The defenders of Redcliffe released a collective exhalation as it became clear that they had survived another night. Not only had they held out against the assault of the dead, but they had come out the clear victor. Swathes of their foe were piled up and burnt without ceremony; weapons both specialised and improvised were set down. Ill-fitting armour left crimson pinches and blossoming bruises on the skin, but such minor inconveniences were soon forgotten as the bottles were opened. The more devout amongst the villagers pointed upwards to illustrate the Maker's favour: the clouds had swept apart like opened curtains, revealing a faint cobweb of stars and a benevolent moon. The drizzle had finally yielded to the bare bones of the sky. Those who were less pious murmured that such clarion conditions would have been more beneficial during the battle as opposed to in its wake, but all drank together in harmony regardless. Soon, the celebrations spilled up from the dock towards the tavern; lights were struck in each window and the cellar raided for its remaining kegs.

On the earthy shore, near where the maze of piers and jetties extended into the sedentary stillness of the lake, Alistair held his sister-warden close. He was still reluctant to release her; each time he closed his eyes, he saw her startled face disappear into a milieu of broken wood and corpses. Flora's skin had puckered into goosebumps and her hair clung in dripping tendrils to her neck. Yet she made no complaint, fondly recalling many damp and shivering nights spent in Herring. He slid the heel of his uncovered hand along her forearm in an attempt to bring some warmth to her clammy flesh.

"Here he is!"

The bann's voice rang strident, cutting through the noise of those still thronging the dock. Teagan Guerrin had thrown back his helm, his armour a blood-splattered testament to a successful night in the field. The bann was a little breathless - he had passed his physical prime a few years prior - but the heat of victory made him seem a decade younger. A pair of his knights followed, exchanging a bottle between them.

"The man of the night," Teagan continued, coming to a halt beside Alistair. The visor of his helm had left its ghost on his face: a thin, red line boxing his eyes. "There'll be a dozen flagons downed in your name before morning, my boy. Is the lass alright?"

He had just noticed the drowned rat that Alistair was holding in his arms. Flora peered at him through a veil of saturated hair; a puddle of lakewater beneath her.

"She's not hurt," said Alistair, feeling her shift against him as relief flooded his belly yet again. "Just wet. And cold."

"I was in the lake," added Flora, unnecessarily. "Not swimming. I fell in."

A swift tug of the bann's fist, and one of his knights was divested of his Rainesfere livery. Flora found herself sporting the russet and olive tabard around her bare shoulders; it would serve to preserve her modesty in the immediate future.

Once she had been temporarily garbed, and reluctantly released from her brother-warden's clutches - the image of her slipping below the frothing waters seemed to be imprinted on the inside of his eyelids - the bann strode forwards and clapped Alistair on the shoulder.

"I meant it about the toast, Alistair," Teagan said roughly, glancing towards the clustered buildings of the town. The revelry, which was cut with an edge of disbelief, was spilling from the tavern back into the streets. "A dozen men and women claim that they were personally saved by you tonight. Your shield arm must have been kept busy."

Ever self-depreciating, Alistair gave a shrug; not quite able to hide a faint glint of relief in the corner of his eye. He had dreaded his return to Redcliffe, but the matter of his parentage had been overshadowed by the more immediate threat.

"I don't need any toasts in my name," he said, honestly. "Or at least, I don't need to hear them. I'm just happy that I was able to help."

The young man glanced sideways at Flora, realising that he had unconsciously repeated the adage he had heard so often from her; at Ostagar, at Lothering and in the Redcliffe Chantry earlier that day. He wondered if she had noticed, then caught the slight upwards twist of the full mouth, the swift, glancing dart of her eye towards him.

"Will you come to the Gull and Lantern too, my lady Flora?" the bann asked, with the effortless charm of the perennial bachelor. "I'll stand you an ale."

Flora wondered if the bann was making fun of her with his use of the honorific . She did not like alcohol: it disintegrated into water and sour yeastiness on her tongue, thanks to her body's natural detoxification. In addition, although the battle was now over, her work was not done: it was time to put her primary skill to use.

"Are there any injured?" she asked, peeling a strand of wet hair from her nose.

"A few walking wounded, but they're self-medicating with beer at the tavern," replied the bann, affably. The next moment he grimaced and shook his head, annoyed at the lapse in memory. "Ah, one of my squires - poor lad got his leg split in two. I'd appreciate it if you could do anything for him, he's got a great deal of promise. He's up in the Chantry."

Flora looked uncertain: she was not able to regrow limbs, at least, she had never tried it before.

"I'll do my best," she said gravely, bringing her hand to her mouth to bite off the fresh nail.

The bann smiled reflexively at her - such a face invited it even when weary and bedraggled - then shifted his attention. "Alistair, will you come to the tavern? There's a full tankard waiting for you."

"Thanks," Alistair replied, finally managing to work the last buckle of his breastplate loose. The heavy moulded metal slid free, and he took his first unimpeded breath of the evening. "But I think I'll stay with Flo."

Flora beamed: a rare public smile.

"Can't say I wouldn't do the same in your position," replied the bann, amused. "Let me escort you both to the Chantry. It's the least I can do."

The village hummed with activity despite the lateness of the hour: the debris of battle removed, the last few enemy dead swept into piles ready for unceremonious cremation. Redcliffe's defenders exchanged stories and beverages as they worked. A diaphanous moonlight flooded the spaces between buildings; throwing a greenish cast on the array of faces. The bann, his knights and the two young Wardens made their way to higher ground; fragments of conversation tangling around them.

… none of us dead. Can you believe…

… just a few bruises…. thought I was doomed till the big lad came charging in -

… never seen the like… woman never missed a shot.

…. could've sworn it was Maric himself risen from the deep to save us.

Alistair flinched as they passed the knot of excited villagers. The old king's name felt like the poke of a sharp-nailed finger, irritating and more painful than expected.

As he contemplated the unwanted physical similarity between himself and his father, Flora ventured a question to her reproving general.

How did I do? In my first proper big battle.

I would count the defence of the Nula Spires against the hordes of Dine as a 'big battle'. Or the Purge of the Trackless Veldt. Not this local scuffle.

Eehhh?

If you had not fallen asleep in every Circle history lesson you ever attended, you might know.

Tell me how I did!

MEDIOCRE!

Flora was on the verge of slipping into a sulk when she noticed the expression on her brother-warden's face. He was grimacing as though there was a loose object in his boot; as if the townsfolk milling around them were murmuring snide remarks in his direction rather than praise. She had no idea what the cause of Alistair's frown was but she quickened her pace to match his, letting the back of her hand swing gently against his ungloved fingers.

At the brush of skin Alistair startled and then smiled down at her, the frown softening. Flora stared back up at him unblinking for a breathless instant that seemed to extend like an unwinding scroll. Then, her gaze darted to the side, attention diverted.

"Look, there's Cod! COD!"

The man, whose name was Coed , made a rude gesture. Flora, undeterred, waved at him and he turned his back pointedly on her.

"A mean man with a fish name," she said, more to herself than those walking with her. "I think he must have Herring ancestry in him. I was almost named Salmon, but I came with a name already."

Alistair grinned, wishing that he did not always get so distracted by the artistry of her face. "Is Salmon a girl's name?"

Flora thought for a moment then offered, vaguely: "Salmonella?"

Her brother-warden laughed for the first time in what seemed like an Age. The bann, however, was not laughing. A flicker of curiosity had ignited in his light green eye. Unlike Alistair, he had taken note of Flora's casual wording: I came with a name. The younger Guerrin brother lacked the sharp edge of Eamon's political acumen, but he was no fool. He looked at the girl's sculpted profile, and the embryonic beginnings of a thought took root in his mind.

But there was no more time for wondering: the noise of disbelief and weary celebration surrounded them as they reached the village square. Nearby, the dwarven mercenary Dwyn was astride a barrel, draining its contents while detailing his finer moments from the battle for a group of enthralled youths. They seemed to admire the dwarf as much for his formidable alcohol tolerance as for his adeptness in combat.

Leliana approached with cheeks flushed and her bow slung over her back. She had received almost as many toasts as Alistair for her prowess in battle.

"No dead villagers!" the bard exulted, eyes glittering. "The Maker smiled on our cause tonight. My heart is glad to see the townsfolk so happy."

"Your arrows made no small contribution to that, my lady," offered the bann with a smile, his helm beneath his arm. "I'd wager you could outshoot any of my hunters."

Leliana gave a mellifluous laugh, waving her fingers as though deflecting his compliment.

"My arrows were guided home by a heavenly hand," she replied with a smile of practised modesty. "I can't claim - what happened?"

The last part of her remark was directed to Flora, who was most inadequately dressed for a winter night.

"My vest was torn," replied Flora in her customary laconic manner. "And my coat is in the lake. I'm going to fish it up."

Leliana drew in a deep breath, although she could not entirely hide her glee at the opportunity to garb Flora in something other than ugly and sagging men's clothing. At the current moment, she knew where to find a temporary solution.

"There ought to be some spare robes in the chapterhouse," she murmured, gesturing to the antebuilding at the side of the Chantry. "I know where they'll be kept. Come with me."

"Let's be quick," warned Flora, ominously. "There's a squire with his leg split in two."

Alistair eyed his sister-warden as she scuttled after the bard; the two weaving their way around a crowd of townsfolk lugging past yet another barrel. Many were still clad in the garb they had defended their town in: makeshift armour hanging off like shedded snakeskin. The dwarf was encouraging them, tankard in hand as though he had already forgotten Flora's earlier portent on his liver. As the ale streamed forth, a half-dozen tankards tussled to intercept the pale gold stream.

"To look at them," murmured Teagan, who had limited himself to a single bottle. "You'd think that the threat had been vanquished entirely. This reprieve will only last a day, and then the attack resumes at sunset. They've drained the tavern dry."

"They're celebrating no lives lost, ser," offered one of his knights, who had drunk more than his fair share.

"A feat never to be repeated once they face the enemy with ale-fogged heads tomorrow," replied the bann, stifling a groan. "Far be it from me to end a party prematurely, but someone needs to preserve their steadiness of their sword-arms."

The younger Guerrin headed purposefully towards the crowd, flanked by his knights. Alistair watched him for a moment, the weight of his sword heavy against his knee. The pressure reminded him that the weapon was still coated in foul matter; he unsheathed the blade and wiped it on the nearby grassy bank. It took several minutes to remove the last of the cloying smears, and the effort resulted in a dull ache across his chest. He had received no direct wound during the conflict, but he had a suspicion that his skin was a mass of bruises beneath the mail.

"If it isn't the man of the night!"

The dwarf's voice was remarkably clear considering the amount of alcohol he had imbibed over the past hour. Alistair startled, the handle of the blade nearly eluding his fingers. The mercenary Dwyn had sidled away from the crowd as Teagan approached: he had no desire to receive a lecture from a minor human noble.

Alistair snorted and shrugged off the praise, sliding the blade back into its sheath. The dwarf stepped back and looked up with exaggerated wonder, shielding his eyes as though dazzled.

"You're a hulking creature. Sure yeh ain't part Qunari?"

"I wouldn't mind being the son of a Qunari right about now," observed Alistair, drily. "But I'm pretty sure I'm just a bland old human."

The dwarf snorted, taking a gulp from a delicate silver flask.

"A fellow your size should handle his liquor well. Drinking contest in the Gull and Lantern?"

"Thanks," the young warrior replied. "But I'm going to stay with my sister-warden."

"Aaah," Dwyn said, in tones of conspiratorial understanding. "I get it. Best way to relieve that post-battle adrenaline, is some of the old... ."

He made a lewd gesture with both hands. Alistair's jaw dropped, his mind flailing.

"Whaa? No. No, that's not- not… "

The dwarf gave a belly-laugh that sounded like the emptying of a drain. At the same moment, there was movement in the chapterhouse entrance. Due to the taint that ran through their blood, Alistair could sense his sister-warden's nearness before he laid eyes on her. Yet the connection between them felt different from the one he had shared with the other Wardens. Duncan's blood had run so thick with the corruption that his presence felt like a manacle. The other Wardens had seemed bound to him with rope, their connection sturdy and durable. The taint in Flora's blood tasted like a whisper; as though it had passed through a filter that had drained much of its potency. Her presence was a cobweb, flimsy and fine: a strand gossamer thin that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He was not even sure that this last effect could be blamed on the taint.

The bard strode towards them, with the air of someone who had just decisively ended a conversation. Flora followed in her wake, her solemn face rigid with even more haughty indignity than usual. She was draped in voluminous ivory robes, the sleeves flapping past her arms.

"I look like a seagull," Flora said malevolently as soon as she came within earshot, eyes like chips of ice. "The worst bird."

While Alistair was suppressing a smile - he had rarely seen his placid, temperate sister-warden so irate - the dwarf took the opportunity to chime in, not bothering to hide his own grin.

"So you two off to have some fun, eh?"

Flora assumed that he was referring to her upcoming mending of the injured squire.

"Yes. I like it better than fighting."

Dwyn gave a bawdy cackle while Alistair passed a hand over his face, fingers parting on the straight length of his nose. He was unsure whether the prickling damp on his forehead was perspiration or the resumption of the drizzle.

"Do you… want to come and watch?" Flora continued tentatively, uncertain why the dwarf was cackling instead of answering.

The mercenary's eyes lit up and Alistair hastily intervened, checking his sword was back in its sheath before striding forward.

"Let's go, Flo. A split-in-two leg awaits."

Dwyn's chortling followed them across the earth and into the Chantry. Night had tempered the bleakness of the interior hall; the crude-hewn faces of the statues softened by the mellow aura of burning wax. Between the candelabras, wells of shadow hid the effigies of long dead priestesses, prostate figures resting on their eternal biers. The windows overhead let in angular slivers of moonlight: long fingers added lustre to the flagstones. Limestone pillars stood at regular interval, facing each other like guards from opposing factions.

The bedrolls had been laid out in anticipation of the night's patients: only two were occupied. At the far end Hamunde lay prostrate; only the slightest movement of his chest indicating that he was still alive. Several yards away was Teagan's squire, white-faced and sweating; the shock of his wound had temporarily numbed the agony. A thin and continuous groan slid from his throat, which he did not seem to be aware of. Someone - possibly the priestess - had removed the crude parts of his armour and made an attempt to bandage the mess of meat and bone at his knee

Flora forgot about the hated robe the moment that she set eyes on her patient. Bundling up the trailing sleeves, she strode across the tiles; despite the removal of the pews, she subconsciously kept within the boundary of the non-existent aisle. Alistair followed the slight figure of his sister-warden, watching the stripes of moonlight slide over her as she crossed the hall.

The space where the boy was lying was shadowed, the nearest pool of candlelight an arm's length away. As Flora sunk to her knees beside the broken figure, Alistair glanced around.

"Want me to drag over a few candelabras?" he murmured; the hollow walls whispering the tail end of his question. "So you can see what you're doing."

"I can see," she replied vaguely before exhaling a long breath and flapping her hands. Although the flailing gesture verged on comedic, the effect was astonishing: slender filaments of gold materialised around her like a dawn mist settling in a hollow. The wounded squire and the mender were illuminated with a gossamer light, one that shifted like the surface of a soap bubble. Alistair stopped in his tracks - he had been prepared to wrestle a freestanding iron candelabra closer - and instead leaned back against a pillar, watching without blinking. He thought how at ease Flora looked now compared to the hour before the battle; when she had been unable to sit still due to nervous agitation.

To Flora's relief, the bann had abridged his squire's injury to a simpler, more dire diagnosis. The leg was not 'split in two', but the bone was broken in ragged shards below the knee. The squire let out a moan: it was a wound that ended his dreams of knighthood, or of riding a horse again. It meant a life spent as a cripple, begging with a bowl on the street as the world passed by. Flora rested her fingers on his forehead, leaning in close.

"You ain't got a problem with me mending you, have you?" she enquired, managing to stop herself from glowering at stubborn, dying Hamunde. "Mending you with… with magic."

Something unintelligible forced its way from the boy's constricted throat: Flora took this as consent, and set to work.


AN: I hope it comes across that Flora's shielding/prowess in battle is still pretty embryonic at this early stage (my new fave word so expect it to come up a lot! Hahaha) here. Plus, the contrast between how uncomfortable she is before the battle, and how relaxed she is preparing to mend her patient. Her general is brutal with his critique though - he doesn't pull any punches! I wanted her to have more of an arc in terms of developing her shielding this time, since in the first version of the story she was pretty competent in battle from the start, which would be unrealistic for a sheltered girl from a rural village/Circle. Alistair, Leliana and the others have performed a lot better!

Also, Alistair has come a long way from calling Flora's magic weird to her face :D now he actively chooses to watch her heal!

Hope you're all safe and well :)