A silver coin of a moon surveyed the Bannorn from above, surrounded by a court of winking stars. It was a cold and cloudless night: the mist from the lake settled between the hills and the sky was steeped in blackness like strong Antivan tea. Some of those who dwelt on Calenhad's northern shores noticed that the Circle Tower was shrouded in darkness long past sunset. The wreath of lamplight that usually circled its crenellated peak had not ignited: nor were the windows picked out in smudges of amber light. The absence of illumination prompted a few curious glances but little else - the men and women of the farmland chose to ignore the Circle's disturbing presence as much as possible. Eventually, the nip of the wind and a fine, misting drizzle drove even the mildly curious indoors.

The patrons of the Dragon's End did not care about Kinloch Hold either: their minds were fixed on the bottom of their tankard, or on the clinging lure of sleep. In the wake of the tavern, beside the submerged bones that had given the inn its name; the two Warden-recruits stood on the wet grass and gazed wordlessly at one another. Standing within the gentle bow of the ribcage, she could have been carved from pale marble: a Tevinter statue uncovered amidst the foliage of an overgrown garden. Her damp shirt clung to the swell of a breast, white and round as the inner curve of a seashell.

Alistair wondered if the collision between his galloping heart and his ribcage was audible beyond his chest. He thought that she must be able to hear it: it echoed like the driving beat of a war drum. His body felt taut and yet full of agitation, like a bowstring drawn back past the ear. In an instant all the fevered fantasies of the past - the milkmaid, the plump-cheeked priestess, the brothel whore hanging from a Denerim window - became obsolete: the silly fancies of youth, meaningless as dust. He marvelled at how he had spent weeks pining over the priestess who had kissed him after indulging in Chantry portwine: now, he could not even summon a vague memory of her face. He had thought he had known lust, but knew now that it was naught but childish fancy: fleeting and flimsy.

Now, true desire had clenched him in its adult fist: squeezed him until the air had fled his lungs and left him dizzy. He had never known a need like it; all-consuming and ever-growing; more urgent even than the first hunger he felt after his Joining. A heat flared in his belly, like a fire stoked by a dozen vigorous pokers: it curled pulsing tendrils around his thighs and sunk them deep into the core of his being. His subconscious eye searched the mossy hillside: looking for a surface.

"Eh, it's higher from this side."

The soft, indignant growl of Flora's voice punctuated his daze. She had crossed to their window: the uneven landscape placed the ledge just above her waist. A half-hearted lunge failed to get her anywhere; more ropes of hair escaping the braid.

Right, Alistair reminded himself, hazily. We have a room. A room just for us.

It has four walls, and a door. A door that locks. No interruptions.

"Help," Flora entreated, infuriated by both her lack of inches and upper body strength.

Alistair moved towards her; the world reduced to a collection of background clutter. The tavern, a blur of grey against the darkness, served merely as ambience for his sister-warden; the window a frame for her slender body. Alistair was shocked at the swiftness of his fall: he had not spared a thought for their sworn purpose all evening.

His only consolation was that Flora appeared equally distracted. She had been the first to move towards their chamber; and was now fidgeting impatiently at the window. Alistair did not think that her haste was spurred by a desire to escape the drizzle: but rather, the need to find them both privacy.

A nagging whisper slid past Alistair's ear: reminding him that he and Flora were still only on terms of tentative friendliness during daylit hours, and that they had never acknowledged in words the desire that had flared between them. He did not even know if Flora still pined after their dead commander; or if the imprint of his kiss clung stubbornly to her full and solemn mouth.

In that moment, Alistair did not care: ignoring the voice of reason and restraint. He crossed the grass in three broad strides; his hands finding her hips just as they had done on the fisherman's boat earlier that day. His thumbs rested on the round bone, palm spreading over the gentle valley between the abdomen and the hip. He was startled by the warmth of her: the skin warm and yielding beneath his fingers.

Of course, Alistair thought hazily to himself. She might look like a Tevinter marble, but she's not a statue. She's a girl. Flesh and blood. Maker, when did I last breathe?

Lightheaded, he lifted her onto the windowsill and did not release her. He felt the thick woollen waistband of her leggings brush against his fingertips: simultaneously taunt and invitation. Flora's elevation onto the ledge closed the difference between their heights: she passed her palm gently over the tousled hair atop his head. It was an innocuous gesture but he heard a half-groan escape from his throat, instinctive and involuntary. Flora smiled at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair tangled: from her appearance alone, they could have spent the past hour intertwined and panting in the wet grass. He almost said her name but managed to restrain himself. An utterance might bring back a dose of unwanted reality: that they were siblings by blood-ritual, that they were little more than tentative new friends, and that neither of them knew what they were doing.

Alistair breathed in plain soap and rain; and beneath, the warm, clean scent of her body. He mimicked the movement she had made on the boat earlier; leaning into her so that she could feel the press of his body. This was a more compelling contact now; his grip urgent and arousal undeniable. One of her palms was wedged on the windowsill to keep her balance, the other clung to the back of his neck; her leg claimed the hard muscle of his waist. Yet they could do little other than half-embrace each other: the angle and the confines of the window prevented anything more intimate.

"I'll go round the front, sweetheart," he said hoarsely in Flora's ear, breath hot on her skin. "I'll be quick."

Flora nodded, disorientated. The hollow of her throat had a liquid sheen: despite the chill of the winter night, she was sweaty. After a reluctant disentanglement, Alistair cast her a final glance - cursing the length and breadth of his body that prevented him from joining her now - then set off around the perimeter of the tavern.

The evening lost its starry lustre with his absence. Her brother-warden's bold, brawny frame and sunlit colouring had burnished the dull evening air. Flora, still propped on the window ledge, felt like a punctured water-pouch. She let out a long breath in an attempt to calm the frantic hammer of her heart, then fell backwards into the chamber in terror as a screech of disapproval rang inside her ear.

This is not the time to be distracted!

I'm not distracted! Flora retorted indignantly, flat on her back on the floorboards. It won't do any harm if we - if we -

The more time you spend indulging your CARNAL LUST in the mortal world, the less you spend practising with us.

To her annoyance, she could not think of a counter-argument. Her general, as much as she did not wish to admit it, had a point. Flora had not learnt how to wield her barrier in the Circle, she had been taught in the Fade with the grit of a conjured Herring beach beneath her feet.

Besides, came the sly and pointed epilogue. You swore an oath at your 'Joining' to end the Blight.

Yes, but -

You swore it to Duncan Rivaini. Or has that name ceased to bear meaning?

Flora was speechless. She stared up at the wooden beam that bisected the ceiling for several long moments. Their commander rose to fill the eye of her mind, the face weary and creased like a folded letter. She had witnessed the ravages inflicted by the taint at close quarters: the spread of dark veins beneath the skin, the sallow undertone to the tawny flesh. She knew that the sclera of his eyes had a yellow cast; though the irises were as sharp and clear as a man two decades younger. Duncan had hidden the deterioration of body and mind from the rest of the Wardens: as his mender for a month, Flora had seen it first hand.

You ought to sleep more, she had told him one evening, full of youth's sanctimonious reproach. It's the body's natural healer.

There was a note of resignation to his laugh, the dark eyes still humourous despite their shadowed ring.

I don't sleep, qalbi. And you're my healer. I place no stock in this ailing body, but I have faith in you.

Flora had fallen silent, her brow furrowed.

But I can't help you sleep, she had said eventually, apologetic. I'm sorry.

He had touched the rich, burgundy fall of hair, marvelling at the new steadiness of his hand. Flora had already withdrawn her daily dose of the taint: loaning humanity to a man who ought to have made his final stand in the Deep Roads some time ago. Despite what the bards might once have sung, the truth was that the life of a Grey Wardens was not glorious: it was lonely, and bone-wearying, and foul to the core. The creeping decay eroded flesh and soul until nothing remained except the Archdemon's high, oscillating whine within a broken husk.

No matter, he replied, the faint inflection of Rivain colouring the words. You bring me a peace I've not known in decades.

The memory rang resonant in her skull: so lucid that she could almost taste the smoking lantern in her throat. Flora's heart sank like an anchor, settling somewhere near her stomach. She pushed herself slowly to her feet; standing amidst their spilling packs and a tangle of Alistair's armour.

The heated anticipation in Flora's veins from earlier had evaporated; she felt flat and faintly bewildered. Unsure what to do, she wandered a circle within the rigid constraints of their chamber; then stopped and stared at the faded face of the old king. The arrogant, handsome features prompted a flicker of recognition: she assumed that it was because of their similarity to Alistair. There was no possible situation by which she could have met Maric Theirin: kings did not frequent fishing villages.

Her brother-warden had not yet made his way around the building and through the tavern. Flora wondered if perhaps he had become lost. She sat on the edge of the bed; then took off her boots and trousers. In a sudden fit of melancholic pique, she threw herself into the mattress, ungainly as a sack of potatoes.

ADOLESCENT DRAMATICS sneered her general. HA!

Flora pulled the blanket over her head.

Meanwhile, Alistair's delay was not due to disorientation, but inadvertent distraction. He had reached the tavern entrance in no time; the blood surging hot and expectant in his veins. His mind was seized wholly by his sister-warden: how warm and pliant she had been in his arms; how misleading her cold, unapproachable beauty. It was as though Flora had sunk her slender, bitten-nailed fingers into the openings of his skull: he could think of nothing else.

Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped into the aura of the tavern hearth, he was ambushed by an indignant drunk. A bottle was waved in his face, then slammed down onto the nearest table with a splatter of droplets.

"Of all the inconsiderate - bloody - mages - hic! Waste of - bloody - time."

Alistair was not accustomed to flinching: his height and broad shoulders prevented it. He stared down at the florid-faced man, who was now leaning against a table with the bottle clamped in his teeth. A stream of angry, slurred invective was interrupted by equally fierce gulps.

"They - think they're so - clever. So superior. Wasting - my time! Making me a fool. Hope the Maker - hic!- sets their bloody tower on fire!"

Alistair had been about to avoid the inebriated merchant - his sister-warden was waiting for him - but mention of the Circle drew his attention. He hesitated halfway through his evasion, then turned back towards the resentful drunk.

"What did you say about the Circle?"

The man shot him a beady, belligerent look from the tail of his eye. He was slumped between the bench and the floor, the front of his coat sodden with ale.

"Those sly fuckers ordered three dozen phials of frog liver oil from me. Spent a month sourcing it, went to deliver - and the damned boatman wouldn't take me across! Says the Circle ain't accepting visitors."

He took another resentful gulp, ale dribbling down the furrows that framed his chin.

"Cost me a bloody fortune, that liver oil. And what in the fel am I meant to do with it now?!"

Alistair felt deranged. He could not believe that he had let himself become delayed by an irate salesman. Muttering some half-hearted commiserations, he sidestepped the slumped figure and headed for the back passage.

The tavern's rooms were spaced at intervals along a dimly lit corridor: their room was at the furthest end. Determined to prevent further delay, Alistair avoided the stare of a passing elf - if his resemblance to Maric did not draw the eye, the size of his frame did instead - and closed the length of the corridor in a few eager strides. Astonished by his own assurance, he slid the key home and swung open the door.

The chamber was cold and somehow more cramped than before; their overspilling packs claiming half the floorboards. The window was still open; the air nipped at the exposed stretches of skin. There was no hearth to provide either heat or light: a lone candle did little to stave off the darkness.

At first Alistair had no idea where his sister-warden was. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed the hump of blankets on the bed. He gazed at it for several long heartbeats; and then took a deep and steadying breath. Leaving the key turned in the lock, Alistair crossed to the window and eased the frame back into the warped wooden casing, shutting out the miserable dampness of a Fereldan winter night. He then went to the narrow bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, ignoring the protests of the bedstead. After removing his boots, Alistair let his palm settle on the blanket-veiled lump; rubbing the contour of his sister-warden's narrow back. He wondered what had transpired to cause such a sea-change in Flora's mood.

"Flora," he said, and then: "Flo."

The hump of blankets made a northern grunt: one that Alistair was not yet fluent enough to decipher. He did not reply, but continued the slow glide of his palm. The young man was astonished by his own assurance: he had not hesitated to enter the chamber, or sit on the bed, or set his palm on the small of her back. He had embraced her in the damp grass behind the tavern with the confidence of a man possessing a decade of experience.

Alistair could claim no grounds for such certitude: he had never taken anyone to bed, nor even gone beyond a kiss. He had long since known that his first time with a woman would be an amateurish fumbling, punctuated by hesitation and fuelled by nerves. He did not expect that he would even enjoy it.

And yet, with her. When I'm with her. Touching her, holding her.

My - friend? Companion? Sister? Maker, not that.

The noise from the tavern was a distinct and diminishing murmur: most of the patrons had started an unsteady walk home. Alistair let his palm travel from the nape of Flora's neck to the base of her spine: the length of her narrow back defined beneath the blanket.

It's an instinct.

"Flora," he said gently, a question in the word.

Flora replied in true northern manner: not in words, but in gesture. Alistair saw a hand emerge from beneath the threadbare wool, fingers curling through the air. Alistair reached for it, covering her palm with his, and then eased himself beneath the blanket to join her. The bed gave a groan of protest. The mattress was narrow in proportion: he could feel the contour of Flora's body against him. He hoped that he had not just squashed her into the wall. The cool and haughty beauty was masked by shadow and he could not see her expression. Working by touch instead, his thumb traced the delicate contour of her skull; the smooth and unlined canvas of her forehead. A pimple had emerged just above her eyebrow and this somehow made her more human: a girl prone to spots like any other adolescent.

She's not frowning, he thought, relieved.

The blanket over their heads created a space that soon grew warm with their exhaled breath. The confines of the mattress did not allow for breathing room: Alistair felt each of Flora's inhalations against his chest. Her thigh lay supine on his; cheek to his shoulder. He waited for the usual nervous agitation to coarse through the channels of his body, but then was not surprised at its absence.

Instinct.

"Alistair."

Flora's voice emerged muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.

"Flora."

Alistair lifted the blanket an inch so that the blackness became a more diaphanous grey. Flora lifted her chin and turned her face towards his. The moonlight poured silver into her pale iris and made it a mirror.

"Duncan's dead."

"Yes," he replied, simply.

"And everyone thinks that we're traitors."

"Yes."

"But," Flora continued, with the pragmatism that had drawn him through the morass of grief and rage after Ostagar. "We ain't been ate by the Archdemon yet."

Alistair laughed, the sound caught and folded by the blanket. He kissed her smooth forehead, and Flora smiled at him, the cloud of melancholy breaking apart before his eyes. He thought about kissing her again - perhaps somewhere other than the forehead - and then decided to smile back at her instead. The sudden; urgent desire that had seized them both in the rear garden had subsided, for now.

"How would you say it," Flora continued, fingers wandering the length of his forearm. "In your way. We have not eaten by the Archdemon yet. Been eated by? Eaten?"

He snorted, amused by her mangling of his articulate southern dialect.

"Been eaten by," he confirmed, watching her face as she eyed the impressive topography of the muscle. "I like your northern way better."

Flora thought that the northern way of doing everything was better, but did not say so.

"They talked like southerners in the Circle too," she explained, with a flutter of her fingers that equated southerner to sophisticated. "Even though the Circle IS IN THE NORTH . No one liked the way I spoke. ' Do not say 'it ain't.' Do not say 'Dunno.'"

"Well, I like it very much. Oh," Alistair remembered the belligerent merchant, belching ale fumes and resentment. "Speaking of the Circle, I met a man by the bar who'd come from there. Says they wouldn't let him in to sell his - frog livers, or something. What do they use frog livers at the Circle for?"

"Dunno," said Flora, who had never been enrolled in any alchemical classes due to her perceived lack of literacy and ability. "Maybe the senior mages eat them."

"Ha!"

Until recently, Alistair had never been comfortable with silence. He saw a pause as a void that needed filling: with humour, or sarcasm, or - commonly - self-depreciation. Flora, conversely, did not care about silence: she did not waste air on words merely for the sake of it. Her ease with the stillness between them helped him to grow accustomed to it: and then, to appreciate it. He listened to her breathing as they lay together like tightly packed sardines, while the last threads of conversation tied themselves up in the tavern nearby. The wind bit at the window but could not enter; he could hear the long grasses whispering to each other outside. Half-submerged by shadow and soil, the broken bones of the dragon were luminous in the moonlight.

After a few minutes, Alistair realised that his sister-warden had fallen asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her bitten nails curling into her palms. The pimple on her forehead had vanished; subdued by the strange energy that coursed through her body like a tide.

Goodnight, he thought, pulling the blanket more closely around them. Sweet dreams.

Unfortunately, Flora's spirits had other plans.


AN: Haha oh no, Flora gets cockblocked by her own memories! And so does Alistair by proxy! Oh well, probably for the best - they haven't even talked about their mutual attention yet so putting the brakes on is a good thing.

I just want to clarify that even though I describe Alistair as FUCKING HUGE, I don't mean huge as in looking like a broodmother (!), I mean, he's Henry Cavill big, lol. The broodmother! Imagine! Hahaha

I also wanted to drop a few hints in there that things aren't well at the Circle - all the lights are out, they're not accepting any visitors - but poor oblivious Alistair and Flora have no idea about the utter raving shitshow they're going to walk into tomorrow.