Emerging from the front gates felt like waking from a fever dream. The castle and the terrible things it contained - the dying arl, the possessed child and his mourning mother, the imprisoned maleficar and the shuffling dead - were like some nightmare banished by the pale golden eye of the sun. The winter air had the crispness of a tart apple; the sky decorated with a delicate lace pattern of cloud. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and remnants of the dawn frost still clung to the fence posts. The northerly wind, fresh from the Frostbacks, skimmed across the surface of the lake below; leaving a trail of white caps in its wake. Although it felt as though they had spent days trapped behind the castle's bleak and merciless walls, the sun had not yet reached its midday point.

Once they had descended the half-mile to the town, the young Warden-recruits and the arl's brother set about putting their plan into motion. Wanting to avoid a lecture from her former instructors, Flora retrieved her neglected staff from their cart; dusted it off and slung it across her back. She also went to find the Warden treaties from where she had stowed them for safekeeping before the previous night's battle. Since she had no way of deciphering which sheet of parchment was pertinent to the Circle, she decided to take them all.

Meanwhile Alistair related their plan to Sten outside the Chantry, wondering if the Qunari would take any notice. To his surprise it was recieved with an impassive nod: the Par Vollen warrior was far more interested in defending the town than consorting with a bevy of magic-wielding heathens. Sten also indicated, in as few words as were needed, that he would inform the lay-sister of the arrangements on her return.

Unlike in Orlais, the people of Ferelden owed obedience only to their king and to their liege lord: Teagan Guerrin had no legal jurisdiction within his brother's arling and could not simply commandeer a boat. The bann, after emptying his coin purse and promising an additional reward from the arl, eventually managed to cajole the captain of Redcliffe's swiftest fishing vessel into taking the Warden-recruits north. Since the waters surrounding the Circle were enchanted to prevent escape, the fisherman Bardon would ferry Alistair and Flora to the nearest settlement.

As the sun reached its apex, the young Wardens and the bann reunited on the lakeside near the maze of docks and piers. Some yards away stood the rotten remains of the jetty that had collapsed beneath Flora during last night's battle. She pointedly turned her back on it, not wanting a reminder of her plunge into Calenhad's shallows.

Instead, she focused her attention to the vessel anchored before them: thirty feet in length, with a lone mast and a hull space accessible by a hatch. It was designed to trawl vast nets in its wake; capable of snaring entire shoals of fish at once. It was a similar size to the boats used in Herring; except no single-sailed craft would last long against the volatile winds of the Waking Sea.

There were only four fishermen in the boat's crew, and the eldest was captain by virtue of age. Bardon was heavy-bellied and liberally bearded; with small, very bright blue eyes currently narrowed at the two young Wardens. He was standing at the boat's rail, Teagan's coinpurse fixed securely to his belt.

The bann had just presented the pair with another purse: a nondescript leather pouch with a startling weight. Inside was more coin than Flora had ever seen gathered in one place - gold coins too, not bronze or silver. Alarmed by the sudden increase in value of her palm, she hastily handed the purse across to Alistair.

While the two men poured over a map and a choice of road, Flora attended to the dwarven mercenary and his shrivelled liver. She had needed to fetch Dwyn from his dockside dwelling; he had clearly not expected her to fulfil her side of the previous night's bargain. It did not take her long to purge the intoxicated organ: he sat on a mooring post while she crouched before him.

"S'pose you're goin' to tell me to quit drinking," the dwarf observed, squinting down at the top of her head.

Flora was astonished. "No. Ain't my liver."

"But you've gone to all this effort." The dwarf's hand crept towards the neck of a bottle stashed at his side: it hovered there, indecisive.

"Mm. You'll live longer if you're nice to your guts."

"Huh." Dwyn hesitated a moment longer, then his fingers closed around the bottleneck and he took a defiant swig.

If he was expecting a reaction, he received none: Flora had scrambled to her feet and was peering over her shoulder. Alistair and the bann had finished consulting the map; the boat was ready to raise anchor.

The dwarf shot her an appraising glance, eye narrowed like an experienced trader.

"Ever fancy becoming a fortune hunter?"

"Don't know what that is."

"A lass with your looks could snare a king."

"Eh," said Flora, distractedly. "I have to go."

Dwyn raised his bottle in wordless farewell.

A single plank of wood joined boat and dock; behind the rail, the captain was muttering darkly about changeable currents. Flora rejoined the two men, her staff slithering down a shoulder as she hoisted her pack onto the other.

"Goodbye and good luck," Teagan said, the corner of his mouth twisting in a humourless half-smile. "Maker watch over you on the road - and the waves too, I suppose. I pray that there'll still be a Redcliffe remaining for you to return to. If these were the old days, I could raise an army from the common folk."

The day was already half over: in eight short hours, the assault of the dead would begin once more.

"We'll be as quick as possible," Flora's brother-warden promised earnestly, simultaneously surprised by his own fervour. On their arrival Alistair had harboured only a mild resentment towards the town of his birth: now, he felt oddly protective of the place.

"Mm," agreed a fidgeting Flora, now eager to be underway. "And you have Sister Leliana, and Sten. They're better than an army."

Teagan half-smiled and ducked his head: he was not entirely sure that he agreed, but was too much a gentleman to say so. The bann watched the two Warden-recruits as they boarded, each weighed down with their packs and personal apparatus. Alistair, unable to swim and already nervous, had exchanged the morning's armour for travel leathers. Flora's staff, long and cumbersome, clattered against the hull as she followed him onto the deck: she was sorely tempted to hurl it overboard.

"Maker's Breath," observed Alistair faintly as they embarked. "I've… I've never smelt anything like it."

"Aaaah," Flora inhaled a long breath. "Reminds me of home."

"It's like I've stuck my head in a barrel of salmon."

"Mm. Ain't it nice?"

"Not the word I'd use."

The deck was cluttered with the stray detritus of a fishing vessel: snakelike coils of rope, empty crates and loose folds of spare netting. The captain, Bardon, made no formal greeting as he stood near the mast: the old oarsman scoured them both with a raking stare. Alistair, with his remarkable height and powerful build, received wary approval: in contrast; Flora got only a glower and a sour tautening of the lips. Flora understood the cause of his discomfort: as a female and a redhead, she was doubly unlucky aboard a boat, and all fishermen were superstitious. She had lived under constant scrutiny in Herring, where the locals adhered to the old tenets like a religion. The fact that she was a mage caused less consternation than the hue of her hair.

As the anchor was drawn up, the bann gave them a somber wave, his eyes following the line of the deck's rail. The sails were full of the wind from the Frostbacks and the ship strained at its leash; ready for the off. The north was a shadow on the far horizon; the surface of Lake Calenhad tousled by the fretful air. Beneath their feet, stout little waves harassed the ship's underbelly: the wood complained loudly with creaks and groans. Redcliffe shrank in inches as the water stretched further between them: the buildings became irregular patterns of stone, the castle a child's replica perched on its upwards thrust of rock.

Flora watched the town fade into a scribble of grey on the shore, her bare elbows on the rail. The wind gleefully picked apart her hair; freeing much of it from the morning's hasty bun. Although she was pleased to be on a fishing boat once again, it did not live up to her childhood memories: they were not on the sea, but on a docile, lesser cousin, the air tasted bland and unsalted.

Curious to compare their trawl-line and netting to the apparatus used by her father, Flora turned away from the water. She almost collided with her brother-warden, who lurched towards her like a drunkard expelled from a tavern.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered, groping a hand towards the railing. "Don't think I- I've got my sea-legs yet."

He took another unsteady step, a faint tinge of green underlining the earthy hue of his cheeks. Flora reached out to steady him; fingers curling around his elbow as he swayed. This was no easy task considering the full foot of disparity in their heights and the significant difference in their breadths: three Floras might make one Alistair. If he lost his balance it would be like some great oak toppling in the forest.

"This ain't the sea," she said, eyeing his sallow cheeks with some trepidation. "It's an inferior lake. Are you alright?"

"I'll… I'm sure I'll be fine."

The words emerged constricted: Flora could see Alistair's knuckles whitening around the rail. A constellation of sweat had emerged across the smooth span of his brow.

"On second thoughts," he added faintly as the deck of the boat tilted; the water on their side rising a foot towards them. "I might go and sit down below. Somewhere where I can't see the water."

Flora watched her brother-warden inch towards the hatch that led down to the hull; he moved with the jerking hesitation of the infirm, or the very old.

I can't mend sea sickness, can I?

No. It is only discomfort, not an illness to be cured.

The hatch had a short ladder leading to the hull space: as she clambered down, Flora was struck with an odd sense of familiarity. She then remembered that only that morning they had made the descent into the castle tunnel. It seemed like days ago: a great deal had occurred in a short span of hours.

The hull of the boat was shadowed but spacious, high enough for a man shorter than Alistair to stand. Several crates were piled at one end; a tangle of half-mended netting lay at the other, separated by the downwards thrust of the mast. A lantern, caged in iron and suspended overhead, provided some swaying light. The elongated space echoed with the abrupt slap of water against wood as the ship ploughed forwards.

Alistair was sitting against the gentle curve of the hull, and the size of his bowed frame made the space seem cramped. He bore a grimace of frustration: his body, trained to be unfailingly reliable in combat, had let him down.

Avoiding the swinging lantern, Flora closed the space between them in a few steps. He darted a swift glance at her, resigned.

"You don't need to be down here," he said, returning his gaze to the knotted wood between his knees. "I'll be fine. You should stay where you can… appreciate the water."

Instead of responding, Flora pulled a face: all other water was lacking compared to the tumultuous span of the Waking Sea. She knelt, shifting one of his bent knees to make room; then reached forward, to wrap her fingers around his wrists.

"I can't mend sea-sickness," she said, solemn-eyed and apologetic. "But this will help."

Her thumbs found the pulse and pressed down, depressing the skin on the inner wrist. Flora could feel the responding flare of his heartbeat; the quickening of the blood beneath her wrist. Alistair did not ask what she was doing: he was momentarily speechless.

"It's meant to keep you steady," she continued, when he said nothing in response. "When the world is unbalanced."

Alistair gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. The rocking of the boat became background noise as he gazed at her: unblinking and unapologetic. Flora's face was a foot from his own, illuminated at intervals by the gentle sway of the lantern. He did not often have the opportunity to study her in such near quarters: the night loaned them privacy, but demanded visibility as payment. To be this close was a chance to see beyond the imperious features; to perceive the details picked out by a softer brush. There were a handful of tawny freckles scattered between her cheekbones; the same faded hue as Antivan tea. Her teeth were small and very white; between the front two, there was a gap just wide wide enough to pass a sheet of parchment. At a certain angle, the bleak grey of her irises had a bluish tinge. She did not look away when Alistair gazed at her but held his stare unblinking; he wondered if it was a northern trait, or a habit she had developed from conversing with spirits with no need for social niceties.

The white eye of the sun shrouded itself in cloud for some time; rain threatened the stillness of the air; and then the eye opened and the skies were clear once more. The boat continued northwards, ploughing through the ripples with dogged persistence. The sail blew taut with cold air from the Frostbacks; the high cliffs that caged the lake tapered into the shallower hills of the bannorn.

"Did it work?"

Flora had to repeat the question twice before he realised what she was asking. To Alistair's surprise, the nausea in his belly had subsided to a background grumble. He was unsure whether it was due to the pressure against his wrists or the disconcerting closeness of her face.

Flora, he thought. It's a name of growing things. Of soil and green gardens. It suits her.

"Yes," he said, studying her closely. "It's much better, thank you."

Pleased, Flora released his wrists, leaving the warmth of her thumbs indented on his skin. There was an eyelash resting on the high bone of her cheek: a sooty filament that stood out stark against her skin. Alistair pressed his own thumb to his mouth, then touched it to her face. The eyelash clung on; there remained a faint smudge of dampness on her cheek when he removed it. He saw that Flora was holding her breath, or otherwise she had forgotten to breathe at all.

"You have four freckles on your nose," he said softly and she eyed him, suddenly curious.

Then neither spoke: the only sound came from the rhythmic slap of water against wood and the groan of the mast overhead. The muted sway of the lantern created an illusion of evening; the shadow piled uneven against the curved hull. After a moment of deliberation Flora leaned forwards, closing the space between them in slow inches. Alistair did not move, his eyes fixed on her face; the air also held suspended in his throat.

His sister-warden's body had none of her face's ambiguity: it was fired with heat and purpose. She settled herself against him as though they were embracing; he could feel her small breasts swell and subside against the firm muscle of his chest. It was too perfect an alignment to be a coincidence. The rapid beat of her heart was confirmation enough: it matched the urgency of his own. Unprompted by any rational thought, Alistair put his hands on her; far more confidently than he could have predicted. His fingers found the gentle contour of her hips: the flesh was warm and pliant beneath the creased fabric of the tunic.

It was impossible to tell who initiated the descent: Flora leaned back as he guided her downwards, Maric's son once again fuelled by unprecedented boldness. Regardless, it ended with her beneath him on the water-stained decking, his palms spread over loose ropes of hair.

Alistair stared down at her in a haze of fixated desire; the world faded to faint outlines. Her opaque grey gaze met his and then she smiled; her fingers meandering up the hard muscle of his arm.

"Oi, Grey Wardens - recruits - whatever you two are."

The captain's broad and unamused Redcliffe tones filtered down through the hatch; unwelcome as a wasp.

"There's something... odd up here."

Alistair wanted to launch the man into the sun. With great reluctance he returned upright as Flora blinked; slightly awed by what had just - had almost - occurred between them. She fastened the buttons of her tunic blindly, curious gaze wandering over his face.

"I'll… I'll go up and see."

"I'll join you," he replied, drily. "In just a bit."

The corner of Flora's mouth curved upwards; her eyes darting the length of his body.

"Ooh," she agreed solemnly. "Yes."

Alistair watched her clamber the ladder with ease - she was used to navigating the architecture of a mid-sized vessel - and vanish through the open hatch. With a sigh of resignation, he summoned an array of dull and offensive images: from the ravenous maw of a Hurlock to the scowling bewhiskered visage of the Chantry Mother at the monastery.

Flora emerged blinking into a flat and grey afternoon sky; the sun obscured by a tapestry of interwoven cloud. The lake was the same bleak hue as the heavens; the water seemed to merge into the edge of the horizon. The ruddy cliffs of Calenhad's south were long behind them ; the landscape had mellowed into meandering farmland. Clumps of olive green woods separated the fields, the pines bristling like upended paintbrushes. Small settlements sprouted at intervals along the coast, most had less than a dozen buildings.

The captain, Bardon, was standing near the helm. He was scowling, his face rigid with suspicion; arms crossed across his faded leathers. Flora looked around for the cause of his consternation - there seemed to be nothing overtly amiss - then gazed at him in bemusement.

"Eh?"

The weathered man ground his jaw.

"There's something following us."

There were fewer seagulls than usual swarming the sails: the fishing boat was a ferry that day and had no trailing tail of netting.

"Not a gull. Something else."

For a single moment of irrational terror, Flora thought: ARCHDEMON!

The wind blew her hair into her mouth.

No.

She scoured the skies: there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. The captain let out a grunt of irritation and returned his attention to the flaking wood of the rail. There was a rotten patch near the end and he scraped at it with the dirty line of a nail. Flora watched him - he had the same blunt, barrel-chested build as her father - and he pointedly turned his head.

Is it Morrigan? We haven't seen her since last night.

Her spirits made no reply: they only ever answered a minority of her questions.

There was a small village on the bank of the lake; no more than eight buildings, with a single dock on skeletal legs. Small figures, too distant to be distinct, attended to a huddle of moored boats, processing the day's catch. Flora watched them and felt homesickness curdle in her belly: she missed Herring like a shorn-off limb.

"You saved my wife's father last night."

Plucking the hair from her face she looked sideways; Bardon was surveying her through narrowed eyes.

"The man on the jetty?" she asked, and he gave a grunt of acknowledgement. "I'm glad I could help."

The fisherman's teeth ground in his head.

"You should've let him get eaten. Tiresome old bugger. Thought I was rid of him at last."

"Oh," Flora replied, nonplussed. "I didn't realise. Sorry."

Bardon shot her one last scowl, then jabbed his finger at an angle. "There."

The fisherman's accusation was aimed at a bird perched on the nearby rail. It was the bluish black of mourner's satin, and a small, orange eye scrutinised them keenly. The wind bit at its feathers; it cocked its head in felt her brother-warden's closeness without turning; she guessed that he had just emerged from the hatch. Sure enough, Alistair joined her at the railing a moment later and they both stared at the bird: the same questions in their minds.

"Is that…?"

"Dunno," replied Flora, with the usual eloquence. "Morrigan?"

The bird shifted from one clawed foot to the other, ignoring them both. Alistair leaned forward, raising his voice above the chop of the waves.

"Witch," he ventured, trialling flippancy to see if it might prompt a response. "Do birds get seasick? Just wondering."

The fisherman let out a snort of contempt. Alistair, who had won some early approval with his height and brawn, promptly lost it again: men should not be having conversations with wildlife. The bird rose several inches as the boat navigated a patch of abrupt and jarring water. It landed back on the rail moments later, feathers settling like a woman smoothing her skirts. Flora glanced up at Alistair, who gave a bemused shrug.

"I suppose it's just a bird," he said, uncertain. "Maybe it's too tired to fly back to shore."

The sky was starting to lose its light: evening arrived early during the winter months. Flora rested her elbows on the railing and peered at the bird with her most focused and appraising stare; eyes narrowed. Once again, it ignored her.

"You can stay here," she informed it, solemnly. "But you must earn your keep by murdering any seagulls who come within ten yards of the mast. Do you consent?"

The bird cocked its head. Flora turned her back, leaning against the wood and watching her brother-warden pick his way cautiously across the tilting deck. He had not quite found his sea-legs yet; but at least he did not seem as though he was about to be sick.

"I've a map here," she heard Alistair say; the fisherman responded with a grunt. "Where were you planning on dropping- "

"Ha, ha, ha!"

The woman's voice was crowing, triumphant: the smirk laid bare in her laugh. Flora and Alistair turned as one: the fisherman released an audible groan of dismay. Morrigan, in all her wild and dishevelled glory, was perched on the rail with glee writ across her face.

"It doesn't take much to fool you two," she observed, extending her feet and curling her bare toes. The nails were dark with soil; a loop of delicate interlaced bones hung around the ankle.

Alistair's face was rigid with displeasure: he was not pleased to see her.

"Are you coming to the Circle with us?" Flora enquired tentatively, removing more windblown strands from her face. "I didn't think it was… it was your sort of place."

"Ha! It doesn't seem the place for the ungentle giant either, but the lummox is here nonetheless."


An: Boat chapter! Flora doesn't seem to be too appreciative though, she's too busy slating Lake Calanhad for not being the Waking Sea, lol.

The sexual tension between Flora and Alistair is starting to get too much to bear! I mean, it was pretty inevitable - even leaving out any potential feelings XD nope they've not even discussed anything of the sort and they still have this polite formality going on in the daylight even as they get physically acquainted in the dark lol

Flora's reaction to being told that she shouldn't have bothered saving the old man on the jetty makes me laugh, she's just like WTF