Behind the barricade, the defenders had already taken up position; this part at least was well-practised after almost a fortnight of assaults. Almost half of number were stationed at the docks, ready to meet the creatures that hurled themselves from the battlements and clawed their way to shore. The rest stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind the barricade and the trench sodden with lamp-oil. The mayor wandered amongst the men at the barricade, ill-fitting breastplate strapped to his chest and a borrowed sword in his hand. Murdock could claim no familiarity with a blade; he came from a line of sedate and inoffensive traders. Still, with support from the bann, he had done his best to rally together an amateur's defence.

In the midst of the huddle behind the ramshackle barrier, two young Wardens stood elbow to elbow; one armoured in mail and leather, the other clad in a shapeless woollen coat. Flora wished that she had not already gnawed her nails down to the quick earlier; biting on them might have distracted her from the writhing nest of nerves in her belly.

Alistair eyed his sister-warden; not fooled by the stoic coolness of her expression. He had a suspicion that if her face was a true mirror to her feelings, it would be green with nausea. He suddenly felt very sorry for her: Flora had insisted a hundred times that she was a mender, not a fighter, and that she belonged in an infirmary rather than on the field. He, Alistair, had always known that there was a hidden part of himself that savoured the heady rush of battle; the hot, liquid pulse of adrenaline that came surging forth with victory. His sister-warden, in contrast, would have much preferred to keep out of the bloody melee, desiring only to treat its unfortunate victims. Not for the first time, Alistair wondered why Flora's spirits had granted her a shield of such potency; a gift that seemed an incongruous accompaniment to her healing.

Perhaps it was to keep all the men away, he thought wryly to himself, eyeing her sculpted profile in the moonlight. Compensation for that unrivalled face.

"Ready for a leg-up?" he asked softly, the barricade a tangled mess of wood before them.

Flora gave a glum little nod in response; she had no faith in the steadiness of her voice. Alistair went to hoist her up, then hesitated, something nagging at his memory. He groped for what he had forgotten within his mind; it eluded him until the moonlight slid across Teagan's Guerrin's scaled breastplate.

"How long would it take you to mend Bann Teagan's arm?" he said in an undertone, recalling the bann's earlier complaint. "Think you could do it fast?"

Teagan, standing nearby with his shield propped at his boot, glanced over at the mention of his name.

"Why? What's wrong with it?" she asked, perking up at the prospect of distraction.

"Cut, I think."

"Oh. Not long, then."

Flora looked at the bann and her unblinking Mabari stare drew him towards her like a fish on a line. The few men standing between them hastened out of Teagan's way; their boots clinging in the damp mud. Teagan came to a halt before her, lowering his shield to the ground once again. It had not been cleaned since last night's battle, the keep and mound befouled with brownish smears.

"Merely a flesh wound," Teagan explained; keeping a wary eye on the castle overhead as he unfastened his gauntlet. "My squire stitched it. Silly lad ought to stick to sewing saddle bags."

The removal of the gauntlet and the rolling up of the mail revealed the cut; several inches long and poorly closed with ragged black crosses. The thread trailed loose from the skin, raw flesh the bright pink of a grapefruit gaped beneath slackened stitching.

Flora stared at the wound in appalled fascination; unable to quite believe what she was seeing.

Is THIS how people mend their wounds without magic?

In principle. This was poorly done.

Sewn up like a hole in a net! With thread! Like a SOCK.

Stop gawping and start mending! The enemy will make their move soon.

Flora did not want to think about the impending battle. She bent her head to the startled bann's arm, clamped the end of the thread between her teeth and pulled. The thread came free with some resistance; to his credit, Teagan gritted his teeth and made no complaint.

"How much time do we have?" asked Alistair, stepping back on the damp mud as mayor Murdock passed by, muttering encouragement to the huddled men.

The bann let out a humourless half-laugh, gaze settling on the top of Flora's head as she bent her face over his arm.

"That's the one saving grace of this ordeal: they're punctual. They strike a candlelength after sunset."

Alistair glanced to the west: no remnant of the sun remained. An early moon had emerged from behind a wreath of cloud, spilling a sickly, spoiled light into the town below. The stars hung within the cloud, vague and intangible; like pallid ghosts of themselves. Far below the shadow pooling in Redcliffe's streets had melted away, but the faces of the defenders were now curdled to jaundiced paleness, as though their death masks had already been fixed in place. In contrast, the castle now seemed cast in even darker silhouette, menacing as a predator crouched before the lunge. All eyes were fixed on Idelson's Fall, and the rough-hewn span of stone that connected it to the mainland.

"It'll be soon, then," Alistair said at last, returning his attention to the bann and his sister-warden. "Flora, how long- "

"I done it."

"Maker's Breath!"

Despite Alistair's earlier testament and the empty bedrolls in the Chantry, Teagan Guerrin had not quite believed in the potency of Flora's magic. He had met several mages who claimed to possess the power of healing; some were quacks who fooled their patients with alchemical remedies, others only offered an illusory cure, which lasted long enough for payment to be made and the mage to be well on their way before dissipating.

Now, in the span of less than a minute, the raw wound on his arm had been sealed so thoroughly that not even the ghost of a cut remained. No scar marred the skin, which was fresh, and pink, and had the itch of new growth.

"Maker's Breath," the bann repeated, staring at Flora as she wiped his blood from her mouth with a nonchalant hand. "Your talents are as rare as your beauty."

"Tal- ent ," she corrected, alarmed at his overestimation of her. "I can't do nothing else."

Her general-spirit gave a huff of irritation.

"Well, I can shield - a bit," added Flora hastily. "But I'm not practiced."

Alistair felt a warm flood of pride fill his belly; as though he had swallowed a mouthful of dwarven fire-whiskey. The notion that he had once called Flora's magic weird to her face now seemed unbelievable. He wished that there was some way that he could go back and slap a palm over his own mouth.

However, there was no more time for Teagan to admire his neatly sealed wound, not for Alistair to ruminate over past mistakes. A shout of warning rose from the boy perched atop the barricade; his uplifted arm ended in a trembling finger. A cloud with the greenish pallid of graveyard mist had erupted from the gates of the castle; spilling across the rocky promontory. Even from a distance, the collective howl that rose from the ghastly vapour was audible: half-formed cries slid from malformed throats and merged into a terrible cacophony. Strange forms were silhouetted within the murk: some skeletal, others sinuous and broken.

A ripple of fear passed through the defenders at the barricade; one boy barely old enough to shave began to whimper. Flora's stomach sunk as though it had been lined with lead. At the same time, its contents began to churn in a nauseating maelstrom; she sorely regretted her decision to eat dinner.

Breathe. You'll be of no use to anyone if you can't cast.

Flora took an overlarge gulp of air, inhaling the sweat and rank fear of the men clustered nearby. She looked sidelong at her brother-warden. If Alistair was nervous, he bore no physical sign of it. The anticipation of battle had cast his face into a predatory stillness; his eyes hard and bronzed by the firelight. Despite Duncan's efforts to shield him from overly dangerous encounters; Alistair had been drawn into more conflict during his year in the Wardens than most Fereldans saw in a decade. He was no military veteran, but he had a well founded faith in the potency of his sword-arm.

Flora did not want him to ask her if she was ready a second time, in case she blurted out a panicked denial ; or - worse - let him hear her chattering teeth. Instead she chose to avoid him and his inevitable question, turning her face to the barricade. There were places she could reach to pull herself up; she did not need him to boost her into position -

"Maker, no!"

This slid from the mouth of the mayor Murdock. His head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, his eyes desperately scanning the landscape of the castle overhead. A moment later, he let out a groan of disbelief as his fears were confirmed.

"The horde aren't splitting! They're all coming this way!"

Half of their forces were stationed down by the lake, awaiting the attackers that hurled themselves from the battlements and clawed their way onto the shore. The Qunari and Morrigan were at the docks, as was the dwarven mercenary and his men.

Teagan Guerrin swore, elbowing his hapless squire aside as the boy's feet tangled beneath him. Bann and mayor converged in desperate consultation, the defenders milling like panicked halla .

"We don't have the numbers to hold them off," he hissed, eyes bright and glittering behind his helm. "We have only half our forces here. Send for the men down at the lake!"

"There's no time," the mayor replied, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Look."

The mass of seething vapours had crossed the rocky promontory; reaching the steep path that cut into the cliff. The ruddy, rough-hewn track sloped a quarter-mile down to the town; traversing several small bridges and passing the old mill. There was no natural barrier in the way of the horde: no gate or ditch that could delay their ghastly charge.

Flora stared at the piece of barricade before her. It was the end of the Chantry pew, nailed at haphazard angle to the mass of wood. There were elaborate letters carved into the oak but she could not read the words they made. Around her, disbelief and shock spread within the defenders like wildfire; their voices tangling in protest at the unfair hand they had been dealt.

Go on.

Do I have to?

We do not loan you our gifts so that you can act the coward. Hurry up.

Flora glanced at Alistair from the tail of her eye. He was distracted, staring up at the swarming enemy as they set out on the cliff path. His sword was already in hand, the steel quivering in anticipation of the first strike. Despite the hardships of his childhood and the tension between himself and the arl; Redcliffe was the place that Alistair had named home for the first decade of his life.

Hurry up! snarled her general, its irritation like a buzzing wasp.

Ducking her head to avoid attention, Flora made her way between the throng. Narrow spaces had been cut into the barricade to allow the passage of arrows and the thrust of pikes; she managed to squash herself through. A jutting splinter snagged the loose wool of her coat; preoccupied with pulling it free, she almost fell into the ditch soaked with lamp oil.

Eyes watering from the fumes, she turned her eyes to the path ahead. It was swathed in shadow, a slightly darker stripe set against general obscurity. She could hear the sound of the horde approaching in the distance: a limping, lurching mass of feet that moved with unnatural swiftness. Flora hesitated: it seemed wrong to be headed towards the enemy.

RUN!

The order from her general mingled with the calling of her name from somewhere behind; the two syllables sharp with alarm. The realisation that her brother-warden had noticed her absence spurred Flora to move. She clenched her fingers into her palms and hurled herself gracelessly into the shadow; feet finding their rhythm in the darkness.

The path rose up at a low angle: Flora remembered from their arrival that morning that it was littered with potholes. She hoped fervently that she would not plunge into one and twist her ankle. It seemed like the sort of unfortunate accident that would befall someone like her, rather than someone like Leliana.

As a puffing Flora passed the old mill - her slenderness did not translate to fitness - she began to taste a foul vein in the air. It was a charnel-house scent; it reminded her of a rotted cadaver spat onto the sand after a week gnawed by the waves.

That's the smell of dead things, she thought to herself in a panic. But it's not possible. Dead things don't move.

HURRY.

The buildings of Redcliffe were now behind her; the bridge that spanned the waterfall ahead. The sibilant rush of water over rock was drowned by the noise of the approaching enemy. A greyish-green vapour surged like a wave towards the bridge from the far side: within the mist, formless silhouettes merged in a tangle of raw, ragged flesh. The quiet was almost worse than the previous feral howling; now, the scrape and rattle of bone was clearly audible.

As she came to a graceless stop, Flora tasted the sour tang of bile on her tongue, and realised that she had almost been sick with fright.

I wasn't made for this, she thought wildly, lifting her hands before her. I wasn't made to be in situations like this. I'm supposed to be a mender. Why did you have to give me a shie-

The green cloud erupted at the far end of the bridge, and the smell of the grave was overpowering.

NOW.

A panicking Flora flung out her barrier like a net. The skeins of light billowed outwards, assembling themselves into a hanging trellis before her. The ends wrapped themselves around the railings of the bridge, sealing it off from the approaching horde. Flora exhaled unsteadily, her face inches from the gossamer fibrous strands as they knotted themselves together. Each was no thicker than a single human hair; the barrier had the same diaphanous structure as a soap bubble.

Moments later, the horde broke against it like a wave on the rocks. She flinched at the impact, her hands flying up in front of her face.

Don't close your eyes! bemoaned her general.

For the first time in her life Flora suddenly had empathy for the fish wriggling on the end of the hook; fixed in place and helpless. She opened one eye tentatively, relieved to see that her barrier still hung in place across the bridge. The gold filaments, connected by minute and intricate weave, held firm against a barrage of blows from the other side. Now the enemy was howling in rage that their passage had been thwarted, the baying thin and tattered.

Flora took a deep breath and opened her other eye, forcing herself to focus on the creatures milling on the far side of her net.

These can't be worse than Darkspawn, she thought to herself, fiercely. Darkspawn are monsters. They're the scariest things in the world. These can't be worse.

Then, as she focused on the enemy properly, Flora realised that they were worse; but not in the way that she had feared. She had thought that worse meant sharper teeth, fiercer claws, more muscle; but in reality, what was worse was seeing the remnants of humanity caught in their cadaverous remains. A skeleton flailed mindlessly with a cooking pot, the tattered scraps of an apron fluttering around its depleted waist. A corpse with eyeglasses and the blanched flesh of a drowned man hurled himself against her shield so forcefully that she heard the crack of bone. Walking carcasses with the meat hanging off them bore the bloodied arms of Eamon Guerrin.

The mender in Flora recoiled at such an unnatural desecration of the body. She felt the muddy path lurch beneath her and she stumbled; the horror of the enemy struck her like a physical blow. She tasted her dinner in her mouth and spat it out, coughing at the sudden acidic sting.

Keep your focus! lectured her general. They are no worse than what you have faced already.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM?!

This is not the time. Hold the barrier.

Flora made herself swallow the bile. She did not know whether the dampness on her cheeks was sweat, tears, or the drizzle that had just resumed. The edges of her gleaming net were fraying; she flapped panicked hands at them until they repaired themselves.

Duncan didn't recruit you as a mender, she told herself, trying to ignore the guttural moaning from the other side of her barrier. He said: I wanted you the moment you summoned your shield against the maleficar. If Irving had refused me, I would have taken you anyway.

She conveniently chose not to remember that Duncan had then kept her within Ostagar, assigning her duties that kept her beneath his eye in the infirmary.

A husk of eviscerated flesh tried to evade her barrier, clambering along the rail of the bridge. It slipped and fell thirty feet to the rocks below, making a sickening crush as it disappeared from sight. Flora felt fresh sweat break out across her forehead; her heart making a wild assault on her ribs.

My insides feel like they've rearranged themselves.

You know that's anatomically impossible. Stop forgetting to breathe.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, blinking water from her eyes and checking the strength of her barrier yet again. It seemed to be holding together, the delicate filaments bowing but not breaking. She decided that she would rather stare at her shield than at the enemy; when she blinked, a golden mesh flashed on the inside of her eyelids.

Suddenly a new sound cut through the air: a whistle, originating from the darkness behind her. Flora did not dare to look over her shoulder, her eyes still fixed on the net of hanging light before her.

What's that?

A signal. The reinforcements have arrived.

Flora's initial relief evaporated in seconds as she realised her predicament. Her magic had a limited range: the greater the distance, the weaker its effect.

How far can I get before my barrier collapses?

Less far than you would have done if you'd accompanied more patrols at Ostagar, came the acerbic reply. Time to find out.


AN: OK I almost sent poor Teagan into battle with a messed up arm! Had to go back and edit in Flora mending it, haha. On reading through though, I actually really like that she gets to heal in this chapter - I wanted to contrast how comfortable/practised she is at mending, with her lack of confidence with the shield. I wanted to show that creating the barrier is her secondary skill and she's just a bit crap at it at the moment, because of lack of practice! Her inexperience of battle comes across more strongly too - despite this story being 40+ chapters now, Flora had had barely any fighting experience. All she's had is Darkspawn patrol they fought before her Joining, the single-creature ambushes in the Tower of Ishal, and the bandits before Lothering. So I wanted to communicate how scared she is in her first proper 'battle' scenario. I think that portraying her inexperience at this stage will make her character arc more satisfying as the plot progresses, since this is a coming of age story and all :) i love the fact that her general spirit can't get over the fact she basically sat on her ass for a month at Ostagar haha.