The bow swung gently towards Redcliffe's shore; the rest of the ship followed at a lazy angle. The town, formerly a tangle of indistinct shapes on the horizon, had solidified into distinct walls and rooftops. The castle atop Idelson's Fall was now near enough to be imposing. Although the low sun did not allow for it, the fortress seemed to cast a long shadow over the southern part of the lake; as if the malevolence within had spilled over its battlements and spread out across the water.
Flora left Morrigan at the rail: she had to dress herself and retrieve her belongings. Barefoot and clad in her borrowed nightshirt, she crossed the lower deck. The cabin that she had been assigned to share with Wynne lay within the upper part of the stern deck: up a steep triplet of steps and past the rear mast. To Flora's relief, she could see no Templars on patrol: she wondered if they had stationed themselves in the lower passage.
The swollen curve of canvas overhead groaned as it strained at the ropes: the wind had given the sail no respite on the journey. A cabin mate encountered Flora at the top of the steps. His bucket went rolling, and dirty water spilled over the boards. Flora intercepted the bucket before it could tumble past her onto the lower deck. When she held it out the youth stared dumbly at her, mouth flapping like a landed fish.
Not wanting to waste time she pressed the handle of the bucket back into his rigid fingers, skirting around him to reach the stern cabin. The table and chairs set near the door were empty: the card-playing sailors had abandoned chaperone duty after Flora herself had absconded late the previous evening.
The right-hand door in the pair yielded to her nudge. It swung open to reveal her assigned, underused quarters: three times the size of Alistair's cramped cabin, dimly lit and sparsely furnished. The senior mage - to Flora's dismay -was seated on her neatly made berth, a book lying open on her lap. She made an incongruous figure against the damp wood and jumbled decor: clad in a spotless navy robe with her hair ordered into a taut bun.
Reading again, Flora thought to herself, darkly. It ain't natural.
At the same moment, she noticed the elder mage's staff - propped on a collapsible stand and swathed in protective fabric. In contrast, Flora's own staff stuck out at a jaunty angle from her pile of baggage, fingerprinted and grubby from its alternating role as tent pole or walking stick.
She let the door swing shut behind her. Wynne closed the book and let it rest on her lap, her expression unchanged.
"Good morning, Flora."
Flora replied with an unintelligent mumble that contained the same approximate sentiment. Her fingers went to her breast to check the fixings of the borrowed nightgown. Much of the lacing had been slackened by Alistair during their tentative exploration the previous night, though only his gaze had made contect with her skin.
Finding it loose, she pulled the nightgown over her head without ceremony, bundling it into a ball.
"Thank you for lendin' it me," she said, demonstrating her Circle manners to the Circle instructor. The habit of saying please and thank you was perhaps all that Flora had learnt at Kinloch Hold.
"You're welcome, child. It isn't a surprise that you weren't outfitted adequately by the Wardens, considering their historical tradition of choosing male recruits."
Wynne laid a slim, careworn palm on the tome in her lap. The spine named it as A History of the Grey: Sacrifice and Sedition .
Flora possessed neither the ability to read the title, nor the inclination to enquire further. Her leather band now restrained less than a quarter of her hair but was thoroughly entangled; it would need to be cut out with a knife. She raked her fingers through six defiant inches and then gave up, reasoning that she had made at least a passing effort to brush her hair.
"Male," she repeated vaguely, wondering if the elder mage expected a response. "Hm."
The corner of Wynne's mouth quirked upwards involuntarily as she watched Flora wander the confined quarters: as unbothered by her nakedness as any veteran of communal dormitories. The amusement swiftly turned to bemusement as the girl donned a collection of scavenged garments: a shirt that hung to her knees; a waistcoat missing its buttons; an unravelling jumper. A pair of breeches - each leg wide enough to encompass her waist - were hoisted up beneath her armpits. The incoherent assemblage was finished with a tentlike coat of exceptionally poor workmanship. There were better-dressed beggars on the streets of Denerim.
"Did you sleep well?" the elder mage asked, partly to prevent her jaw from dropping. There was also a wry undercurrent to the question: she was well aware that Flora had spent the night in her brother-warden's company.
"Mm."
Flora sat down on her bunk - the blankets smooth from lack of use - and bent to retrieve her boots. An expectant pause hung like Chantry smoke, but the last thing that she intended to do was go into detail about the previous night with a teacher. She adjusted the leather strapping on her weak knee, grateful for Sten's recommendation.
"Flora," Wynne began, and there was a delicacy in her voice, "you are still young, and - forgive me - perhaps naive - "
"What are you going to do about Callum - Connor?" interjected Flora bluntly, rising to her feet.
Despite the correction, her question quashed the mage's hesitant enquiry like peppercorns beneath a pestle; thoroughly obliterated. Although Flora had not raised her voice, the words - framed by her flat lowborn cadence - were oddly compelling. Wynne, to her mild surprise, heard a response emerge from her throat unprompted.
"First, we must establish which sort of demon has possessed the arl's son. Unless you were able to learn this during your encounter with the abomination?"
Flora, who had wandered to the window, gave a brief shake of the head. The glass, held in place by angled lead, was poor quality; the surface of the lake blurred into the sky.
"This will determine the recitation used to establish the ritual space. The exorcism of the demon must take place within this purified area, or else the process will fail. Once the recitation is complete, the abomination ought to be tethered within the bound space. During this time, the mage chosen as the foci will enter the Fade and establish a defensive- "
Flora had stopped listening. She exhaled, then pressed her finger to the clouded glass, leaving behind a clear oval.
You ought to pay attention.
I don't know what she's talking about. Boats are tethered, not abominations.
"... imperative that the demon, once purged from the victim, be ensnared by the foci mage and pulled into the Fade without delay. Any hesitation may be fatal for those in the waking world."
Wynne had been a teacher for long enough to know when her words were going unheeded. She used Flora's inattention to observe her more closely: looking at her in a way that she had never done in the crowded corridors of the Circle.
She doesn't stand like a peasant from the rural north, the elder mage thought to herself. The dialect of her body is at odds with the one that emerges from her mouth.
When Flora next turned from the window, the senior enchanter was preoccupied with the contents of a polished wooden case. The case was divided into twelve partitioned squares, each lined with padded fabric. Wynne selected a ring of interwoven bronze strands, lifting it to the dusty sunlight before sliding it onto the smallest finger of her right hand. After a moment of careful thought, she transferred it to the ring finger.
She then removed a ring with a polished black stone like the eye of a beetle, holding it to the light as she had done the first. The ring gave off a faint thrumming sound; the air around it seemed to tremble.
"This is Dorophor's Flameguard, " she said to the air before her, sensing that she had regained Flora's attention. "It provides some measure of immunity to raised temperatures."
A third ring was removed from the chest - a band carved from a single piece of ebony - and placed onto the elder mage's thumb, pushed down below the knuckle.
"'Contrarian's Girdle'. A potent talisman against mind control."
Ha!
"What was the first one?" Flora asked, intrigued by the notion of defence provided by tangible objects. "The brown one."
Wynne raised her hand; the interwoven bronze stands gleamed dully.
"This one swears to renew the bearer's vitality at the moment of exhaustion. So far it has been a false promise, but I have faith that one day it may surprise me."
Flora's general gave a scornful laugh.
Flora ignored it, venturing across the room to take a closer look at the jewellery case. The elder mage remained very still, as though Flora was a skittish horse. Each padded partition - save for the three recently emptied - contained an item of some intriguing purpose. The raw scent of the arcane rose from the open case like smoke; it prickled the edges of Flora's throat and she swallowed a sneeze.
"I thought enchanted things were banned in the Circle," she said, listening to the old echo of the rule.
"They've taken me years to collect," Wynne said softly, eyes wandering the collection. "The Templars turn a blind eye, for reasons I can't quite understand.. Perhaps they know that each piece is for defensive purposes only. Or perhaps Greagoir- " she tilted her face to hide a wry smirk. "Perhaps Greagoir does occasionally remember that he used to harbour a soft spot for me."
Flora did not know who Greagoir was; having no way to associate the name with the scowling figure clad in the regalia of a senior Templar. She gazed down at the selection of enchanted jewellery - there were necklaces too, fine as spider-silk - and wondered if she ought to borrow some.
Which one should I wear?
For what purpose? Her spirits were bemused.
For… defence. Against the demon in the castle.
Why?
Well, the teacher is wearing some. She knows what she's doing.
By all means drape yourself in ornamentation if you wish. It will make no difference to your 'defence', as you so crudely describe it. Do you still understand so little of the power we loan you?
Flora sighed inwardly and decided not to pursue the matter. There was a distinct possibility - she concurred - that her spirits may have fared better granting their gifts to someone with greater intellectual capacity than she. Immediately, she felt the touch of Compassion like a cool finger pressed to her flushing cheek. It was balm and reassurance at once: Flora felt the heat of embarrassment fade.
The cadence of the ship altered as they entered the shallow waters; subtle and yet unmistakable. It was accompanied by muffled shouts from the deck; footsteps, the snap of rope and the groan of resistant canvas. The mainsail was to be leashed as they ploughed towards the Redcliffe dock, taken in instead on the oar.
It was time to stop looking at jewellery. Flora already had a ring - a grubby bronze band plucked by her dad from the bones of a shipwreck. It was smeared with a decade of caked-on grime and she wore it as a tangible piece of Herring. It had no value other than nostalgia.
Flora turned away from Wynne, heading across the floorboards to her pile of belongings. Since she wore no armour, her baggage was far less in volume: the leather pack, her staff and a few cooking utensils tied together with string. Before loading herself up, she put a hand to her breast; pressing the parchment of the treaties into her skin.
Still there.
Flora slung the pack over one shoulder and unceremoniously tucked her staff beneath her armpit. She could feel the prod of the senior mage's stare; the cabin suddenly had the oppressive air of a classroom.
The door yielded freedom and fresh air. Blinking in the sudden watery sting of sunlight, she emerged onto the upper deck. The ship was a hive of activity as they approached the wooden prong of Redcliffe's longest jetty: the sail had been taken down and was being bound with rope, oars bristled from the lower deck like the legs of a centipede. Sailors swarmed in practised chaos: gathering in clumps around the windlass and the wheel. Keeping well out of the way was a huddle of crimson-robed senior mages, with grey-bearded Irving in their midst. The old man had recovered swiftly after his ordeal at the hands of Uldred: the elixir of Flora's breath had been potent. Indeed, he looked more robust than he had done for some time.
Shielding her eyes, Flora surveyed the length of the deck. Her gaze swept over the gaggle of mages and their Templar guards, following the hull to its convergence. Near the bow, her waiting brother-warden caught the light; the warmth of his hair and complexion loaned added lustre by the winter sun. He stood tall enough that the handrail beside him seemed made for a child.
There was no mistaking Alistair's purpose for the morning: he was already clad in the greater part of his armour. Only his helm and his gloves were propped on the pile of baggage beside him; one sword at an angle beside his thigh and the other strapped across his back. His face was turned to Redcliffe, his jaw set with steel. He looked older than his years, as if he had borrowed some additional for the occasion.
"Your friend reminds me of the great bronze figures that guard the harbour entrance at Minrathous."
The observation came from somewhere over Flora's left shoulder: startled, she almost lost her balance.
"One fell into the sea four centuries ago after an earthquake," Wynne continued thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes into the sun. "But one still stands. Or so I'm told, I've never been there."
The last sentence was tinged with wistfulness. Flora was not in the mood to listen to any more obscure references - bronze statues of Minrathous indeed - and so she set off across the upper deck; down the steps and past the mast. The sailors scattered before her, darting second and third looks over their shoulder. She was used to the predictable evolution of their expression: the initial smirk of amusement as they noticed her nonsensical garb, and then a sudden, incisive shock as they saw her face. To her relief, Wynne's path diverted from her own: the senior mage crossed to join the gaggle of her peers.
Alistair could not sense his sister-warden's approach as he had once been able to do with his late brethren. The taint ran in Flora's blood like a singular strand of spider-web; invisible at certain angles. The clatter of the cooking-pots drew his attention and he went to greet her, the rigidity in his jaw softening.
"Morning, Flora."
"Mornin'."
Flora held out her arms as he relieved her of her belongings, lifting her pack away from her shoulders. Her staff - which, at Ostagar, he had refused to even touch - he propped up against his own baggage.
Their eyes met as Alistair returned upright. Something unspoken passed between them: an acknowledgement that they had crossed some inexplicable border in the cabin the previous night. They could not go back to the way they had once been; not now that he had held her in his arms and heard her breath catch in her throat, a soft needful sound that thrust all reason from his mind. The previous polite formality had been replaced with a shy, tentative anticipation; an awareness that - at some point - there would be no nightgown between them.
Flora stepped forward to stand beside him at the handrail. The patrician profile of her face gave nothing away; her gaze drawn to the approaching shore. She felt Alistair's palm settle lightly on the back of her neck in a gesture of casual intimacy.
"Was Winefrid in the cabin? Did she interrogate you about last night?"
"I think it's Wynne," she replied, spotting the high spire of Redcliffe's Chantry rising above the tangled rooftops. "She didn't ask much. She was busy puttin' on jewellery."
"Jewellery." Alistair's eyebrows met his hairline. "Huh. You don't say."
His thumb drew a line across the back of her neck, barely brushing the skin. She felt a pull in her belly; a flare of heat that lingered when he lifted his hand to push his hair back.
Then all idle lust dissipated, blown away by the cold wind of reality. Beyond the Chantry spire rose a thin column of smoke; the same grim beacon that had greeted them on their first arrival to Redcliffe. The realisation that the rising ashes might belong to the freshly slaughtered made Flora feel sick: her stomach churned as though she had lost her sea-legs.
"I don't think that's a funeral pyre," Alistair said softly from beside her, eyes following the smoke as it drifted westwards. "The smoke is too dark for it to be- to be human. It looks more like when we used to burn the bodies of Darkspawn."
Flora hoped fervently that he was right, and that it was the desiccated flesh of the undead consumed in the flame. The ruddy cliffs loomed large: they were close enough to see figures moving on the dock.
"Did Wynne say anything about what they're planning to do about Connor Guerrin?"
Her brother-warden's eyes followed the drifting smoke, up to where the castle crouched on its cliff-edge like a predator posed for the spring.
"She did talk about the ritual," Flora admitted, gloomily. "I didn't understand it, and then I stopped listening."
Alistair could emphasise: he had often found himself losing the will to live during instruction at the monastery. He gave a philosophical shrug, pushing his hand into a mail-lined glove.
"Well, that's what we brought the First Enchanter along for. We'll probably just be… spectators during the whole thing."
Flora did not know what a spectator was, but gave a solemn nod of agreement: it sounded passive enough.
"They are senior mages," she said, echoing his sentiment. "They ought to be used to dealing with demons."
"Ha! Did you learn nothing from the debacle at the Circle?"
Alistair's fingers dug themselves into Flora's elbow; she, for the second time that morning, was nearly startled over the handrail by the abrupt presence of Morrigan. The witch stood a few feet away on the deck, lips curved in a brittle smile. In defiance of the damp teeth of a Ferelden winter, she wore a pelt draped over her shoulders.
"The mages hardly covered themselves in glory when facing Sloth," she reminded them, pulling the fur tighter. "I would not retire your blade for the day yet."
Even Alistair had to admit that his nemesis had a point. Heaving a sigh, he reached for his remaining gauntlet; reassured by the weight of his blade against his thigh.
"For the love of Andraste. Two demons in two days."
"Three," corrected Flora, recalling Pride erupting from Uldred's eviscerated corpse.
"Three. Which of us angered the Maker in a past life?"
AN: Oof! How have we only had 2 weeks of 2021? The year feels about three months long already, haha.
Anyway, I'm happy that I got to include a marine journey - love a bit of sailing, even if, for Flora, it's no substitute for a fishing boat on the Waking Sea. I liked coming up with Wynne's enchanted items - a nod to when you equip your character ready for a boss battle! Does Connor (or the demon possessing him) count as a boss, or a mini boss?
In this version of the lion and the light, I wanted to do better by Wynne - in the first iteration, I made her a bit of a nagging old woman who cockblocked Flora at every opportunity and got her name wrong to boot. That was doing her SUCH a disservice, I actually really love her character, so I want to do better this time around. Eventually I want her to be more of a mentor to Flora - even though at the moment it's super fun to have Flo be all "a TEACHER! THE WORST THING EVER, THE WORST TYPE OF PERSON," hahaha.
Back on dry land next chapter!
