Alistair held Flora's gaze without blinking, and there was a grim resignation in the way that he held his mouth. The reins sat motionless in his lap; the mule ducked its head to nuzzle at the dirt. The only sound was the low drone of water coursing down the cliff-face nearby, one of several slender waterfalls that fed into the southern part of Lake Calenhad. They gleamed like silver ribbons draped against the florid rocks; spanned by wooden arches where they cut across a manmade road. Ahead was a signpost marking a divergence in the track: an elevated path led to the thread of rock linking Castle Redcliffe to the mainland, while a gentler slope descended to the lake and the village below.

Flora nodded, extracting herself from between various pieces of baggage and stepping carefully over Leliana. The bard was quivering with curiosity; her ears pricked like a halla scenting the wind. Alistair clambered down from the front of the cart, patting the mule's neck distractedly as he waited for his sister-warden. When she appeared with her newly shorn garments and lopsided hair, a half-smile pulled at the end of his mouth, but there was little humour in it. He cast a swift glance over his shoulder. Leliana was leaning forward with an ear tilted towards them, while Morrigan's casual indifference was not entirely convincing. The Qunari alone seemed utterly uninterested; his scowl suggested that he was more annoyed at the delay.

"Come on."

Alistair strode ahead to where one of the small bridges spanned a narrow fall of water; elevated thirty feet above a rocky concourse. Flora followed him, casting another awestruck glance at the sprawling town below.

"Redcliffe is huge," she observed as they came to a halt on the bridge, raising her voice above the growl of tumbling water. "Is it as big as Denerim?"

"What?" Alistair blinked; distracted from his train of thought. "Oh. No, Denerim is much bigger."

Flora turned her face into the misting spray of the water, fingers curling over the railing. The pile of wet red rocks below gleamed like a dragon's hoard of precious stones.

"How much bigger?"

He gave a brief shrug. "Not sure. Ten times?"

Flora was too astonished to reply. She envisioned humans and elves - were there elves in cities? - packed together like crabs in a bucket; writhing and squirming over one another. She wondered how anyone ever got anything done, since they must constantly get in each other's way. Herring was a small sickle-shaped scattering of buildings on a crag of granite: the occupant of the northernmost building could step outside and have a conversation with the southernmost resident without raising his voice.

"Anyway, Flo- "

Flora turned away from the waterfall, wiping strands of damp hair from her eyes. Alistair was prowling the narrow breath of the bridge like a caged Mabari, a bright agitation contorting the handsome features.

"Eh," she said: northern parlance for, what's wrong?

He stopped abruptly mid-stride and turned towards her.

"Remember when I told you about my - my parents? After I said I was raised by a pack of Mabari."

"Mm," replied Flora, recalling the conversation. They had been approaching the Kingsway at the time: a white stone spine of archways rising above the grassland. "You said that everyone thought Arl Eamon was your dad, but he weren't. Your mum was a servant at Redcliffe Castle. Your dad was a slippery fish."

Alistair looked nonplussed.

"Didn't stick around," she clarified, her pale eyes set on him. "Did I forget anything?"

"No. No, that's all I told you at the time- I didn't - "

Her brother-warden broke off mid-sentence, turning and staring up at the imposing limestone facade of Idelson's Fall. The rocky promontory dominated the landscape of the southern part of Lake Calenhad: it was clear why the castle perched on its head had never been seized by any external foe. Flora crossed the breadth of the bridge and stood beside him, though her eyes dropped to the wooden jetty that extended into the shallows like a probing finger. She counted eight fishing boats moored to the quay, and wondered why they had not yet set out on the water.

"I know who my father is - was," Alistair said, very softly. "He came to the castle while on one of the royal tours around the country - I think they call them progresses. His wife had been dead for a few years by then."

Flora peered sideways at her brother-warden, noticing the clench of the jaw and the tension pulling his mouth taut. She had no idea what he was talking about, and had never heard of progresses, but decided not to ask for clarification. The next words that Alistair spoke emerged in a crowded tangle; like drunk patrons stumbling through the door of a tavern.

"Flora, my father was Maric."

He paused, held his breath in his lungs; looking at her from the tail of his eye.

"Who?" asked Flora.

"Maric Theirin," Alistair continued, grimly.

The name stirred a faint memory in the depths of her mind, buried in layers of silt. She could not grasp it; it slithered away as though oiled.

"The old king," he continued, mouth twisting in a grimace at the last word. "Which makes- made - Cailan my half-brother, I suppose."

Flora turned her face fully towards him, her eyes expanding like silvered platters as she realised the gravity of his revelation.

"You're a noble?!" she breathed, astonished.

"No!" Alistair replied, louder than he had intended. "No, I'm not. I'm just a bastard. A mistake born from a stupid half-candle's worth of lust. Maybe not even that."

The words collided with each other as they poured from his mouth, each one run through with bitterness. Resentment made him seem older: the handsome face hollowed and the hazel eyes sharp as flint.

"I only saw Maric once my whole life - he came to Redcliffe with Cailan - and he didn't even look at me. Even though he knew who I was."

Flora leaned her elbows on the wooden railing, her face damp from the waterfall's misting aura.

"Being a bastard ain't nothing," she said measuredly, after a moment of thought. "I'm one. No one ever gets married in Herring, we ain't got a priestess and our Chantry got turned into lobster pot storage."

Alistair let out an involuntary half-laugh; glancing down at her. She reached out a hand and he took it without hesitation in a way that would have been unthinkable before they had survived Ostagar.

"And a baby is never a mistake," Flora continued; her soft, hoarse voice assured. "If this 'Maric' ignored you, that was his mistake."

Flora was none too impressed with the array of nobles she had come to know so far: neither Loghain, nor Cailan, nor this Maric held a high place in her esteem. She could not see how her brother-warden - kind, wry and raw beneath the humour - could be related by blood to Cailan; who had once forbidden her to speak because he found her commoner's cadence unattractive.

Alistair exhaled slowly, shaking his head. He could feel the throb of her pulse in her palm, and realised that he was holding her hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Flora didn't seem to mind; on the contrary, she seemed rather impressed by the strength of his grip. He wondered if she was judging his ability to haul fishing boats up the beach, or pull up a net against the covetous tug of the tide. His sister-warden still tested any new experience against the hallmark of Herring; as though her four year tenure at the Circle had passed in a single, inconsequential blink of the eye.

"Arl Eamon knew, then?" She watched the lazy scud of cloud across the sky; sunlight breaking through in ragged patches.

"It's why he took me in after my mother died. The Landsmeet wanted to keep an eye on me, I suppose. Even Duncan treated me differently because of it."

Each sentence emerged with difficulty, as though the words had grown small barbs and clung to the inside of his throat. He had not even darted a swift glance at her to see how she reacted to the name of their commander.

"I wonder what kind of fish they catch in Redcliffe," Flora said after a moment, squeezing Alistair's cold fingers between hers. "Freshwater fish. I bet they don't taste as good as what we get from the sea."

Alistair blinked; confused and yet inexplicably relieved.

"Is… is that it?"

"Eh?"

"You don't want to ask me anything… anything more about it? I was preparing to answer no or I don't know to a dozen questions."

Flora turned her pale eyes on him. "Do you want me to ask about it?"

"No, not really. I just… I didn't want the arl to give it away first."

She peered at him more closely, her brows lifting a fraction. He realised that she did not entirely understand the implications of it: the fact that he was now the sole remaining son of the Theirin dynasty; that - in the eyes of those who might wish to counter Loghain - this made him a valuable asset in the challenge for supremacy. Such political considerations were far beyond the limited reach of her experience. Despite this, he believed that Flora understood well-enough that he was the son and the brother of two dead kings; and that this was important enough to be kept secret for the two decades of his life.

"I know what Eamon's going to say," he said after a brief pause. "He'll say: Theirin blood runs in you, Alistair, and now runs in you alone. I'll have to put my fingers in my ears and go: la la la."

Flora could see a thin pillar of smoke rising from the village below. She hoped that Redcliffe was not on fire.

"I'm a mender," she said, shoulder rising in a shrug. "Blood is something that goes round our body and keeps us living. It doesn't change according to who your parents were. Our family name ain't writ along our veins. My blood is the same as your blood."

"Tell that to the Landsmeet," Alistair replied, but the brittleness had eased from his words.

"I will," she replied mildly, watching the smoke wend its way slowly upwards. There must have been a breath of air altering its course; she could taste burnt ash on her tongue.

"Actually, the Theirin bloodline is rumoured to contain dragonblood."

Flora and Alistair both looked around to see the cart, mule, Morrigan and Leliana now standing only a few yards away; shamelessly eavesdropping. In an effort to feign innocence, the bard had kept the same stance and demeanour as she had done when the cart was further away. Her attempt at subterfuge was sabotaged by the Qunari, who stood glowering in his original position; alone on the road.

"Prince Alistair," said Morrigan evilly; her eyes alight with the promise of a new irritating moniker. "Ha!"

Alistair groaned; dropping Flora's hand and dragging his palm over his face.

"No, thanks. And - dragonblood? Really? I've never heard anything so ridiculous."

Leliana abandoned the pretense that she had not been eavesdropping, descending from the cart and joining them on the bridge. Redcliffe lay below them; the houses built on its upper slopes supported by struts sunk into the earth. Although it was the middle of the day - and it was supposedly a market town - there was little discernible activity. The scene could have been a landscape in oils: Fereldan Village at Rest.

"I would be surprised if more people did not know, Alistair," the bard continued, her gaze also settling on the column of smoke. "I have only seen Cailan in portraiture, but you have a far stronger look of Maric."

Alistair grunted; darting a sideways glance at Flora. She was looking at the fishing boats, inexplicably still moored at the jetty despite the calm waters and rainless skies.

"And all the Theirins are built like blacksmiths," finished Leliana with an appraising slant in her tone. "I guessed your heritage when you first stood up in Dane's Refuge."

"Great," he replied, drily. "Well done. Very observant of you."

"Why ain't the boats out?"

A belligerent Flora was now standing on the lower rail of the bridge, leaning on the upper and craning her neck towards the town below. Her brow was creased like folded parchment, her fingers curled around the wood.

"It's nice weather," she added, canting her head towards the pallid wash of cloud overhead. "The water is flat. But no one's on it."

She was irrationally irritated: the fishermen of Redcliffe had no angry waves, no shifting tides, no sly currents to contend with; they had the fortune to draw their catches from docile waters, and no one was out.

"Do you ever stop thinking about fish?" Morrigan enquired archly, though her yellow eyes were also set on the unnatural stillness of the town below. "It's bordering on an obsession."

"Let's go," said Alistair, deciding that he just wanted to get his homecoming over with. "There's a decent tavern we can stop at - the Gull and Lantern. If I remember right, they do a beef stew that I think has actual cow in it."

They set off once again; Leliana taking the reins as the mule ambled over the wooden bridge. The road was hemmed by the ruddy cliff on their right; the left led to a precarious drop. Fortunately they met no travellers heading towards them since the cart left little room for other traffic. Strings of grubby cloud tangled overhead like a sheep's fleece, set against a background of jaundiced sky. It was not a wintery morning of the sort that might inspire bards: it had dawned a sallow and unhealthy day. A flock of small, dark-feathered birds took off from the fence as they approached; like cinders blown sideways by the wind.

Sten strode on ahead, his improvised polearm resting with ease over a broad shoulder. He had barely spoken a word since they had dismantled their camp: he bristled with readiness like a war hound.

"As we journey further," he said unexpectedly, addressing thin air in light of the fact that there was no clear commander present. "I would recommend scouting out a settlement before plunging blindly in. There could be assailants lying in wait. A trap set ahead."

All heads turned towards him; he shifted his shoulders irritably as though shaking off their stares.

"How would you recommend we proceed in the future, then?" enquired Leliana, steering the mule away from a small slippage of red rock. "I have some skill in concealment."

While the unlikely pair discussed strategy, Flora sat in the back of the cart and mulled over her brother-warden's revelations. He had confessed his parentage with the same abashed demeanour of a perennial sinner; which confused the practical Flora, since she could not see how he was at fault for the circumstances of his birth. As far as she was concerned, he had grown up a commoner like herself - well, perhaps not quite like herself, for childhood in Herring seemed to be a unique experience - and thus there was no reason why she should view him any differently.

Her teeth clattered like Antivan castanets in her head as a distracted Leliana failed to avoid a second pothole. She knew that a king was first amongst nobles, and that nobles were set above the common folk; although she did not entirely understand why .

Who decides who's king?

In Ferelden?

Mm.

In law: whoever has the support of the Landsmeet and the commons. In practice: whoever has the larger army.

Why do we have a king, and Orlais has an emperor?

Her spirits remained silent; aware that any attempt to explain the complexities of Ages-old geo-politics to a girl with no formal education would be utterly futile.

After realising that her question had been ignored, Flora set her eyes on Alistair. He was walking to the rear of the cart, several yards behind. His handsome face was shrouded with apprehension; the jaw clenched hard enough to carve hollows beneath the angular cheekbones. His gloved hands made restless clenched fists at his side, as though he had forgotten how to use them.

Flora slithered inelegantly off the end of the cart, grateful for Sten's strapping around her knee.

"Alistair," she hissed, desiring to avoid the attention of their companions. "Alistair."

He startled, then flashed her a wan smile.

"Alright, Flo?"

She paused in the road until he had caught up to her, falling into step beside him. There was a foot of disparity in their heights; it took her a moment to match his pace.

"Did I say the right thing just now?"

He looked down at her: her pale stare was fixed unblinking on his face.

"What do you mean?"

Flora kept anxious eyes on him.

"Noone's ever told me that they were the son of a king before. We don't get many of them in Herring. People tend to avoid us."

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I never would have guessed."

She persisted, not willing to let him deflect with humour.

"I'm sorry if I didn't say the right thing. I still don't… don't really know what to say about it."

"I don't really know what to think about it," Alistair replied, wryly. "I've been trying not to think about it for over ten years."

"It don't change anything," she said, then clarified hastily. "For me. I mean, it might mean something to other people."

Flora could understand Alistair's apprehension: in her healer's view, blood was a substance created by the body for the purpose of sustaining life; in the mind of men like Arl Eamon, blood could carry an additional, inexplicable significance.

"But you'll always be my brother-warden," she informed him, solemnly. "Unless you decide different."

She reached out and gave his hand a hard and capable squeeze, as though he were a boat she was hauling by rope to shore. Alistair returned her grip for a brief, fervent instant; deliberately averting his gaze as he blinked rapidly.

"Thanks, Flo."

"Mm."

They walked in silence for some minutes, following the ruts dug into the ground by the cartwheels. The constant sibilant hiss of running water filled the air around them: Calenhad demanded a hundred tributaries to keep itself full, and waterfalls lined the cliffs like stripes of silvered paint.

"I don't know nothing about Maric," Flora said as they crossed yet another wooden bridge behind the ambling cart. "I know more about Old Edemonem."

"Who?" It was not a name that Alistair had heard in any Chantry classroom.

She shot him a solemn look from the corner of her eye.

"He once ruled the seabed between Ferelden and the Marches. I'll tell you about him tonight, if you like."

He grinned. "You're the first person to ever tell me bedtime stories. You don't think I'm too old for them?"

Flora was astonished. "Never too old for stories. I got loads of 'em."

"Good," Alistair said, surprised at how passionate the word emerged. "Good, because I want to hear them all."

She smiled at him, then her gaze glanced off his face as a new sound caught her attention. The sloping path had levelled out; they had finally descended to Calenhad's shoreline. A mill perched on a rocky bluff nearby, the fins of the great wheel catching the runoff from a waterfall. It groaned as it spun: the joints were rusting and needed oiling.

The cart came to an abrupt halt in the road before them. They heard Leliana draw in a startled breath, the reins falling in a leathery slither onto her lap. Before the bard had finished her sudden inhalation, Alistair had strode forward to retrieve his sword from the rear of the cart; seamlessly withdrawing it from the scabbard and readying himself.

Together, the Wardens advanced around the motionless cart, expecting to see some less-than-friendly welcoming party: a cluster of mercenaries, or perhaps a pack of rogue Darkspawn that had somehow traced their steps. For a brief, giddying moment Alistair thought that they might see Loghain Mac Tir himself glowering at the outskirts of Redcliffe. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as the blood surged hot and angry in his veins.

Yet when they reached the head of the mule, no threat was manifest on the road ahead. Instead, a miserable huddle of bleak-faced villagers stood to the side; watching soldiers toss wood onto a vast and smoking human pyre.


AN: Lol this was only meant to be a short chapter and it's ended up 3.5k words!

I wanted to emphasise a few things here: firstly, that Flora isn't sure that she handled the conversation with Alistair well and instigating a second part - I thought this was more realistic because, since when do you always say the right thing at the right time? She was just a bit overwhelmed at first which is why she starts talking about freshwater fish haha. Secondly I wanted to show how Flora is naive and uneducated, but has perceptive insights and is an expert on Herring lore! Lore which I'm just totally making up hahaha

Now onto Redcliffe and the zombie monster attacks from the castle :O

Hope everyone is staying home and washing their hands!