The light drained slowly from the day. The sallow wash of evening grew murkier with each quarter-candle; clouding over like a painter's water jar. The drizzle came and went in indecisive bursts, leaving everything in a state of perpetual dampness. Shadow coursed down from Idelson's Fall, following the passage of its unfortunate namesake. It drowned the town below like an inverted tide; darkness swelled in the gaps between buildings and pooled in the corners of lanes.

Still, the defenders of Redcliffe had some small measure of hope: their barricade was rebuilt to a new height, their armour and weapons hot from the forge, and the dwarven mercenary had agreed to lend his ax to their cause. They had also gained the aid of skilled strangers: a Qunari; a woman with the voice of a priestess and the arm of an archer; a mage with yellow eyes that gleamed like tourmaline. The young swordsman was seen as a good omen: he had Maric's height and brawn as well as his face, and the old king was much beloved within Redcliffe.

With the aid of some lamp oil, several fires were built and meat brought out on spits. The tavernkeeper and his wife, with the help of their boys, rolled down several barrels of ale for the defenders to fortify themselves and warm their bellies. Men and a handful of thick-limbed women clustered around the fires, their arms laid to the sides. Many had needed to improvise their weapons: the inhabitants of Redcliffe were traders and craftsmen, not soldiers. The mason's hammer served as a maul; the pitchfork as a pike; the tools of the kitchen similarly repurposed. The blacksmith Owen had spent his afternoon putting an edge on anything that could conceivably cut or crush flesh.

Alistair had found a place to sit that was neither muddy nor a puddle; and still within the hot, smoking aura of the fire. He had not yet donned his armour but it sat close by; the plain and functional steel reflecting the restless flame. His appetite always grew before a battle; he could eat a day's worth in a single meal, aware that he would need every bite to fuel him against the foe.

Leliana had taken a seat nearby; having distributed as many holy tokens as possible, she was now applying a final coat of oil to her reinforced jerkin. The leather gleamed liquid in the firelight as she worked it back and forth with capable fingers, testing the flex in the hide.

"I never eat before combat," the lay sister said, then hid a smirk behind her fingers, "planned combat, anyway. Of course, many fights are not so predictable."

"I didn't realise that Chantry cloisters were so dangerous," remarked Alistair drily, accepting another link of sausage on his plate. "Remind me to watch my back the next time I go to pray."

"A good habit for any situation," came the smooth reply. "Anyway, I find that my mind is sharper and clearer when my body isn't preoccupied with… digestion."

Alistair snorted, distracted by a pair of men sitting a few yards away. They were poorly encased in eclectic plate; their merchants' bodies not made for armour. Up until now they had been arguing over the sword they seemingly shared between them; then their conversation took a diverse tangent.

"Look at that! I could spend a happy hour there."

This was met with a chortle of disbelief.

"A happy hour? The ale has addled you. A happy three minutes, more like."

Alistair had a suspicion about the shift in their focus. His hunch was immediately proved right when his sister-warden dropped down inelegantly at his side; the loose folds of her coat bundling around her. The solemnity was laced with an uncharacteristic excitement; she leaned close to him, face alight.

"I've just met a man called Cod ," she breathed, enchanted. "COD! He's in charge of the lamp oil."

"Cod?" he repeated dazedly, distracted by her closeness and the pressure of her small fingers on his arm.

"Yes," she said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Well, he says that he's called Coed, but that can't be right. Why would you name yourself Coed, when you could be named Cod?"

"It is Coed," muttered a man in passing, shooting her a dark stare. "Not sodding Cod."

Flora waited until he had vanished into the shadow, then mouthed IT'S COD at Alistair with such intensity that he found himself laughing. Such blatant humour was at odds with the oppressive air surrounding them and so he hurriedly stifled himself; biting hastily into a sausage. Flora eyed him meaningfully, taking a piece of bread from a passing platter and crossing her legs beneath her.

Alistair swallowed his mouthful, letting the winding skeins of surrounding conversation drift over them for a moment. The mayor Murdock was drilling his volunteers for the dozenth time; the mercenary was placing bets on how many kills he would claim. Leliana, with deceptive modesty, had taken him up on his offer; eyes glittering. The lamp oil was soaking within a hastily dug gutter; a pungent, alchemical smell threaded the damp air.

He returned his attention to his sister-warden. Flora was shredding her bread with her fingers, peering around the far reaches of the firelight.

"I lost Morrigan," she said after a moment, breaking off the crust. "She agreed to come and have dinner, but she's vanished. I think she changed her mind when I started talking about Cod on the way ."

"Ah, well," replied Alistair lightly, watching her bite down with small, very white teeth. "I can't say I'm too disappointed. Anyway, Flora, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Flora swallowed the bread and turned her unblinking gaze on him. The fire lent colour to the glacial palette of her complexion: the skin and eyes painted with a gilded brush, while the dark red hair gleamed like copper poured from a brazier's bucket. Alistair grasped about for his thought, which seemed to have slithered out of his skull.

"You haven't been in many fights," he said at last, resigning himself to a lack of eloquence. "You didn't go out much at Ostagar, did you?"

Flora shook her head. Apart from the initial venture into the Wilds, and their flight to Ishal's roof, she had little experience of battle. At first Duncan had sent her out to accompany the occasional patrol; yet in a short time, her duties beyond the fortress wall dwindled to none. Alistair recognised this well enough since Duncan was similarly wary to risk him on anything more dangerous than retrieving Darkspawn blood. He also knew that the Warden-Commander's reluctance to send Flora into the Wilds had not been derived from the same cause relevant to himself.

"Well, it's… it's different to when we used to practice on the training dummies. It's chaotic. It'll be dark too, which doesn't help. And noisy."

Flora listened to her brother-warden with furrowed brow, the bread now untouched in her lap. Alistair continued, his voice carrying low and earnest below the merit of surrounding conversation.

"It'll be disorientating. You should find a position that's away from the bulk of the fighting. Somewhere where you can see what's going on, but where you won't be in… in the thick of it."

Alistair interspersed his speech with pauses, as though expecting protest or interruption. But Flora remained silent and attentive, listening without comment. When he finished, she waited to see if there would be continuation - then, gave a nod of agreement.

"I'll find a barrel to stand on," she replied, solemnly. "Or, climb up that - that thing."

That 'thing' was the barricade, the name had temporarily eluded Flora. Alistair swept an appraising glance over her: she did not look ready for battle. She was still clad in her woollen undervest beneath the ugly coat, her staff remained hidden in the cart within the stables.

"Alistair, giving out combat advice?" remarked the bann easily, lowering himself beside them with a fluidity borne from years in the saddle. "The last time I overheard you giving out instructions it was for breaking into the pantry after hours."

Teagan Guerrin was clad in a sheath of mail that gleamed like the scaled flank of a fish; his blade and armour carried by a squire hovering at the edge of the firelight. Alistair returned a brittle smile; he did not need his childhood resurrected in the hour before battle.

"I don't sneak into many kitchens these days," he replied, evenly. "How much longer do we have before the attack begins?"

Teagan darted a glance at the last gasp of sun in the west; barely a breath of light remained above the horizon.

"A candle-length, no more," he said, returning his gaze to Alistair. "Are you and your friends ready?"

His green Guerrin eyes then slid sideways, as though pulled on a wire. Flora had finished her bread and was now fiddling with her hair, trying to push the errant strands back into Leliana's bow. Eventually she gave up, yanked out the ribbon and tied up the plum-coloured rope in its usual lopsided knot. It sat atop her head like a sea creature, trailing long fronds down beside her ears.

"My lady Warden," said the bann, his gaze lingering. "You seem underdressed for battle."

Alistair, who had been about to respond, closed his mouth again. Flora blinked; she took a moment to glean his meaning.

"It's Flora," she said, assuming that he had used the honorific after forgetting her name. "And I don't wear armour."

She then shot an appreciative look at the bann's chainmail mesh. "Oh, but I might if it made me look like a salmon."

Teagan laughed and, possessing the assurance of a man with privileged blood, made no attempt to stifle it as Alistair had done. He interpreted her admiration as flirtation; though there was one thing that needed to be established before he could beguile her with the full bright mettle of his charm.

"By the by," he remarked, with calculated casualness. "How old are you, Flora?"

Flora was still looking at the interwoven mesh covering his chest; the firelight slid over it as though it were liquid.

"I ain't twelve," she replied absentmindedly, having never bothered to learn her numbers beyond the dozen paired ribs in a grown human.

As the bann's jaw dropped, Flora returned her attention to Alistair, leaning away from the smoke as the wind changed direction. She put the last of her bread on his empty platter, tapping his knee to gain his attention. This was not necessary: his eyes had not strayed from her since she first sat down.

"Thank you for the advice," she said solemnly, lifting her finger. "I'll find a high thing to stand on before the fight begins. I'm going to go and hide these in a safe place."

Her hand dipped inside the folds of her coat, drawing out the sheaf of parchment. Alistair recognised the Warden treaties by hue: yellowed with age, kept intact by some long-dead mage's binding charm. A page of mid-quality vellum stood out from the rest; covered in elegant script with several signatures at the base. Alistair, with a clench in his belly, saw Duncan's circumspect scrawl alongside the illiterate Flora's X.

"This must be your Circle discharge," he said, angling it towards the firelight. "It'd be more useful if the Wardens hadn't been named traitors. The First Enchanter's signed it too. I authorise the release of the mage Flora O'Ferryn into the custody of the Fereldan Grey Wardens - hey, is that your family name? O'Ferryn?"

Flora shook her head, using the discarded ribbon to fasten the treaties in a roll.

"The Templars couldn't understand the way I spoke," she replied, alluding to the northern accent that had been far thicker and coarser on her arrival to the Circle. "They asked me my name and I said, Flora, of Herring. And they said it back to me wrong, and they must have written it down wrong too. I ain't got a family name."

She untangled her legs and pushed herself upright, stretching a hand for the Circle discharge. Alistair looked down for a last moment at Duncan's signature beneath his thumb, then handed it back. Flora added it to her bundle; then wandered off into the mass of shadow in search of a safe location to store them. Her brother-warden watched her go; beside him, Teagan exhaled a low and appreciative breath.

"So, you and her aren't…?"

He leaned back and gestured for his squire to bring over a flask. The boy scuttled over, grey-faced at the prospect of another night spent in combat.

"No," said Alistair glumly, able to predict the tangent of the bann's thinking. "No, we're… we're friends. She's my friend."

Teagan's incredulity writ itself across his face.

"But, she's exquisite. Eccentric , but exquisite. Is it her magic that puts you off?"

"No," replied Alistair quickly, startled to realise that it was true: Flora's magic had not disconcerted him in some time. "She's… still in mourning over Duncan."

"Duncan?" Teagan took a long draw from his flask before offering it to the younger man. "The same Duncan who went into the Deep Roads with Maric and my sister decades ago? That Duncan?"

"Yes."

"The Rivaini with the earring?"

"Yes."

Teagan raised an eyebrow. Alistair had put little thought into the implications of his comment; it was motivated solely by his desire to prevent the bann from pursuing his sister-warden. He declined the offer of the flask - he did not want to risk dulling the edge of his senses before battle.

Fortunately, Teagan's attention was diverted by the silhouette of the Qunari; passing behind the fire like a conjuror's illusion. The vast and silent shadow drew many stares: the townsfolk were unsure how much trust to place in this foreign ally. Each man thought quietly to himself that he wouldn't mind the Qunari at his side; but would not want the Qunari at his back. Sten had not come to partake in the last remnants of dinner; he was passing through to take up position at the dock.

Once the Par Vollen native had vanished from sight, conversation resumed. Leliana, a demure expression not quite covering a grin, returned from placing her bet with the dwarf.

"By midnight," she murmured, hiding her words behind elegant fingers. "We should have enough coin to rest in taverns for the rest of our journey."

"If he pays up," replied Alistair, wishing that his breastplate did not let in the cold fingers of the wind. "Based on what you said earlier, he doesn't seem a very trustworthy character."

The bard let out a silvery laugh; the lapis eyes creasing with amusement.

"Right," said Alistair, watching her chuckle with a vague feeling of unsettlement. "Alright, then. You're feeling confident."

"I have faith in the Maker," she said simply, and there was such assurance in her tone that it seemed as though she must have received some divine whisper in her ear. "He would not have us beg on the road for aid. Not when our cause is such a vital one."

Alistair raised his eyes towards where the castle perched on Idelson's Fall, looming above the village like a headsman with axe in hand. There were few windows in the fortress, but the arrow-slit incisions cut in the stone looked like a hundred narrowed eyes. For what must have been the first time in the castle's storied history, no braziers burned on the battlements, nor watch-fires at the top of its towers. If there were still lanterns hanging on the rocky spur connecting the promontory to the mainland, they held no flame. For a moment, Alistair fancied that he saw a flicker of light high within the keep - a candle twisting in the draught from an arrow-slit - but then it was gone and the castle became a still and silent mausoleum once more.

Having hidden the Warden treaties beneath a loose tile in the Chantry porch, Flora returned to find the atmosphere quite changed. The remnants of dinner had been cleared away; those lucky enough to own armour had strapped it on. Improvised weapons were clenched in whitening fingers, eyes fixed on the castle overhead. The mayor was talking to a huddle of guards in a low and urgent voice: everyone else stood in silence. The defenders of Redcliffe looked gaunt with exhaustion; this was the tenth consecutive night of resisting assault.

Apprehension began to sprout prickling tendrils in Flora's belly as she came closer. She had not realised how different this would be to the last time she had experienced combat in the open: collecting Darkspawn blood in the Wilds before her Joining. This time, there would not even be sallow sunlight to illuminate the field; the outskirts of the town were drowned in shadow. There were also far more than four participants: three dozen forms were clumped together, the light of a weak moon glancing off frightened faces. Flora had already been jostled by an oblivious elbow and someone else had stepped on her toe.

My stomach feels like a jellyfish, she thought, gloomily. I don't feel ready for this.

Because your commander desired to keep you under his nose rather than send you out on patrol, came an immediate and acerbic response. You are woefully underprepared. But you must begin somewhere.

I don't think I can shield all these at once.

Of course not. Some will die. Remember what we said.

I can't save everyone.

This did not make Flora feel any better. Inhaling the sour scent of sweat and fear from the men crowded around her, she peered above their dense-packed bodies until she spotted a familiar set of broad shoulders. Her brother-warden was easy to identify: he would always be the tallest in a crowd.

Alistair's eyes caught hers at the same moment; he gestured her hurriedly towards him. She wove her way through the throng - avoiding the spikes and hooks of bared weapons - until she had reached his side. Eamon's brother was standing nearby, made distinct by his costly armour and polished blade.

"Flora."

This time Alistair was not beguiled by the sculpted stillness of his sister-warden's face. He could see the flicker of trepidation within the eyes; brief as the flare of candlelight set high in the castle keep. Unsure what he could say - if anything - to assuage her nervousness, he held her gaze instead; hoping that his unblinking stare came across as reassuring rather than unnerving.

It worked: the corners of her mouth twisted up a fraction.

"You see that bit of wood, there? The one sticking out?"

He pointed at a part of the barricade that protruded outwards at a height of six feet; in a past life, it had been part of a bedstead.

"I think it'd be a good place for you to stand. I'll give you a leg up when it's time."

Flora nodded mutely, feeling her nails dig small crescents into her palms. Alistair eyed her for a long moment, then lowered his voice; his words directed to her alone.

"You'll be fine, Flo."


AN: I wanted to communicate Flora's initial inexperience more strongly in this version - in the original, being in fights doesn't seem to bother her at all despite having barely any experience of combat! So, in this version, she's nervous about being in her first proper 'battle' - not counting the flight up Ishal, which was more single combat while running away. Alistair has more experience due to his year spent in the Wardens.

I hope everyone is keeping well! The world is so strange at the moment.