The iron gates, chained fast, stood between the Wardens and the stone spur that reared through the windblown void; up to where the castle perched on its lofty overlook. The empty arrow-slits stared down at them like narrowed eyes; the unguarded battlements still as an abandoned shrine. To further the injustice, the cloud had swept across the sky as though drawn by the hand of the Maker, and a spiteful drizzle resumed. Yet another layer of shadow added itself to the shroud of gloom that cloaked the town of Redcliffe.
Teagan's men-at-arms clustered like lost sheep. They stared forlornly at the diminishing figure of their master as he followed in Isolde Guerrin's wake. The bann had almost reached the far end of the rocky spur: a small hinged part of the entrance opened far enough to admit him, then slammed shut. The sound echoed back across the promontory like a taunt.
Flora wandered across to the gates and curled her palm around the nearest iron bar. She gave an experimental flex of her fingers and the bar bent like a bowstring.
"We could follow them," she said, uncertain. "I think I can break this with my shield. But…"
"But," Alistair finished her thought, coming to stand beside her. He stared at the door that had swallowed the bann; the entrance framed by the bleak expanse of the castle wall. "Lady Isolde seemed pretty insistent that only the bann could go with her. If we broke in through the front entrance, it could - I don't know. Make the situation worse. Whatever the situation is."
"Mm," Flora replied, and he seemed relieved that she agreed with him. "Is there another way in?"
Alistair snorted without humour, squinting up at the empty battlements. "One of those griffons that the Wardens of old used to ride would come in handy."
Flora did not know exactly what a griffon looked like, but she understood what purpose they had fulfilled. Duncan had described them one rainy evening before she had begun to exhale the taint. He often prolonged the time that Flora spent beneath his canvas roof, and she had made no protest. She realised that their commander had now been dead for a month: a hard lump formed in her throat, as though a fishbone had stuck fast.
Flora then felt a sympathetic nudge from Compassion; steering her attention back to the present more gently than her general would have done. A moment later, she recalled a comment made by the bann the previous night.
"Is there - a tunnel?" she asked, hoping that she had not dreamt the remark. "A way in that…. ain't obvious?"
Alistair startled, as though someone had tapped unexpectedly on his shoulder. He had been so disquieted by Isolde's emergence and Teagan's subsequent departure that the existence of said tunnel had temporarily slipped his mind.
"Of course," he said, straightening. "The low passage. It was created to bring in food and supplies if the castle was under siege. It runs from the dungeon, deep in the bedrock- "
He pointed a finger at the foundation of the looming fortress, then drew a meandering line through the air: tracing a route through the bowels of the jutting promontory. After a moment of hesitation - brow furrowed, Alistair retrieved the memory - his finger ended its course at the old windmill a quarter-mile below.
"I'm sure it comes out there," he said, almost to himself. "I never tried it - not that fond of small spaces - but some of the other lads explored it for a wager once."
Flora eyed the lofty, broad-shouldered bulk of her brother-warden; beside him, the men-at-arms looked like unfinished youths. She could understand his apprehension.
"If you get stuck, I'll break you out," she offered, hoping that this might alleviate his concern.
Alistair responded with a taut smile, inhaling a deep and grounding breath.
"Thanks."
Turning back on the pair of locked gates, the party retraced their steps through the drizzle. The ruddy clay had liquefied underfoot: soon, their boots were stained crimson up to the ankle. Muffled curses emerged as an elbow or shoulder was grabbed to save another from a fall. Below them, the surface of Lake Calenhad was pitted like the skin of an orange.
The old mill stood on a flat stretch of earth halfway between the castle and Redcliffe town; perched atop an embankment to claim as much turbulent air as possible. It was a casualty of the dead's incessant assaults: only two lofty sails remained intact. One hung skeletal, and the other lay mangled on the mud. The boundary wall had been knocked down; the door appeared battered, but not broken.
"Right," said Alistair as they came to a halt, wiping damp hair from his eyes. "Who's coming with me and Flora?"
The Rainesfere men, huddled and sullen, remained quiet. None of them wished to be the first to speak.
"WHO," repeated Flora more loudly, assuming that the patter of rain had drowned out her brother-warden's question. "Is coming with us?"
The pause elongated into a defined silence. The man darted glances at her and then looked down swiftly, unwilling to face her pale stare. Eventually, one ventured a hesitant response; though it was directed to his muddied boots rather than to the exquisite aloofness of her face.
"You two are Wardens. You're… you're better equipped to deal with whatever's in that castle."
"Not really, because there aren't Darkspawn in there," retorted Alistair, with a flash of anger. "But your liege lord is. Call yourself loyal servants? You should take off your badges. I could take them off for you- "
He was interrupted by a pat to his elbow; Flora had reached out a hand.
"We don't need 'em," she said, her eyes fixed beyond the huddle of frightened men. "Look! Ooh, I hope he fits in the tunnel."
The Qunari was approaching: his face impassive and his stare unblinking. Over the course of the night Sten had obtained a more efficient weapon than the sharpened fence-post: a dwarven-made axe was strapped to the expanse of his back. He offered no explanation for his absence, nor for why he had decided to join them.
"We're breaking into the castle," Flora said, dispensing with pleasantries like a true northerner. "Like robbers . Are you coming?"
Sten seemed to appreciate her lack of social niceties. He responded with a low sound in the back of his throat that she interpreted as assent.
"It's a fine state of affairs," commented Alistair acerbically, who had not forgiven the men their disloyalty. "When a Qunari does more to help a Fereldan than his own countryfolk."
The clouds drew close overhead: layer upon rainsoaked layer casting a dense shadow on the land below. So much moisture hung in the air that each inhalation felt wet. Spurred on by guilt, or by Maric's face spun back into youthfulness, three men out of the six volunteered to accompany the Wardens into the tunnel.
While those who had declined to come set out shamefaced on the return path, the small party made their way to the foot of the windmill, avoiding the sail broken on the ground. The door was hanging off its hinges and Alistair gave it an impatient shove with his shoulder. It creased into pieces, revealing a shadowy stone interior. The mechanism of the mill stood motionless in the centre; the wooden shaft and millstone cobwebbed from lack of use. A heap of dusty sacks lay against one wall; a three legged chair rested on its side, as though thrown.
"They built a watermill closer to town," offered one Rainesfere man, his voice echoing to the broken rafters. "More reliable."
"Let's find the tunnel entrance," replied Alistair, attention drawn to the pile of sacking. "It's got to be in here somewhere."
They began to scour the small chamber; looking for any disturbance of stone or unevenness in the floorboards. Flora wandered to the middle of the room and eyed the shaft, which stretched up through the centre of the mill.
Is there a blood mage in the castle?
You'll find out soon enough.
My shield works against blood magic, doesn't it?
If you believe it will, yes.
The pile of sacking yielded only dust and irate spiders. Alistair made a hasty retreat, then glanced over his shoulder.
"Any luck?"
The others made sounds in the negative: the circular chamber was not large and contained no hidden exits. Flora, who had been preoccupied with her spirits, also shook her head; wondering what they meant by: if you believe it will. She could mend in her sleep, it came effortless and without thinking; but summoning her barrier still felt as though she were walking along a rope strung between poles.
"I have located it."
This impassive remark came from the doorway, which now framed the lower two thirds of Sten's body. The Qunari had not accompanied them inside; instead circling the exterior of the mill itself. Beneath a tapestry of moss and lichen, he had uncovered an external trapdoor at the south side of the structure, which dropped away into a shadowed recess.
The Qunari had torn away the wings of flaking wood that hid the entrance to the tunnel. Now it awaited travellers: a dark and eager throat, a ladder swallowed within the gloom. There was no way of telling how far the ladder descended: after a few feet, it was lost in the black morass.
Go on.
WHY? I'm just a mender. I stay in the back.
You must be more than a mender.
Flora heaved a deep sigh - for the benefit of her spirits - and then slid around the Qunari, making an advance on the tunnel. Alistair, who had just dropped a chip of wood into the darkness to try and ascertain its depth, looked at her. His brow creased; faint lines scoring the flesh.
"Flora?"
"I'm going first," she informed him, gloomily. "I'll light your way down once I reach the bottom."
Flora had first met Alistair three months prior, and she had come to know the subtle nuances of his face as well as anyone could. His lips pressed together; the hard line of his jaw stiffened: he did not want her to go first, but realised that he had no right to stop her.
"Be careful," he said at last, eyes sweeping across her face.
"Mm."
Unsure how best to reach the ladder, Flora opted for the less athletic and more cautious approach. Dropping to her hands and knees, she slithered herself backwards over the muddy grass and dropped a foot over the edge; groping with the tip of her boot for the rung. When her toe met wood, she tested the strength of it with the weight of a leg, then chanced her whole body.
If it breaks, will my shield break my fall?
Possibly.
"Be careful , Flora," Alistair said again, as his sister-warden began to inch downwards; the impassive froiduer of her face disguising any unease. She responded with a little nod, peering gingerly over her shoulder.
He watched her descend until the top of her head was submerged in shadow, and then Flora had vanished. There followed nothing but silence: in irrational alarm, he leaned forward and called down.
"Flo?"
"I'm breaking up all the cobwebs for you," drifted up in muffled response. "Ooh, the spiders ain't happy."
Flora felt as though she were descending into a well. At first, the surrounding walls were the same ruddy earth that stained her boots; after a minute of climbing, the earth merged into a damp, mossy stone. She thought that it might be granite - it reminded her of the cliffs that lined the northern coast. Eventually, her boot made crunching contact with the dirt.
Letting go of the ladder, Flora turned around and held up a hand as one would lift a torch. Her palm sang with golden light, illuminating the hollowed stone. To the north stretched a dark maw; she presumed this led through the belly of tbe promontory and into the foundation of the castle. The walls were mottled with lichen; dappled in whitish grey. She could feel the damp like a clammy palm laid on the back of her neck. Beneath her feet - now broken - lay an assortment of calcified shards.
BONES! WHOSE?!
Call yourself a mender? Look closely.
Flora realised that the skeletal remains were too small to belong to either human or elf; they were fragile and no larger than a handspan.
Oh. Animal bones.
"... Flora?"
Flora looked up towards the muffled call: the sky was a pale smudge the size of her thumbnail.
"Come down," she replied, listening to the ends of her words bounce between the walls. "I'll light your way."
The distant grey patch overhead was blotted out as her brother-warden manoeuvred himself gingerly onto the ladder.
"Maker's Breath," he observed, distant and muffled. "It's a long way down. Hope the ladder holds out."
"I'll fix your broken legs if you fall."
"Great."
As Alistair began to descend, he noticed tendrils of shimmering light rising up around him; sinuous filaments that cast a gold flux on the stone. Flora, having realised that the light from her palms was too localised to be of use to her brother-warden, was puffing out lungfuls of her mending magic. Lighter than air, the unused strands of energy floated up alongside the ladder.
Fascinated at how the calluses on his knuckles were healing before his eyes, the eventual jolt of earth beneath his boot took Alistair by surprise. He released the ladder and stepped into the puddle of light beneath his sister-warden's dangling hand. Flora looked up at him, pink in the face and breathless from the repeated exhalation.
Far above, they could hear the distant sound of arguing about who was to go next. While the Rainesfere men debated amongst themselves; the Qunari began to descend. He did so with speed and precision, the muscled bulk moving fluidly. The ladder protested his weight and Sten made no reaction; he did not quicken or slow his pace, but continued on with the same grim purpose.
Alistair returned his gaze to Flora, who had an assortment of torn cobwebs trailing from her hair. He reached out and used the back of his glove to brush each one lightly away, careful not to snag the mail against the loose strands. She smiled distractedly at him, still focused on coaxing the strands of light upwards. He felt heat flare in his belly like a new-fired forge.
Sten landed hard with one knee and a palm on the earth; he had thrust himself away from the ladder and dropped the last few metres. Checking that the axe still hung in place on his back, he rose to his feet, ignoring the astonished stares of the two young Wardens. Flora had almost choked on her own magic from the shock of a seven-foot Qunari landing an arm's length away.
As the reluctant Rainesfere men made their way in turn down the ladder, those below prepared to enter the inky hollow of the tunnel. Sconces were bolted to the wall at regular intervals, but they held only cobwebs and dust. The floor of the passage sloped up at a gradual gradient; a thin trickle of water followed the line of the wall.
"How far is it to the castle?" asked Flora, gloomily realising that she would once again need to lead the way.
Alistair squinted into the darkness: it was black as pitch, the echo of their voices lost in the distance.
"I assume it's the length of the spur," he said, summoning the image of the promontory that connected castle bedrock to the mainland. "A quarter-mile, maybe. Looks further though, doesn't it?"
"Mm. Is the castle haunted?"
Flora felt that it was important to clarify this before she led them into the shadowy passage. Alistair shot her a glance from the tail of his eye, then half-laughed.
"The only everlasting presence in Redcliffe Castle is Lady Isolde's scowl," he replied, lightly. "You really don't like ghosts, do you? Don't you talk to them in the Fade?"
Flora shot him a vaguely appalled look: spirits and ghosts were not the same thing! Before she could explain, the Qunari let out a low rumble of impatience in the depths of his throat.
"Let us go. The remainder can follow."
I don't like going first.
Few do.
I'm meant to stay in the back. I don't want to be the leader.
Flora felt an exasperated sigh echo within the hollow of her skull. Grudgingly, she bypassed Alistair and stepped into the mouth of the tunnel, holding up her hand like a torch. Light from her palm shone in iridescent rays; splintering against the walls and pooling beneath her boots. A ruddy seam ran through the stone like a vein.
What are you waiting for?
Not wanting another lecture, Flora set off, splashing through an array of shallow puddles. She heard Alistair and Sten move to follow her; the former bracing himself before venturing into the narrow passage. The ceiling of the tunnel was decorated with fingers of calcified rock; marking where mineral-infused water had dripped over decades. Fortunately, there were a few inches of headroom for the lofty Alistair - the Qunari needed to proceed with hunched shoulders.
The ground beneath her feet sloped upwards at a subtle angle; Flora felt her cheeks warming and the muscle in her calves begin to burn. It was cold in the tunnel and goosebumps mottled the skin of her forearms. She was grateful that she was clad in her trusty sack, and not the flimsy priestess robe that Leliana would undoubtedly have tried to coax her into.
She could hear Alistair behind her; compensating for not being in his usual position at the front by almost walking on her heels. His breathing was measured and even, despite bearing the weight of chainmail, sword and shield.
Alistair is in much better physical condition. than me, Flora observed, plodding grimly onwards. I thought I was still fit because I'm small.
Some would say 'small'. Others: scrawny.
Ooh! Am I? It's because I haven't had to haul in lobster pots and drag boats up the beach in four years. The Circle's made me soft!
A prodding finger confirmed it: although she was little in dimension, the flat plane of her belly was soft and lacked any discernible definition. Flora, deciding that she would bind herself with muscle like Leliana, set off up the slope with determination and a newly rapid pace.
"Did you see a ghost?" enquired Alistair drily from behind, hastening his stride with ease to match.
"No," she replied, then shot him an alarmed look over her shoulder. "Why, did you see one?!"
He laughed and the sound reverberated between the leaning walls.
"No. I'm curious about why you're jogging ."
"Oh. I'm building musc-"
But while Flora's attention was focused behind her, the gleam from her fingers also swung towards the rear. This resulted in her colliding with a rocky outcrop: the passage narrowing as the texture and tone of the walls changed. Further inspection showed that the stone was cut into manmade parts: they had passed from the promontory into the foundations of Redcliffe Castle. The temperature of the air shifted; the earthen clamminess mingled with the chill of a dungeon.
Flora could taste a mustiness on her tongue, as though she had licked the skin of a shrivelled apple. She angled her hand so that the light from her palm shone down the constricted hallway. It would be an uncomfortable fit for her brother-warden, even more so for the Qunari. She remembered what Alistair had mentioned on the surface about tight spaces; when she glanced at him, his mouth was a taut and slender line. The passage angled abruptly after a dozen yards: she could not see what lay beyond.
"I think we're almost there," the young warrior said, the joviality gone from his tone. "Flora- "
Flora guessed that he was about to volunteer to take the lead. She hesitated for a moment - a mender's position was in the rear! - then, with an air of resignation, turned her back on him and ventured into the passage. There came a ripple of approval from her general; it felt like the smoothing of a palm over rumpled silk.
Standing at three inches over five foot - although her lopsided bun added some artificial height - and slight in build, Flora had little difficulty within the narrow space. Behind her, Alistair swore as he knocked his head against the ceiling; his shield colliding with the wall. Clay dust and mud fell to the ground in a shower as the Qunari compressed himself with a low growl. The three Rainesfere men followed; they had grown quieter with each step towards the castle.
"Maker's Breath - if I get stuck down here, Flo, will you bring me food?"
"Mm," she replied, her palm lighting the sharp bend in the way ahead. "I'll fish you up some dinner from the lake. Ooh, it ain't narrow any more!"
As the passage angled to the right, it opened up once again: the stone hollowed out to accommodate an embedded door flanked by empty sconces. A dessicated barrel rested on its side nearby. The door itself had neither handle nor keyhole; nor any visible means of yielding. Flora's arm was throbbing from the prolonged elevation: she hoped that there were torches on the far side.
Alistair, dust adding a sallow cast to his hair, advanced towards the door. He pressed his gloved palm against the wood and gave it a tentative shove: it was shut fast.
"Shall we… knock?" he asked after a moment, only half-joking.
Flora gave an unhelpful shrug, biting at the fresh growth of thumbnail.
"Dunno. Ain't the castle full of dead things?"
He grimaced at her, dropping an instinctive hand to his belt to check that the sword still weighted the sheath.
"Maybe. We have to get in someh- "
Alistair only just managed to step back in time: impatient with their youthful indecision, the Qunari had taken matters into his own hands. A cart-weight of muscled bulk made brute contact with the door, which splintered like a child's toy. Shards of wood lay strewn across the stone; the flicker of firelight could be seen beyond. The resulting crash echoed within the hollow bastion of the castle dungeon like the roll of a war drum.
"Well," said Alistair eventually, while Flora looked on open-mouthed. "So much for our stealthy arrival."
AN: With this rewrite, I wanted to emphasise things about Flora: first, that she's not very confident with her shield and seeks constant reassurance from her spirits about its potency, and second that she's a bit of a wimp - she's not very brave, she hates being in fights and just wants to stay behind the lines and mend! I think this will lead to a better character arc for her as she's thrust into a leadership position.
In other news, spent about six hundred years wrapping up the baby's presents for her first birthday next week! In a stroke of genius that's deeply unlike me, I've ordered a huge roll of brown packing paper that I've used with pink ribbon to wrap her gifts (recyclable, and better for the environment!) and will also be able to use the rest to wrap up our stuff when we move! Multi tasking!
