The beach at Herring curved between two vast horns of stone: each taller than a cathedral and cut from speckled granite. For centuries the Waking Sea had gnawed at the cliffs with salted teeth: the softer shale crumbled, while towering columns of limestone seemed sculpted by an architect's hand. The bay between the twin headlands provided little respite for sailors: the water was calmer but a vicious reef lay beneath its surface. The serrated maw of the Hag's Teeth was strewn with souvenirs from its past victims: a broken mast caught between two jutting points, a rusting anchor wrapped with seaweed. Scraps of sun-bleached white revealed themselves as pieces torn from a sail.

The conjuration of Herring in Flora's mind was not an exact replica of its physical counterpart. She had not set eyes on her home for four years: as the months passed, the cliffs settled into new silhouettes and the reef sprouted more or less teeth according to her scattered remembrance. The pattern of shale and coarse grey sand underfoot shifted with each imagining. Despite the surface inaccuracy there were certainties that remained constant. The sky, sea and landscape borrowed from a bleak and monotonous palette of various greys; the seagulls shrieked like a demonic chorus as they wheeled about the cliffs. The air had a coarseness that scraped the throat; laced with salt and a cloying bitterness of seaweed. To breathe in the north was an entirely different experience. It was impressive, but not beautiful: no landscape painter would ever immortalise the Herring coast with oils and brush. It was stark, and striking, and not welcoming in the slightest.

This imagined beach had been Flora's classroom for over a decade: she had refined her mending on its shale-swept slopes, and learnt to shield in the shadow of its towering cliffs. Her teachers had been her spirits: the general and the other; abrasive and encouraging in turn. Now she wandered along the shoreline, bare feet sinking into the coarse bank of sand. A length of rope caught her attention, writhing like an eel in the ebb and flow of the tide. Flora reached down to lift it free, water streaming from its tattered end. She peered at it - unremarkable - then let it slither from her palm back into the foaming shallows.

Are you going to wander aimlessly all night?

Flora curled her toes, anchoring herself in the damp sand. The wind spun around her, raising the hairs on her forearms.

I'm not wandering aimlessly, she thought, sulkily. It was a long day. A hard day. I thought I could be a fish.

You are used to hard days. And this one is not over.

Flora felt a slow dread creep over her like an advancing tide. The sky was darkening with each passing moment: the light draining away as though a plug had been pulled. Clouds were massing on the far horizon, black and ominous monoliths laced with the sour green shadow of the Fade.

Why? she asked plaintively, feeling the strange electric prickle of an incoming storm on her skin. Why can't I just have a nice dream.

Her general did not respond. In the distance, Flora saw the dark silhouette of a ship appear on the horizon. As if acting out a much-rehearsed scene from a play, the waves began to lash at its hull; the wind an assault on its sails. The ship lurched with a groan of protesting wood, veering helpless towards the ragged maw of the Hag's Teeth.

It was a familiar sight to Flora: the impending wreck of the Ellyn Dynge. The men crawled like ants over the rigging, tiny and desperate: a sail tore clean in half as though it were parchment.

WHY, she demanded, scowling at the doomed ship. I don't want to see this again. You show me all the time. I know what happens: the ship sinks.

In the tail of her eye, Flora saw a disjointed montage of men making their way down the beach; boats shoved out into the seething shallows. She was not focused and so most of the figures were blurred and incomplete. The only one which had some clarity was her father.

I know what happens, she repeated; only half-watching the rescuers set off towards the ailing ship. I just want to catch some crabs. Hello, pa.

She waved at the man on the far right. The illusion ignored her: eyes fixed on the floundering vessel.

There also came no response from her spirits: save for a flutter of apology from Compassion.

When Flora next looked at the ship, it was no longer a ship. The broken masts had elongated, the rope netting weaving together into veined flesh. The bones of the sinking ship became a wing, unfolding like a vast and terrible sail. It produced a shadow of indescribable colour: draining the light from the surrounding air.

No, thought Flora, horrified. Stop it. Stop showing me. I don't want to see it.

The whispers slid into the water and swam towards her like fish: dark and poisonous. She stepped backwards and found herself still in the shallows: the gritted bank of the shore some yards behind her.

Far vaster than the ship, the wing unfolded: she could taste the sweet, rotten tang of it on her tongue.

I don't want to see it.

Look at it! came the unyielding response.

Reluctantly Flora looked at it: the wing emerging from the water, and felt fear seize her by the throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and let the anchor of Alistair's hand draw her back through the Veil -

- and into the waking world.

The shadowed walls of the bedchamber disorientated Flora: the stillness and the silence a contrast to the world she had just departed. Her heart was hammering a blacksmith's rhythm against her ribs, a constellation of cold sweat had broken out across her forehead. She lay flat on her back in a claustrophobic well of darkness, the blanket tangled around her legs: staring without seeing at the ceiling. If she risked a blink, she might glimpse the wing of the Archdemon silhouetted against her eyelids.

Then a snore broke the silence, a thrum of sound close to her right ear. Flora could see her brother-warden in the tail of her eye: his supine form like a mountain range as he lay on his side beside her. One arm was curved beneath Flora, fingers resting lightly around her shoulder. Her abrupt wakening had not roused him: his face was slack and lost in dreaming, the clear, handsome features at ease.

Impulsively Flora rolled towards him, pressing her nose into the roughspun linen of his shirt. She filled her lungs with the now-familiar scent: heat, sword oil and man. The frantic palpitation of her pulse eased: she could feel the steady drumbeat of his own heart in a throb against her cheek. Driven by unconscious instinct, Alistair threw his free arm over her. It settled across her hip, a broad palm claiming her thigh.

The weight of the limb was reassuring; the agitated knots in Flora's mind gradually eased themselves loose as she settled into the unconscious embrace.

He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, she thought idly, tilting her chin to gaze at the underside of his face. No dragons in his dreams tonight.

It was not just a dragon. It was the Archdemon.

I'm not talking to you. You RUINED my night! TWICE. Alistair and I - we - I think we were going to -

Her general laughed nastily. Flora ignored the cackle - which sounded like the crushing of dead leaves beneath a boot - and returned her attention to her brother-warden. The bulk of Alistair's arm was testament to the past decade spent wielding sword and shield. She liked the weight of it above her hip: it felt definite.

Lifting her fingers, Flora let a lone candle's worth of light fall on him: careful to avoid spilling any on his face. A mark below the hollow of his throat caught her attention: the legacy of a glancing blow that had predated her entry into his life. Flora touched the blanched skin with a roll of dread in her belly; an inch to the side, and the wound would have severed a blood vessel.

How brave, she thought to herself, pulling the collar of his skirt down to cover the scar. To live without magic.

Between snores, Alistair murmured something unintelligible under his breath, hauling her closer. Flora shut her eyes tightly and hoped that the clam-shell of his embrace would keep her half-rooted in the waking world.

The next day dawned foggy and cold: the usual Fereldan fare of drizzling clouds. The sun rose early and presided over a misty span of grey: the wind spun gleefully through the naked trees. Remnants of autumnal colour lay scattered across the ground like a trove of copper coins. Beneath the mists the surface of Lake Calenhad was scored with white lines, agitated by the restless air. At its northernmost point the Circle Tower rose from the central islet of a moon-shaped archipelago. The shuttered windows remained sealed; the door barred and bolted.

A sliver of anaemic sun stole between the curtains that Alistair had drawn the previous night. The tavern bedchamber looked smaller and shabbier in the cool-toned dawn. Their packs spilled their contents across ill-fitting floorboards sorely in need of a sweep. The muffled clatter of the kitchen echoed through the far wall; the cook had no qualms about rousing the guests.

Alistair and Flora had left sleep simultaneously: tangled so tightly together, when one stirred an inch, the other felt it. Their eyes met - green-flecked hazel and uniform grey - and the same thought was writ stark. They had shared an embrace with intent the previous evening; they had woken in the morning with limbs interwoven, his palm claiming her thigh.

What they had not done during the intermediate night itself hovered unspoken between them. Neither was willing to give it voice: awed by the potency of their reciprocal desire.

Now Alistair could not believe that he had once labelled his sister-warden's face as cold and imperious: the beauty laced with a superiority that made her unapproachable. He followed the angle of Flora's jaw, tracing a line from her right ear to her left. She shivered when he continued to her earlobe, caressing it with the large and capable ball of his thumb.

"Think we have time to break our fast before we head off?" he asked in an undertone, wanting to say: I almost made love to you last night.

Not that I know what that is. Probably not like when we bred the mares in Eamon's stables.

Alistair fought the urge to free her hair from its leather toggle; to spill the deep crimson richness over the bed like a fall of forest fruits. He satisfied himself with brushing a thumb over the dark arch of her brow, though his gaze involuntarily drifted down to the sulky fullness of her mouth.

Flora looked at the dawn slanting through the gap in the curtains: at war with her Herring habit of rising before first light. She was warm and comfortable, and did not want to get up. The weight of Alistair's arm still rested across her belly and she felt anchored to the narrow mattress. When she looked back to Alistair, there was a strange light and a question in his eyes.

Despite her reluctance, Flora understood how vital it was that she leave the bed, and his embrace; that the urgent, unfulfilled desire between them remain dormant, for now. There was an army of mages to recruit, a boy in need of exorcism and a village desperate for respite: none of which would happen any sooner if they allowed themselves to be distracted. Thus she hauled herself inelegantly upwards: navigating the rugged terrain of her brother-warden.

Alistair let her go reluctantly, also recognising that if they lingered too long in each other's arms it might mean no visit to the Circle that morning, or even that day .

"Breakfast," she repeated mid-yawn, rubbing her eyes with her fists. "Mm. And then - a walk?"

"A horse," he corrected, rising from the bed. "We have more than enough coin, thanks to Bann Teagan."

Flora looked mutinous: she had not fared well with horses on their journey to Ostagar, nor during any time since.

The innkeeper provided them with a loaf of three-day old bread and a bag of apples; clearly, he wished to be rid of them as soon as possible. Neither Flora and Alistair could understand why - they bore no mark signifying that they were members of the disgraced Wardens. The man did not meet their eye once during negotiations over the horse; he shifted from foot to foot as though fleabitten.

All became clear when they emerged blinking into the mists; mouths full of stale bread and clutching apples. Flora's staff had been retrieved from her hiding place - which had not been much of one after all - and propped in an accusatorial manner against the fence.

"Oh," said Flora vaguely, recalling that the length of beech did indeed belong to her. "It's my staff."

"That explains it." Alistair swept a searching glance over the stable: the innkeeper's son was meant to meet them with horse and bridle. "He thinks you've fled the Circle. An illegal escapee."

"Eh."

Flora put a hand to her chest, listening for the crisp response of parchment. Somewhere amongst the treaties lay her Circle discharge, authorised by the archmage and witnessed by Duncan. His signed name and title was the only part of him that remained in the mortal world: brisk and sloping, the word merging at the tail end in an impatient collision of letters. It was the signature of a man with many tasks and myriad responsibilities; one who could not afford to waste time on meticulous Circle bureaucracy. If he had been two decades younger and less tolerant, he would have taken Flora without waiting for her papers.

The innkeeper's son ambled yawning towards the stables; casting a sideways glance at Flora as he did so. A short while later, he emerged leading a vast and fidgeting horse by its bridle. Alistair appraised it with an experienced eye: it was tall and muscled enough to bear their combined weight; the dark coat shone like oil; the gait seemed even. Abandoning his pack, he strode forwards, taking the bridle with a confident grip. Alarmed by Alistair's size the horse had balked: he gripped the reins and murmured reassurance, scratching the white blaze that ran the length of the nose. It was a practised and tested technique: within moments, the flattened ears had returned upright and the horse dropped his head.

"What's his name?" Alistair asked, resting a palm on the taut muscle of the hindquarters. "He's a beauty."

"Batard," replied the innkeeper's son, still surreptituously eyeballing Flora. "Did you pay my dad already?"

"Yes," replied Alistair, dropping to lift each hoof in turn. "Wait, 'Batard'? As in, bastard?'"

There had been a half-Orlesian boy in Alistair's dormitory at the monastery: he had taught them a host of vulgarities in his native dialect. The innkeeper's son shrugged: he spoke no tongue other than his own.

"Ha." Alistair acknowledged the suitability of the name with a wry smile. "Fitting, I suppose."

He peered at the horse once more, measuring it up with an experienced eye. Its dimensions were far greater than the average Fereldan stock; it was a warhorse, and which meant that pedigreed blood ran somewhere in its ancestry. Alistair decided not to enquire as to how a provincial tavern on the poorer coast of Lake Calenhad had come by such a valuable steed.

While her brother-warden adjusted the stirrup to accommodate the length of his leg, Flora leaned her elbows on the fence and peered out at the lake. A morning fog hung above the water, gossamer thin and limned with silver. She could not see the opposite shore, though the head of the lake was far narrower than its belly. Kinloch Hold, silhouetted within tbe mist, appeared oddly skeletal: supported by a ribcage of buttresses and columns. Once again Flora reached a palm to her breast and covered Duncan's signature: assurance that she was free of the Circle's control.

They set off before the other tavern guests had woken, their departure noted with guarded relief by the innkeeper and his wife. Alistair's instinct was right: the horse had destrier heritage, and easily carried both Warden-recruits with their baggage. The road was a single track that clung to the lakeshore: little more than a narrow, well-trodden trail. Ferns lined the bank on both sides, pale green fronds were strewn like rushes before them.

At first, Flora had perched on the saddle behind Alistair. After she spent a quarter-candle crashing around like a loose sack of potatoes, they decided that it would be better for her to sit before him. Alistair had no complaint: he put an arm across her belly to keep her in place and gripped the reins in his free hand. Secretly, he wondered how she could have grown worse at riding with experience.

Flora did not care that she was bad at riding horses: it was not a skill that she had ever wanted to refine. She was content to lean against Alistair's chest, following the rhythmic sway of his body. He rode like an instinct, hips moving with the rolling gait of the horse.

The horse ploughed forward into the mist, reassured by the capable hand at its head. They were still many miles from the coast, but they were almost in the part of Ferelden that could be described as the north. The air had a different taste and texture: it clung damply to the back of the throat, and soaked one's clothes before one realised that it was raining. The presence of the Waking Sea and the high hills of the Marches created a deep valley that Ferelden's north had sunk into: despite its proximity to warmer climes, the weather remained perpetually soggy.

After an hour Flora was in her element: she was used to fog obscuring the land and sitting in wet clothes. The lake was still hidden beneath a cloud of mist like confectioner's sugar: the branches of the fir trees sagged until they brushed the top of Alistair's head.

"Maker's Breath," he said as more icy water dripped down the back of his neck. "I don't remember it being this miserable when we got you from the Circle."

Flora did not begrudge him this opinion: he was a southerner and not used to such dreariness.

"It was earlier then," she said, "the trees still had leaves. Now it's winter."

"Hm."

She reached inside her pocket and rummaged around: producing a series of rustling noises before pulling out an apple. Several pieces of bread lay strewn over the horse's neck; Flora retrieved them gingerly.

"Do you want an apple?"

"Yes," said Alistair, who never rejected food. "What else have you got?"

He craned his neck over her shoulder with the easy familiarity that had sprouted between them since Ostagar. Flora lifted the apple and he took it; eyeing her bulging pockets.

"Looks like you've got half the larder in there."

"I saved Morrigan breakfast."

Flora looked around, half-expecting the witch to burst out from the trees with a cackle. The firs rustled, but only with a passing breeze. The mist above the lake was lifting like a bridal veil: Kinloch Hold consolidated itself in a defiant thrust of limestone.

"She's probably already enjoyed a delicious mouse," remarked Alistair, acerbic as was possible behind a mouthful of apple. "Or another small rodent. Look, you can see the Circle now. Maybe they'll serve us breakfast there too!"

Flora scowled at the elongated pinnacle as it emerged from the fog like a beacon: though no guiding flame burned atop its crenellated rooftop. She put her palm to her breast once again, feeling the reassuring whisper of the papers. Although she could not read, her Circle discharge was the least yellowed of the documents. The allegiance treaties had been repeatedly enchanted to preserve them over the centuries: indecipherable handwriting meandered over parchment bleached from age.

Alistair felt his sister-warden shift on the saddle and guessed at her mind.

"They can't keep you," he said; for the third time in twenty four hours. "I promise they can't, Flo."

Flora cast him a searching and uncertain look over her shoulder. Alistair let the reins go slack and slid his freed palm up her arm; aware of the flesh beneath the sagging wool. None of Flora's clothes fit her: everything hung off her body like laundry draped out to dry.

"I wouldn't stay this time," she replied, vaguely. "I wouldn't let them keep me again."

She did not elaborate, averting her gaze from the ever-closer tower. Alistair pondered the obscure reply for a moment - did she mean that she could have escaped, if she'd wished to? - but decided not to question Flora further: her head was turned with mulish deliberateness in the opposite direction. He thought about asking her for a story instead, since she seemed to have a bottomless supply; but then the road veered west and began to slope sharply downwards.

The shore of the lake lay before them: covered with a thin swathe of shingle. Beyond lay the water and a stone bridge that had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Kinloch Hold rested on its rocky isle a half-mile into the water: surrounded by decaying remnants of Tevinter origin. A dock jutted out into the water, with a lone boat at anchor. Nearby, nestled within a copse of bare-branched trees, stood a dilapidated tavern. The building gave off an air of general neglect; the hanging sign above the door too rotten to decipher a name.

Flora recognised the dock: it had a counterpart at the foot of the Circle. She had taken the ferry across the water on two occasions: although she could remember little of her arrival at Kinloch Hold. She put a palm to her breast yet again, touching the safeguard of Duncan's signature.

"Back again," Alistair said, feeling the sting of their commander's absence. "I hope I don't get seasick again. Where's the ferryman?"

"Not again!"

The complaint came from the entrance to the worn-out tavern. A man who seemed vaguely familiar stood in the doorway: glowering and with a bottle in his hand.

"I've been given strict orders not to take anyone to the Circle," the ferryman continued, made belligerent by the ale. "I'm fed up of people asking. You can pay me an Orlesian ransom but I ain't going there. Waste of my bloody time."


AN: I wanted to continue building on the theme of the parallel between the shipwreck of the Ellyn Dynge - a pivotal event for Flora growing up - and the Archdemon. Her spirits are deliberately creating a narrative where the floundering ship and the Archdemon are confused in Flora's mind - for their own mysterious purposes. This is my version of the Archdemon visions, lol.

The horse is inspired by the destrier, a medieval warhorse built like a brick shithouse - now extinct!

Anyway, poor Alistair expecting to receive a cooked breakfast at the Circle! He's in for a RUDE AWAKENING D: