The ship sailed southwards, straight as a die. Calenhad had no tide nor current to divert its path; no malevolent wind tugged at the sails to draw it off course. The lake was placid in temperament; too old to provide youthful excitement for those who sailed its waters. Nor did it bear an ancient grudge like its tempestuous cousin to the north. The Circle ship - nameless for a reason long since lost - made good time in such favourable conditions. Overhead, a full-bellied moon neared it's apex. It silvered the brittle edges of the waves and cast an icy sheen across the ship's decking; as if the boards were covered in winter frost.

Fingers of moonlight punctuated the stern cabin, angling through the three leaded windows. They illuminated the mid-sized chamber and its occupants: the elder mage and the younger, and their respective baggage. Flora's pack lay on its side on her berth, the meagre contents spilling across the blanket. She owned neither comb nor spare clothing: the pack contained a few odd socks and her water-stained travel cape. Wynne's baggage seemed to contain books and little else.

A bathtub had been brought in by two labouring servants, the water exhaling its heat into the air. Wynne had declined - she had used the superior facilities in the Circle prior to their departure - and so Flora had reluctantly submitted to her third wash of the week. She was not happy about this in the slightest; but did not want to see the servants' efforts wasted. Added incentive was the fact that a bath would delay any attempted educating: books and water did not mix well.

Flora watched skeins of hair float near the two pink islands of her knees. To her relief, the water was plain and unscented: she had been given only a bar of salted tallow soap to augment her bathing. She had scrubbed herself half-heartedly, rinsed her hair and - teeth gritted - forced her fingers through it from root to end. Although the water was now cooling, she did not want to get out: the books were still resting on the berth, and the senior instructor did not appear at all sleepy.

Her knee gave a throb and Flora responded with a resentful stare. The weak joint did not look any different from its twin: the damage lay beneath the skin.

Should I try and fix it again? Can I fix it?

You would need to break the bone first.

Flora shuddered, abandoning the idea.

Pushing a wet strand of hair from her eyes, she turned her attention back to Wynne. The senior instructor - finally - appeared as though she were getting ready for bed. She had wrapped herself in a dressing robe and released the rigid topknot of her bun. Still, even as the mage readied herself for sleep, she was reading: a book lay propped open on the blanket. A lantern had been relocated to spill its light across the parchment.

Flora slid down several inches in the cooling water, inhaling the salty residue of the tallow. She could not understand the Circle's obsession with books: they owned thousands of them, far more than should be necessary.

"Would you like to borrow the Purley? His account of the Fourth Blight seems to be the most comprehensive."

Wynne gestured a slender hand towards one particular tome.

"No," said Flora.

The mage looked at her.

Flora clarified: "Can't read."

The senior instructor inhaled sharply. A frown deepened the lattice of lines across her face.

"But you were at Kinloch Hold for three years - no, four."

Flora offered an ambiguous grunt in response, astonished at how clean her toenails appeared after their third wash of the week.

"We failed you as we failed Jowan," Wynne murmured, beneath her breath. Her next words were barely audible and for her benefit alone, "and as I failed Aneirin."

She offered no further explanation, pressing her lips together so tightly that they flattened into a pale line. A shadow fell over her face; one that the lantern nearby could not banish.

Flora did not know who Aneirin was. She pushed herself upright in the bathtub and began to gather the sodden mass of her hair, wringing out the plum-dark ropes. The sound of the water roused the old mage from the well of memory and she sat up a little straighter.

"Anyway, it won't happen again."

Wynne paused, took a breath and then spoke the words that had been hovering on her tongue since the ship's sails had been unfurled.

"Child, tell me about your spirits."

The last person to ask Flora that question had been Duncan; and it had taken him no small amount of charm and persuasion to gain even the sliver of an answer. She shot Wynne a look of beady-eyed disapproval over the rim of the bath; so naked in her suspicion that the teacher had to suppress a smile.

Still, Wynne did not give up easily:

"Back in the Tower, you mentioned spirits in the plural. Is there more than one that aids you?"

Flora continued to methodically wring out her hair: it seemed to have soaked up half of the bath.

Wynne sensed a mutinous silence. She changed tactic: shifting the position of the lantern so the mellow glow fell across the chamber.

"Tell me about the first ailment that you healed."

An answer emerged thoughtless from Flora's throat: "A Mabari dog with a broken rib."

Her reply hung between them: Flora frowned as though she could see the words writ in the air. Although they had come from her own mouth, it was the recollection of a stranger: such a memory did not exist in Flora's mind. Mabari hounds were the companions of the nobility. Prized for their strength and intelligence, their lineage was as selective as that of their highborn owners. They dwelt in the castles and manors of Ferelden's wealthiest, not in uncharted fishing villages. Flora had never seen a Mabari until Ostagar, where King Cailan had kept a pack of two dozen.

"It weren't a Mabari," she corrected, feeling the small hairs lift from the damp skin of her arm. "I… I don't know why I said that. It was a granny with Frostcough."

She also did not understand why she was shivering. The bathwater was cooling, but not cold enough to warrant such a reaction. Fortunately, Wynne seemed satisfied enough with her answer and did not press her for further detail. The elder mage had decided that it was too late for further interrogation; she was sliding the last of her books back into her satchel.

Why did I say a Mabari? I ain't never been within arms' reach of a Mabari.

Her spirits offered no explanation: Compassion exhaled a wistful sigh.

Flora decided that the week's frequent bathing had muddled her mind: it was unnatural for the body to be immersed in water so repeatedly. Shoving wet masses of hair unceremoniously over her shoulders, she rose to her feet, the bathwater streaming from her in ribbons.

The elder mage paused, her hand resting flat on a slim and well-thumbed tome. A faded floral motif was carved into the length of the spine. It was no academic text, but a translation of the Rose of Orlais; a popular fable of an ill-fated romance between a comtesse and a chevalier.

"You're a very pretty girl," she said evenly as Flora wandered naked and aimless about the cabin in search of something to wear. "Really, I ought to have accompanied you to Ostagar after you were conscripted. It would have been appropriate for several reasons."

Flora made another ambiguous sound. She did not have a change of fresh clothing and yet it did not seem right to put on the sweaty, battle-stained garb that she had worn in the Circle.

"Borrow a nightgown of mine if you've none," the senior enchanter suggested, after Flora had made a third fruitless circuit of the cabin. "I packed a surplus."

It took her a few moments to excavate the garment from beneath the books and rolls of parchment. Flora accepted the nightgown, pulling it without ceremony over her sodden head.

"No," Wynne continued, picking up the thread of her previous thought. "After Jowan - well. It was such a dreadful shock. And in the midst of all the turmoil, you were whisked off by the Warden-Commander. It was all so sudden."

There was no mirror in the ship's cabin, but Flora had never bothered to watch her reflection when wrangling with her hair. She coaxed the wet mass into an untidy, minimal-effort braid; the fabric of the nightshirt clinging to her shoulders as it soaked up the water.

"And Duncan used to have a rather infamous reputation in our Circle," Wynne continued drily, loosening her braid and feeling for a brush. "And elsewhere, if the stories are true. Though that was some time ago. Regardless, I should have accompanied you."

Flora had a vague sense that Wynne was alluding to something salacious. She wanted very much for the senior enchanter to stop talking - she did not want to discuss Duncan with Wynne - and began to craft an excuse for a swift departure.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the lower-left pane of the window: the warped glass had stretched her face to disconcerting proportions. Beyond, the lakewater stretched like a swathe of spilled ink; the shore obscured by the darkness. Yet another lantern flared brightly and then died, the cheap tallow candle at its heart spent.

The cabin was growing dim and Wynne had finished combing out the remnants of her bun. Flora wondered how old the senior enchanter was: her hair was as white as lambswool, but beyond the fine lattice of wrinkles the features still had a vestige of youth. Although she could not count, Flora had a vague idea of what forty, fifty, sixty meant, and how it appeared. She had never asked Duncan his age: the years would have taken less of a toll than the taint propagated through his blood.

"I have to go."

Wynne, about to ease herself down on her berth, looked at her. Flora then unveiled the excuse that had taken her half a second to concoct.

"My spirits have instructed me to inspect this ship for leaks," she said vaguely, eyes drifting towards the door.

WE HAVE NOT!

The senior instructor was openly sceptical, her lips pursing in the shadow. Flora was not a good liar, in spite of her indecipherable face. She put no effort into concocting her falsehoods, and seemed bored of them before they had even emerged.

"Hm!"

"You don't want to wake up at the bottom of the lake, do you?" Flora added, barely listening to herself as she sidled across the floorboards. The cold iron of the handle in her hand felt like victory: she curled her fingers and pulled.

"I know where you're going - I was once that young mage sneaking out to visit a boy!"

Wynne's voice followed Flora through the door; Flora shut it hastily behind her and exhaled. The cold air met her face like a gentle slap.

Using us as an excuse, grumbled her general, irritably. Akin to blasphemy.

Mm.

One of the crewmen set to guard her had vanished; the other had fallen asleep facedown in his cards. Flora sidled past - although she reasoned that she had no reason to sneak, she was no prisoner - and padded barefoot across the boards. The wind pushed the nightgown back against her body, the plain fabric snapping over the skin. Overhead, the sails were plump with air; the ship was making good time. Sailing at night was no issue on a lake: there were no significant waves to contend with, nor reefs to run aground on.

A short flight of steps connected the ship's stern to the main level. Flora yielded to a steward bearing a precariously balanced tray; letting him climb up before she descended. The tray was crowded with cups and brewing-pots: the mages of the Circle inhaled tea as though it were air. Flora had never grown to like the herbal beverage: it tasted like trampled grass and made her tongue curl at the edges.

Why do I feel like I'm in the Circle, sneaking out after curfew?

The answer came a moment later in the form of two patrolling Templars. The steel beat of their footsteps heralded their arrival: a sound that Flora knew well from echoing Circle corridors. She hesitated beside the ship's rail: not wanting to meet them in the cramped confine of the larboard passage.

They emerged from the doorway a few moments later, a matched pair of steel men. Their helms hid their faces: their armour left no inch of skin exposed. The branding of the inverted sword stood out against their breastplates.

Flora stayed very still; one hand resting on the rail. She could feel the wet length of her braid soaking the fabric between her shoulder blades.

The Templars saw her, and stopped. One glanced at the other then spoke; voice repeating within the steel chamber of his helm.

"What business has you wandering about unsupervised, mage?"

The use of a generic address was intended to belittle her: they knew full-well who she was.

Flora was not sure of the best course of action: to divert their question with a terse 'my own', to offer the same ridiculous excuse she had presented to Wynne, or to protest that - as a recruit of the Grey Wardens - she was no longer under their jurisdiction. She could not decide which response to offer and so she gave none: letting her eyes drift above their helms as though bored. Her heart beat a soldier's march in her chest.

The silence irritated them. The shorter Templar glanced at the other, then spoke with an ominous undercurrent.

"I suggest that you go back to your assigned quarters."

Flora had no intention of returning to the cabin. She was certain that sharing a room with an unreasonable amount of books would lead to either indigestion, or accidental education via osmosis. Neither was a desirable outcome.

The Templars were not happy: they bristled beneath their armour. The shorter one spoke again, the words echoing from the mouthpiece of his helm.

"If we arrest you, you'll be wishing that you stayed in your quarters."

"If," Flora said.

They looked at her and she stared back at them, her irises cold and colourless.

Then, without a word, they continued their patrol; passing her as though she did not exist. Flora watched them cross the deck, the steel of their shoulders catching in the moonlight. She was not entirely sure why they had abandoned their interrogation, but she was relieved to avoid further confrontation. She hoped that Morrigan - wherever she was - had resisted the opportunity to be antagonistic.

The larboard passage lay on the right-hand of the ship; the side that would flank the port when the anchor was dropped. A small door prevented the wind from whining down its length; it was half-heartedly lit by a lantern hanging from a midpoint beam. Two servants clad in Circle livery were carrying the remnants of a bath between them, the metal rim of the tub colliding with the walls as they shuffled forwards. The corridor was too narrow for all three of them to pass; Flora waited until they had emerged onto the deck, then ducked through the doorway.

The passage housed ten cabins, five matched pairs. Flora had no idea which locked and unassuming door had been assigned to Alistair. Determination flooded her veins: she was on a mission, she had defied teachers and Templars alike to seek out her brother-warden and she would not fall at this final hurdle. Flora could feel his presence like a thread of spider's silk: a line that stretched between herself and him. Even if she had not known that his cabin was on the larboard side, she would have known.

She took care as she walked, her bare feet a whisper against the wood. The last thing that she wanted was for First Enchanter Irving! to emerge unexpectedly from a doorway and begin asking her questions.

This was such a traumatic prospect that Flora held her breath as she walked, not wanting the luminescence of her exhalation to give her away. It was only visible in darkness, but the lantern overhead had begun to flicker its last.

This one, she thought, slowing beside the third door to the left. Hoping that her knock would not summon half of the corridor, she raised her fist and tapped her knuckles gently against the wood.

What will I do if it's not Alistair's cabin?

What if… the First Enchanter answers it? And thinks I came to visit him?

Flora was even more horrified by this possibility. She hesitated before knocking again, doubting her earlier certainty.

Maybe I'm not so sure. Maybe I don't 'know' where Alistair is. I don't understand how this blood-tie works.

The door opened as she hovered before it. Alistair stood framed in the opening, his handsome and broad-shouldered bulk blocking out much of the light from the cabin behind. Despite the shadow scored beneath his eyes, he could have stepped straight from Ancient Tevene lore: the young adventurer resting before resuming his trials. Wet tawny hair stuck up like the bristles of a hedgehog: the bath had recently departed his quarters.

A spontaneous smile cut through the weariness as he saw her hovering in the passage.

"Flora," Alistair said, the word warm on his tongue. "Flo. I thought I wouldn't see you until morning."

He stepped back, keeping the door at bay with an arm.

Flora, relieved that she had not summoned First Enchanter Irving, followed him inside the cabin. It was smaller than the one that she had been assigned to share with Wynne; crowded with a narrow berth and a chest of drawers that was missing half its contents. It had no window due to its location on the flank of the hull. Alistair had piled his baggage and armour in a stack beside the door, his sword lay unceremoniously beneath the bunk. A waning lantern sat on the chest; only a half-inch of wax candle remained.

The guttering light fell on Flora and lit up her borrowed nightgown: Alistair's smile broadened to a grin as he eyed the ruffles at the neck and wrists.

"This looks like something that my great-aunt might wear, my dear," he observed, fingering a pleated sleeve. "If I had one, that is. I don't remember this item from your wardrobe."

"The teacher loaned it to me," Flora replied, reaching over her shoulder to pull her braid from her skin. The damp rope of her hair clung stubbornly to the linen; which then adhered itself to her shoulder blades. "You can see through it when it's wet."

"Is that a promise?" he asked, soft and amused.

Flora smiled at him: the inconstant candlelight loaned a fleeting warmth to her face.

Despite the teasing words there was no humour in Alistair's expression as he closed the door, his eyes fixed on her with unblinking purpose. Flora could feel his stare like brazier heat on her skin: the intensity of raw and uncultivated flame. Fascinated, she felt her own body respond to it: a consensual yielding. He looked at her for a long moment and then returned his attention to the door, searching it with new urgency.

Flora realised that he was looking for a lock or a bolt of some sort. There was none; the Templars would never grant mages the privilege of lockable quarters.

"The chest," she suggested with a whisper and unnecessary pointed finger, lowering her voice as an idle conversation slid beneath the door.

The chest was squat and hewn from oak: even with half of its drawers missing, it would take two people to manoeuvre. Naturally, it posed no challenge to Flora's brawny brother-warden. Encompassed by his reach it rose effortlessly into the air, three steps, and was deposited before the door. It seemed a solid enough barrier and so Alistair turned back to her with his heart driving an urgent rhythm against his chest.

Flora was sitting on the slender breadth of his bunk, her pale eyes set unblinking on him. The nightgown cleaved to her body like poured milk; the cut demure but the fabric clinging. She reached out a hand towards him without speaking: they were beyond words.


AN: I wanted Flora to be suspicious of Wynne - a TEACHER! - since she's had such a bad experience with education in the Circle. Even though Wynne is more approachable and friendly then Morrigan and Sten, Flora is more used to Morrigan's sharp tongue and Sten's silence.

I love Flora's Laconic response to the Templars - "if"! It's based off a famous response given by the Spartans to the threats of an invading king.

Larboard is the traditional word for port, as in the side of a ship that would be alongside the port.

Haha at Wynne saying that she was once the young mage sneaking off to visit boys :P she's not an idiot! And she's not lying there either, she'd had a baby in the Circle by the time she was Flora's age.