard had done her best with their limited range of supplies, and although - in Alistair's opinion - the stew contained a very Orlesian array of herbs, he still ate three bowls' worth. Morrigan and Sten sat just outside the perimeter of the firelight; eating in silence and eyeing each other with naked distaste. The lay sister murmured a private prayer before eating, but then chattered so much that her food grew tepid. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Ferelden's greater and lesser families; and proceeded to inform them of the multifarious parts played by the Guerrins in the nation's history.

"It was seen as a great scandal when Eamon Guerrin married an Orlesian," she said, distractedly stirring her spoon around her bowl. "The lady Isolde's mother was so disappointed that she did not speak to her daughter for years. Communications only resumed when the little boy was born - what was his name again? Cornelius, Conrad…"

"Connor," interjected Alistair. It was the first that he had contributed to the conversation, apart from an audible snort at the mention of lady Isolde. "Eamon's son is named Connor, for his great-grandfather."

"Ah, oui," replied Leliana, inclining her head. "Tell me, Alistair, did you see much of the arl and arlessa during your time at the castle? You were fortunate to spend your childhood in such a magnificent building."

"I slept in the stables," he replied drily, setting down his bowl on the grass. "I only saw the inside of the castle when they needed help serving drinks at parties. And they stopped asking me after I spilled mead into some old bann's lap."

The lay sister smiled, fingers moving as though plucking chords on some unseen lute. For a few moments there was silence, save for the hiss and spit of the fire; smoke drifting heavenwards in spark-wreathed curls. An owl called a coarse greeting from the nearby band of trees. Morrigan slid back into the darkness with a rustle of beads and small bones; winging her way up through the shadow.

Flora, who had finished her stew earlier, had occupied herself with purifying the water collected from the lake. She knew well the rule of drinking water: let neither salt nor stagnant nor standing pass your lips. It had taken her only a short while to stick a finger in each bucket and waterskin; watching skeins of gossamer-thin gold ripple out from beneath her nail. Once she had gauged that any impurity had been cleansed, she wiped her damp hands on her coat and rose to rejoin the others.

Her knee gave a sharp twinge of protest as she went to sit beside Alistair. Caught off-guard by the pain, she lurched down onto the grass harder than expected. He turned towards her in alarm, a steadying hand lifting too late.

"Is it your knee?"

Flora gave a glum nod of confirmation, rolling her leggings up over the offending limb. The joint, illuminated by firelight, was swollen and sore. She went automatically to put her fingers to it; then remembered that it was not injured, just poorly mended.

"Were you wounded during the battle at Ostagar?" Leliana asked sympathetically, eyeing the grimacing girl. "It must have been most horrific."

"Um," Flora replied, wondering if being wounded a quarter-mile above the battle at Ostagar counted. A memory surfaced like a day-drowned corpse in her mind: her and Alistair rushing through the murk and shifting shadow of Ishal; the baying howls of the Darkspawn echoing from the stairwell below. "No, I… I fell. I think. I don't know how I was hurt. But it's not injured, it's just… poorly mended."

She hung her head, struck by the irrational fear that she had somehow disappointed Duncan. He had named her gifted, as specialised not limited, as rare as a zinnia flowering in Firstfall; and she had bungled the mending of a mere broken bone. Flora had fused fractures without issue since she was seven years old. For a moment she fancied that she saw her commander, standing in the shadows beyond the reach of the fire; ash smeared across the hollow bones of his face.

"Hey, Flo."

A fish, folded out of wax paper that had formerly held Leliana's parsley, 'swam' before her eyes. She blinked and glanced sideways: Alistair was smiling at her, his fingers gripping the creation by its makeshift tail.

"What kind of fish is this?"

"Ooh," Flora replied, rousing herself. "It's got a big body. Little fins. I'd say… a tuna fish."

"A tuna fish, eh?"

"Mm."

Alistair put it into her hand and she let it lie flat on her palm, the pointed folds settled against her skin. He expected her to toss it into the fire - it was just a piece of rubbish, albeit one artfully contorted - but instead, Flora put it into her pocket.

"Thank you. I know what I'm grateful for," she said, remembering Leliana's question. " You. I'm glad that we're doing this together, brother-warden."

She leaned forward - a palm on the grass to steady herself - and pecked him on the cheek. Alistair felt as though she had put her finger through his ear and swirled the contents of his skull.

"You're welcome, my dear," he said, and his voice sounded as though it belonged to a stranger. Flora smiled at him, settling back on her rear and returning her pensive gaze to the fire.

He was relieved when the rest of the company broke apart after dinner to pursue their own ends; it gave him a chance to brood over what had just happened. Leliana, in sharp contrast to her earlier piety, was now sharpening a wicked variety of knives; humming a melody of a distinctly secular nature. The Qunari stood south of the tents testing the weight and motion of his improvised pike. Flora sat on the grass a few yards away, her profile picked out in gold by the spill of light from the fire. She was washing out the party's bowls, scrubbing at the dregs of the stew with a spare rag. A pile of drying utensils was balanced precariously beside her knee. Flora liked cleaning; she was good at it, and there was a simple satisfaction in restoring an object to shining brightness.

Alistair could feel the echo of her kiss on his cheek, as though she had branded him with the print of her lips. There had been no arcane residue left on his skin; despite the miraculous properties of her mouth. Her purpose had not been to heal him - there was nothing to mend - but simply to bestow her affection. He watched Flora meticulously place each bowl upside down to drain, placing their spoons inside a beaker. She made an incongruous figure, hunched inside the shapeless grey wool of her coat, further cloaked in shadow and smoke from the nearby fire; the dark crimson of her hair deepened to plum by the darkness.

"Flo?"

Flora looked at him, a spoon in one hand and the cleaning rag in the other.

"I'm glad we're doing this together, too."

She smiled at him, her teeth as small and white as fragments of eggshell.


AN: Haha this is so long! Why do I love dragging stuff out so much? Oh well since people are on lockdown it gives them something to read I suppose. Anyway, I hope people are doing ok during this strange time. I'm actually recovering from a minor case of Coronavirus now (London is a total Petri dish, catching it was inevitable!). I've had a dry cough and a fever which was brought down with paracetamol, but I've been fine overall, I've had worse colds. But I'm also in pretty good physical condition and health so I'm fortunate. Luckily baby is asymptomatic!

O