The Harrowing Chamber had descended into chaos of a different sort. The senior mages, as they regained coherence, had descended into recriminations. Accusations flew like barbed arrows between the columns; aimed at whoever was closest. Some accused each other of being maleficar; of being in league with Uldred. Those accused retorted that perhaps those who pointed fingers were pawns of Pride itself. Each denunciation was baseless and born from shock and dismay. Bitterness soured the air like spoiled milk; curdling as the antagonism heightened.
An involuntary grimace creased Alistair's brow as he looked around at the resentful crowd. He swore under his breath, and cursed Uldred's name: the maleficar was the damnable root of it all. The old Templar wariness raised its head: all mages were untrustworthy and all magic was dangerous. Then he remembered the miracle of his sister-warden's mouth, and the life that she exhaled like air.
Flora herself was knee-deep in nostalgia: the bitterness and barbed words reminded her of home. She wondered if - in true Herring style - the highbrow intellectuals of the Circle would next break out into a mass brawl.
Get on with it, instructed her general, tetchily. You haven't got the rest of the Age.
Or do you desire that the Darkspawn swarm covers half of Ferelden?
The First Enchanter was still deep in conversation with Wynne, and either oblivious or ambivalent to his warring peers. With some reluctance, Flora abandoned her improbable fantasy. She had no use for acrimonious mages, only cooperative ones. If she had been a southerner's daughter, she might have said excuse me, but she was a child of the north and so she went: "Oi!"
Her exclamation went unheard. The elf who had taught Chantry history was jabbing a furious and sparking finger at a woman with unraveling hair; the woman was puffed up with indignation: just because I studied with Uldred does not make me maleficar! Greagoir and an escort of Templars, clutching the gibbering young recruit they had retrieved on the way up, stopped in the doorway: astounded.
Flora was mildly indignant.
They aren't behaving like teachers. They're screeching like fishwives at market. They ain't listening to me.
They must listen.
The chair splintered against the pillar, fracturing into pieces. The sound of its breaking echoed through the chamber like the snap of a whip. Those who had been swept up in a maelstrom of blame and accusation stopped as though frozen; the only motion their turning heads. All eyes - human, elven, huge and astonished - came to rest on Flora.
Flora dropped the remnants of the chair leg. The situation was writhing out of control like a fish squirming on the hook: she would take it in hand.
"There is a STORM COMING," she said, soft and vehement, and they held their breaths to listen. "A great tide that will DROWN this whole country and everything in it."
The First Enchanter looked straight at her and this time Flora did not look away: northerners did not care that staring was considered rude. She knew that he understood her meaning well enough; nearby, the elf mouthed the word Blight to his neighbour. The old woman went grey; trembling fingers pushing her hair behind her ears. There had been rumours for months. Now, the shadows in the dark had solidified.
Blight rippled around the room; followed by a dreadful hush. Surely not here in Ferelden. Surely, not now. Not in our time.
"HERE," said Flora, her pale stare cold as rain in winter. "NOW."
She gave them a moment to digest this. Someone had begun to sob quietly in the far corner, the sound muffled in a dressing gown sleeve. Another mage was muttering under their breath; it was either a prayer or blasphemy. When Flora opened her mouth to speak again, both fell silent.
"You sort this out," she continued, with a sweep of her palm that encompassed everything around and underneath her: the remnants of Uldred, the ruined chamber, the devastation that had swept through the lower floors. "It ain't our job. You have to be ready."
Flora could see the accord grasped in Irving's hand; a slender and innocuous roll of parchment. The enchantment that kept the page intact also prevented the ink from sinking into the aged vellum. She had not been able to read the scribbled and archaic script, but Alistair had named the signatory: First Enchanter Haelmar.
They are listening to me, aren't they?
To every word.
Flora raised her finger to the south and so imperious was her beauty and the bluntness of her speech that they all looked; as though the wall would fall away at her will and reveal the masses swarming in the Wilds.
"Prepare yourselves," she said, flinty-eyed and final. "Wait for my summons."
There was no invitation for discussion; or opportunity for dissent. To Flora, the Ages-old accord she wielded had the authority to ensure obedience. She did not realise that - equally potent - was the authoritative cant of her body: the haughty sovereign features, the command in the unblinking stare. She drew attention like a lodestone, the pull magnetic and compelling. The blood on her face had dried like kaddis. In the days before history was written, the Alamarri had worn the war paint on their faces.
The First Enchanter gave a slow, silent nod; his eyes hollow points.
Ha, thought Flora, triumphant. We are going to save Herring!
FERELDEN.
There was a hush, and then a slow rustle of murmuring sprouted; far from the razor-edged, accusatory hysteria of Pride's immediate aftermath. There was a purpose to conversation now, soft and grim, and the word that surfaced most often was time.
How much remains?
Will it be enough?
Alistair looked at his sister-warden. She appeared shorter than she had done minutes prior: when she was speaking he could have sworn that she stood no less tall than himself. Flora had cast off her authority like a cloak in a firewarmed chamber; she was gazing around with the usual vagueness. He looked at her and knew with utter certainty what Flora was not, even if he did not yet understand the full implications of such a supposition.
If she's just a girl from Herring, I'll eat my helm.
The next candle-length passed swiftly. Those who could walk left the Harrowing Chamber without looking back, astounded at their own survival. An air of grim purpose now permeated through Kinloch Hold; infusing its residents with similar determination. Instead of being left to stew on their failure to detect blood magic in their midst, they had a chance to redeem themselves; to focus on an external enemy instead of ruminating on a traitor.
Alistair waited for Irving to finish a brief exchange with Greagoir. The Knight-Commander's face had dissolved into - quickly suppressed - relief on seeing the First Enchanter alive and intact. Once the Templar had turned away the young Warden stepped forward, opening his mouth to introduce himself.
Irving halted him with an age-scored palm. The mage had not forgotten the genial, towering youth that had accompanied Duncan to the Circle several months prior.
"Alistair," he said quietly, dabbing at a cut on his brow with a square of silk. "I remember you well enough. I apologise for the state you found us in - and thank you for your part in relieving it. We owe you and your companions a great debt."
Instead of the usual clench of pain that followed Duncan's name, Alistair felt only a hollow melancholy, less sharp and more somber. He wondered if grief evolved over time: still present, but clad in different guises.
"Well, there's a way that you can repay us," he said, then added hastily, "apart from lending your aid against the Darkspawn. Do you know the Arl of Redcliffe?"
While Alistair and Irving conversed in low tones, Flora continued to mend those who had been struck down during the confrontation with Pride. Fortunately, the injuries were not too severe: ranging from arcane burns to minor lacerations of the flesh. She avoided meeting the stares of those she healed; bowing her face lower than was needed over their wounds. A few spoke to her and she pretended not to hear, or offered a muttered lie about needing to focus on her mending. She could feel their incredulity on her skin like a rash. They had known her as the Vase - in a confined space like the Tower, even the juvenile insults of apprentices drifted upstairs - and a mage of negligible ability.
Determined to avoid interrogation, Flora stared with renewed intensity at the blistered and bloodied meat before her. Her mending had not lost its novelty over her years. She never tired of seeing new skin spread like webbing; fibrous strands knitting together into a raw swathe of flesh.
Is the First Enchanter still looking?
Her spirits ignored her: not deigning to answer a question that could be resolved with a turn of the head.
Flora sighed a deep sigh and risked a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes met Irving's clever, birdlike stare: his blue gaze like a dart. She hastily returned her attention to the burned limb before her, belly churning with irrational anxiety.
"I don't believe I remember you from my classes."
The thoughtful voice came from the woman attached to the burnt limb. Flora replied with an ambiguous grunt; hoping that this would satisfy the senior instructor.
The woman twisted a ring with a small red stone around her finger as she spoke.
"Were you at Jainen Circle?"
"No."
A dark eyebrow rose. "Surely not an apostate?"
"No." Flora wished that there were more casualties: everyone had been restored to intactness and she had no excuse for escape. "I were here."
Only in the Circle could Flora be forgettable; her face counted for naught when set against her perceived ignorance.
"Was here," corrected the instructor. "I recall all my advanced students."
Flora felt a sweat break out on her forehead: she hated teachers.
"I weren't in an advanced class," she replied, wondering she could escape. "I never got beyond elementary."
The woman shot her a skeptic's hawkish stare; clearly, she believed Flora to be lying.
Flora rose to her feet - grateful that she no longer needed permission to leave an instructor's company - and turned towards her brother-warden; who was still standing near Irving.
Alistair made both the First Enchanter and Commander seem like dwarves; his height placed him head and shoulders above the next tallest man in the chamber. Despite his brawn and the breadth of his shoulder, Flora observed a general slump of weariness. Two consecutive battles had bowed Alistair's head and scored creases across his brow.
Flora shot him an anxious glance from the tail of her eye as she came to a halt. She wished fervently that they were alone so that she could see if there were any injuries beneath the borrowed armour. Alistair looked back down at her and the corner of his mouth bowed upwards, instinctive. He almost reached out to take her hand and then remembered that they were not alone; that their fish-rope affirmation ought to take place somewhere more private. He wanted to ask her about the Fade and about Duncan; at the same time, he was worried about how she might respond.
"We've a new companion for the road," he said instead easily, canting his head towards the stern-faced senior mage who had accompanied them through the tower. "The lady Wynne has offered the use of her staff against the Darkspawn."
The woman nodded, her mouth drawn taut.
"I'll not sit idle while another tragedy brews under my nose," Wynne informed them, briskly. "I may have been blind to Uldred's madness, but I won't make the same mistake twice."
Flora's stomach sank: a TEACHER! She was not a southerner and so she made no pretence at delight; a half-hearted grunt escaped her throat as she eyed the older woman.
You must learn to greet new allies with more enthusiasm than that, chided her general, disapproving. This mage has great ability. She will be an asset.
"She had better not try to teach me anything." Morrigan cut across their conversation with the usual bite: the witch was leaning against a pillar with arms folded, glowering. "The last thing I desire is to be lectured on magic by a Circle grandmother."
It was rare that Flora found herself agreeing with Morrigan.
Wynne smiled and said nothing.
"Wynne has many years of experience," the First Enchanter said, gratefully sinking into a chair thrust forward. "And yet she also has the inexplicable vigour of youth. It is a source of much puzzlement and envy. But I believe she will be a great help to you against the Darkspawn."
Irving paused for the briefest moment, his eye flickering to the Templar commander. When he spoke next it was in an undertone, audible only to those who stood near.
"And against Mac Tir."
Muted as it was, it was a declaration of political alignment. Greagoir heard it but made no correction, though his lips folded until they whitened.
Alistair drew in a relieved breath and glanced at Flora, who was looking more cheerful now that the Circle had declared in their favour.
"It won't take me long to gather my things." Wynne gave a nod, eyes distant as she estimated the volume of her necessities. "I keep a bag prepared for such events."
"Blights?"
The instructor half-smiled at Alistair's question.
"Unexpected journeys."
Morrigan had sidled back into the shadows, eager to be off. In her hand, she clutched a slender tome that looked to be bound with leather. Her cloak also made a rustling sound when it moved - for all her contempt of Circles, the witch was happy to pilfer from their libraries.
Alistair was mid-turn towards Flora when he caught sight of several slightly built Tranquil struggling to remove the debris from the doorway. After a moment of dilemma, he yielded to his conscience and went to assist: his build made such a task inconsequential.
Flora watched her brother-warden lift the remnants of an oak door as though it were made from year-old driftwood. She then realised - to her horror - that she was the only one left in Irving's company. The First Enchanter was staring at her as though two stuck pages of a book had peeled apart, revealing some new and startling text. A senior instructor with bristling whiskers was trying to get his attention; Irving dismissed him with the lift of a finger
"Flora O'Ferryn," he said slowly, musing over each syllable. "Apostate from the Storm Coast, age and parentage unclear. I looked up your Circle record after Duncan conscripted you."
Flora had not known that she was the subject of any record. She did not bother correcting the First Enchanter: that the Templar who admitted her four years prior had misheard her northern enunciation of Flora, of Herring.
"Conjuring Basics,'" he said, as if reading from a paper in hand. "'Nil Progress. Studies in the Art of Emanation. Nil Progress. Alchemy: from Algaroth to Zaffre. Nil progress.'"
Flora felt as though her feet were lead, and that she was slowly sinking to the bottom of some oceanic trench. She focused on the faded tiles above Irving's head; a geometric array of crimson and white. The ceiling was perhaps the only part of the Harrowing Chamber that had escaped unscathed.
"Now, this is interesting," Irving continued, as though she could see the parchment he referred to. "'Manifestation and Manipulation of the Aether: some inconsequential and rudimentary progress.'"
Flora wished that a small, relatively harmless abomination would appear and start rampaging through the debris of the Harrowing Chamber: weak enough to be easily subdued, yet distracting enough to divert Irving's attention.
Irving fixed her with a stare like the pin that secured the butterfly to the board.
"The reshaping of a fractured skull. The repair of a ruptured spleen," the First Enchanter said, recalling each wound that Flora had mended. "The fusing of rended flesh. The mending of a failing heart. This is not inconsequential. This is not rudimentary."
Flora wondered if she was being told off. She could feel her own heart assailing some unfortunate spur of bone within her chest.
"The summoning of a shield," Irving said, soft and wondering. "That not even the wrath of a Pride demon could penetrate. I have not seen equal in my six decades spent studying the Fade. The structure of it - it was almost - organic."
I hope he don't ask me anything about it, Flora thought darkly, letting her gaze drift down the line of a broken column. I can't explain how it works. Why couldn't I just have normal magic?
Her general gave a rather nasty laugh.
"'Spirit healer'" the First Enchanter mused, eyes bright with curiosity. "The Warden-Commander suggested as much before you joined us in my office, the night you were conscripted. I admit, I didn't believe him at the time. I suppose the Rivaini are more familiar with such rare schools of magic. Still…"
The latter part of the sentence curled into the air unspoken: still, I was surprised that it was you.
Flora could hear the sound of her teeth grinding in her head. She decided that - First Enchanter or no - the conversation was now over. She let her wintery eyes settle on Irving once again, casting him in the light of an old man with a wavering heart; a patient rather than her old superior.
"We're leaving," she said, startled by the flint in the tone. "As soon as Instructor Wynne is ready."
Irving inclined his head in agreement. "I will accompany you as far as Redcliffe. Your companion has requested my aid in the matter of a possessed boy."
Flora realised that she had almost forgotten about Connor Guerrin. She nodded, hoping that this new conversational tangent would steer Irving away from the topic of herself.
"Mm. You can help him?"
The First Enchanter paused, and then gave a slight nod.
"I believe so."
The Harrowing Chamber had grown less crowded around them as the occupants filtered out in groups of two and three. The name Uldred passed between them on occasion, but far more frequent came the word Blight.
A Fifth Blight, in our time! And with King Cailan dead and the Wardens slain.
Well- we're all dead men to be sure. I always thought that demons would be the end of me, one way or the other.
Aye, or Templars. Not bloody Darkspawn.
At least we'll go down fighting, not penned up like rats in this Tower.
Flora overheard an array of comments as they left and scowled at their departing shoulders. Despite her streak of innate melancholy - northerners gravitated towards the pessimistic - she was not pleased by the suggestion that Herring - Ferelden - was doomed.
Biting back her annoyance, she turned back to Irving, surveying Ferelden's foremost mage doubtfully. The First Enchanter was still clad in a patterned dressing robe, beard tangled like sheep's wool- he looked more ready for a nap than for a long journey.
"You got a horse?" she asked, eyeing the torn remnants of his slippers.
This time, the old man's smile was genuine.
"Child, we have a ship."
AN: Aw poor Flora I do like undermining her as soon as she does something cool, lol. She gives the mages her recruitment speech A STORM IS COMING! and then immediately afterwards gets a reminder of quite how comprehensively crap she was as a student, lol. "Didn't you suck at everything?" Why, yes, yes she did :) lol! Poor Flora, now they've got a schoolteacher joining them! Of course Wynne is a lot more than a schoolteacher - I actually love Wynne, she trumps Leliana and Morrigan for my favourite female companion.
Hope everyone is doing well! Thank you for reading, I'm so stunned at how many people are interested in following my silly story hahaha. Thank yoooou!
