A limestone promontory dominated the southern shore of Lake Calenhad. It reared out of the ruddy cliff like some vast creature emerging from prehistoric hibernation. The fortress built upon its upper reaches had never fallen into enemy hands; an accolade that for centuries it had shared with the citadel at Ostagar. After recent events, Redcliffe Castle stood alone in the ranks of the unconquered.

The headland cast a long finger of shadow across the white-limned water. The Circle ship sailed past the foot of the rock, close enough to see the veins of calcium embedded within the stone. Birds had made their home on precarious ledges; they circled the ship's masts and glared down at its passengers with a baleful eye. Their chattering cries sounded like squabbling children, high and petulant.

The resentment was mutual: on the ship's larboard side, Flora stood at the handrail and glared back at the circling gulls with undisguised loathing. She had inherited her fisherman father's hatred of scavenger birds. These were not seagulls , but some closely related cousin; she willed them to fly headlong into the mast.

None did. Since watching them made her blood boil with impotent wrath, Flora turned her attention to the shore instead. The docks were only minutes away; she could see the shapes of men moving between the gaggle of buildings. Redcliffe was built on a sliver of land between the cliff and the lake: when they had run out of room, they built out onto the water. Warehouses, fishing sheds and the occasional dwelling were perched on struts beside the jetties.

"See that rock?"

Alistair was not ready to drop anchor quite yet. The journey south on the ship had been a welcome respite from responsibility: a break from demons, and Darkspawn, and Loghain Mac Tir's hateful eye. The moment they made landfall, he and Flora would become the only surviving Wardens in Ferelden once more; accusatory whispers at their backs and a price on their heads.

Flora followed the cant of his chin, to where a thrust of rock broke through the water. It was perhaps the size of a fishing boat; large enough for a grown man to stand upon.

"When Eamon's knights were deep in their cups, they used to tell a story about that rock," Alistair continued, eyes set on the empty crag. "They said that a lake siren dwelt underneath it, and that she was part beautiful woman, part fish. According to the knights, every ten years she would pull herself from the water and cling to the rock, luring men over from the Redcliffe shore with her singing. But as soon as their boat came close - "

"Let me guess - she pulled them out and drowned them?" Morrigan suggested from several feet away. She was perched precariously on the handrail with her feet propped on an empty crate; a dark line of soil beneath the toenails. "Dragged them down by their ankles while they danced their death-throes?"

"Yes." Alistair looked perturbed. "How did you know?"

"'Tis not a legend unique to this town," the witch replied, a sly smile in the words. "There are many vengeful women who dwell in the unspoilt parts of the world."

He eyed her. "You don't say."

Meanwhile, Flora was staring at the rock and trying to envision Alistair's siren; anything to distract her from the incessant taunts of the gulls.

"Anyway," Alistair continued, voice low and thoughtful as he returned his gaze to his sister-warden. "I was just thinking that - you remind me of her. Not the drowning part, obviously."

"My singing voice would make men run away," she replied, solemn.

"Ha! Is it bad?"

"Well, it ain't good."

He grinned, admiring her. As always, his gaze moved from Flora's fine boned features to the volatile mass of her hair. Despite its imprisonment within a leather band, several ropes already hung loose, the same deep red as the skin of a plum.

"I was thinking more for your face, sweetheart," he said softly, wishing yet again that they were back in his cabin. "I'd swim the whole length of Calenhad for a closer look."

Morrigan made a loud retching sound.

Flora, conversely, seemed enchanted by the comparison, her cheeks flaring pink. She darted him a shy glance of pleasure from beneath her eyelashes.

Alistair smiled back at her, and then had a sudden realisation.

"Wait, are you picturing your weird head-of-a-fish , legs-of-a-human monstrosity?"

"Yes." Flora looked confused. "Ain't that what you meant?"

"Maker's Breath!"

Despite everything, he laughed; the sound incongruous against the greyish damp of a Ferelden morning.

Morrigan gazed at both young Wardens with a scornful sort of pity; her eyes round and yellow as Antivan tourmalines.

"My mother must have been mistaken about you two," she observed, flatly. " 'Tis no surprise given her venerable age. But I would sooner entrust the fate of Ferelden to a pair of nugs."

Such a condemnation would usually have been met with a snide retort from Alistair. Yet he had paid no heed to Morrigan's comment; his attention still on his sister-warden.

"I've never met a girl who wanted to look like a fish before."

"Be a fish."

"Maker's Breath," Alistair repeated, and there was a hollow ring of incredulity within the words. This did not seem to be directed at Flora's correction, but more at the situation in which he now found himself in. The young man appeared dazed, as though he had been hit over the head with the flat plane of a sword. He did not understand how he had lost his footing so swiftly; or how the world had become so different over the course of a few days.

Now, he would not have been surprised to see trees growing downwards, or rain drifting back towards the clouds. He could not work out when exactly this shift in circumstance had taken place; it was as though he had casually glanced up and realised that the sky was green. A week ago, Flora had only been his sister-warden. Today she defied definition: friend was insufficient, but lover was inaccurate. She was his companion , but so were the others in their party. No word in the Ferelden tongue seemed to fit -

"Your friend is on the dock," Flora said, interrupting the maelstrom of his thought. "See."

It was Alistair's turn to follow a pointed finger. He caught sight of a weary figure angled against the bite of the wind. The bann's auburn hair stood out in the watery light; the richness had faded over the past decade but it was distinct enough. He was accompanied by a gaggle of retainers, clad in Rainesfere colours. At his side stood another: straight-backed and expectant, hair blown about her face.

Flora had not doubted that Leliana would survive. The lay-sister was one of the most terrifyingly competent people that she had ever met. She looked for the Qunari, but could not see him amongst the small crowd on the dock. This did not worry her unduly: Sten did not seem the sort to join a welcome committee. Beside her, Alistair exhaled a slow and measured breath. His fingers went to touch the hilt of his blade as though to reassure himself that it was still there.

The oars were retracted in a clattering scrape of wood; sailors called to each other in fragments as they prepared to dock. Ropes were readied and flung towards the jetty, received by waiting hands and wound around mooring posts. The windlass set up a rhythmic groan as the anchor was lowered through muddy waters; tethering the Circle ship to the bedrock.

Flora stood motionless at the handrail; and for once, her attention was not drawn to the fishing boat bobbing on the next pier, nor caught by the nets draped over a nearby crate. Even the taunts of the circling gulls overhead failed to draw her ire. She was transfixed by the array of faces assembled on the dock: bruised, exhausted, utterly spent from nights spent battling a never-ending foe. Three dozen pairs of weary eyes were fixed on herself and Alistair: the anticipation raw and eager. Never before had Flora been confronted with such a volume of expectation. She felt the burden of their hope as a sack slung over her shoulder: it had a physical mass, and would have thrown her off balance, if -

- if she had not spent her childhood with the tide pulling at her knees. It was the Waking Sea's sly inhalation: if I can snare you from the beach, I will.

Feet steady, she gazed back down at the expectant faces; fascinated by their attention.

Why are they looking at me and Alistair?

They are not looking at you. They are looking to you.

While Flora puzzled over this, the senior mage watched her carefully: watched both of them as they stood, elbows brushing, at the railing. He was broad-shouldered and resplendent to look at, built as though he had giant-blood in his ancestry. The Marician colouring clung to the young warrior like melted gold. She was his physical opposite, pale and slender as a slant of moonlight. Despite the height and bulk, it was Alistair who seemed the more approachable. His sister-warden, like the cold-eyed siren of the Redcliffe rock, exuded a warning: touch me not.

"A striking pair," Wynne observed under her breath; aware of the First Enchanter's presence at her elbow. "Have you - by any chance - read Alamarri Blood: A Pervasive Legacy by Brother Maevan Gheal?"

"It is as plain as day."

Irving responded to the question that Wynne had not asked yet; he had already followed the line of her thinking to its destination.

"In both of them."

"Yes. I can't think how we did not notice it before. How long was she at the Circle?"

"Four years."

Teagan Guerrin did not move until the ship had been tied fast to its mooring posts and the plank lowered from deck to dock. The sailors called out to one another as they knotted the lines and secured the sails; their voices competing with the mewling of gulls overhead.

The small crowd of townsfolk parted as the bann took a step forward. His eyes went first to Alistair and Flora - sharing out their baggage at the top of the plank - and then beyond them to the gaggle of mages. Although Teagan did not know the First Enchanter of Ferelden by sight; he knew that the crimson robes indicated seniority. Relief flickered across his face; the weariness eased for a few heartbeats.

Alistair, having failed to persuade Flora to let him carry her baggage, watched her then nearly drop half of it as she ventured down the plank. The tethered saucepans slithered to the end of her staff: she managed to grab them just before they ended up in Lake Calenhad.

As Flora lurched onto the jetty with an armful of cooking pots, she regretted not giving her pack to Alistair. He was far stronger than her, and - as much as she might try to deny it - she was not as fit as she had been in Herring. It had been a long time since she had hauled a boat up a protesting incline of shingle.

"How good it is to see you again - both of you!"

The swift footed bard had overtaken the bann, coming to a halt before Flora. Unlike the weary Teagan, Leliana showed no sign that the past three nights had been spent in battle against a terrible foe. The edge of her combat leathers protruded a half-inch from the neckline of the demure Chantry robes.

"We expected you back last night. Did all go well in the Circle?"

The question was casual and probing: a delicate crowbar. Flora lowered her pack, the weight of the leather resting on her feet. Her instinct was to respond with a blunt northern candor: blood mages, abominations, demons. It was BAD.

Flora opened her mouth, then hesitated; Leliana's curious blue stare fixed on her face.

Maybe I'll tell her later. And not in front of all these people.

The weight of their hope still squirmed across her shoulders; she could feel it like a sack of eels.

"The mages are recruited," Flora said instead, with her usual economy of expression. "And we brought some back to sort this out."

Her chin canted towards the castle, no further explanation was needed. An anticipatory ripple went through the crowd like a stone dropped into a pond.

Leliana, who had read much into the pause, gave a slight nod; her blue eyes searching Flora's face. The curiosity was replaced by a swift smile of greeting as Alistair came to a halt beside Flora; the bann arrived a heartbeat later.

"Thank the Maker you're back." The relief was brittle in Teagan's tone: his eyes underscored with shadow. "I'm too old for sleepless nights. You've come with aid?"

Alistair nodded, relieved to see the arl's brother weary, but apparently unharmed. In his younger years, Teagan Guerrin had outperformed his rivals in the contests of the nobility: archery, duelling and horsemanship. Alistair, and the other boys who served in Eamon's household, had idolised the bann like a young Calenhad; competing to hand him an aleskin or lead in his horse. Now it seemed odd to have Teagan looking expectantly at him.

"The First Enchanter is with us," Alistair replied, the shadow of Castle Redcliffe cold on the back of his neck. "A man named Irving. He thinks they might be able to do something about - about the undead."

He had remembered just in time that Connor's possession was not common knowledge.

"I can't say I'm familiar with him," the bann replied, eyeing the grey-bearded mage as he issued instructions to Circle-liveried servants. "But we'll take it. This ordeal must be ended. As much help as your friends have been, the people cannot hold out another night."

There came a murmur of assent from the crowd who had gathered on the dock; drawn faces and stooped shoulders testament to the general malaise. Alistair cast a swift glance around, then down at Flora: her grey eye met his.

"You work out the plan," she said, canting her head to encompass Teagan, Alistair, Leliana and the approaching mages. "I'll mend the wounded."

She was proud of the efficiency of her suggestion. After all, she reasoned, she was useless at strategizing, and there were bound to be casualties from the previous night's battle.

"Aye," replied the bann, taking a moment to recall the specifics. "Poor chap with his guts hanging out. He's up in the Chantry."

Flora was alarmed: why had she not been told of this sooner? Shooting the bann a stare of faint, flared-nostril disapproval, she set out towards the lofty spire. The crowd yielded as if she were the prow of a ship and they the divided waters.

Alistair felt the bond of their shared blood elongate as she moved further away: it stretched and grew thin as a strand of cobweb. Her absence prompted a faint and inexplicable unease; he then realised that it was the first time they had been parted since their imprisonment in the Fade. He watched her until she rounded the corner of a building and vanished from sight.

Teagan's attention rose beyond Alistair: the mages had begun to disembark. The First Enchanter led the way down the boarding plank, using his staff to steady his descent.

"You say these mages have a plan?"

A faint vein of hope underscored the weariness in the bann's voice. It seemed too much to hope for: that his nephew be restored to his former innocent self.

"Yes," replied Alistair, glancing over his shoulder to see Irving heading purposefully towards them. "I'll let the First Enchanter explain it in his own words; he'll do a much better job."

In truth, the young Warden had no inkling as to the nature of the mages' plan. Flora had made a half-hearted attempt to learn more from the elder instructor Wynne; but lost interest when it became clear that the process involved magic far beyond both her capability and capacity to understand.

The First Enchanter was waylaid by a senior Templar before introductions could be made. The two men exchanged brief and harried conversation while the restless bann shifted his weight from one boot to another.

Leliana took advantage of the delay to draw Alistair aside. The smile of greeting did not leave her face as she hissed through her teeth.

"Why did you let your sister-warden garb herself like that?"

Alistair was astonished. "Garb herself like what?"

The bard's serene expression splintered for a heartbeat as she shot him a look of dismay.

"As though she fell into a barrel of sailmaker's offcuts . Layers upon layers, and not a single one fits! The poor girl looks feral."

"Ah." He paused, the corner of his mouth curving up. "I think Flora is quite considerate in her manner of dressing, actually."

The two auburn eyebrows drew together.

"Pourquoi?"

"Well, we need to get half of Ferelden into an army to have a decent chance of ending the Blight. It's going to be a huge organisational challenge."

She pursed her lips: and?

"And," he continued, dryly. "If my sister-warden suddenly decides to adopt leather trousers, nobody will be able to concentrate."


Meanwhile, Flora had come to the distressing realisation that she was not at the peak of physical fitness. It was a quarter-mile between the docks and the Chantry; the route an uphill warren of tumbled walls and buildings. Having learnt from the bann that her patient was potentially disembowelled, Flora had begun the journey at a rapid pace. By the time she reached the deserted marketplace, she felt as though she might be sick. The frantic throb of her pulse echoed in her ears like a drunkard crashing into walls.

Why do I feel like I'm dying?

Because you are extremely unfit.

Ooh!

Flora could not deny it: her limbs were slender and her belly flat, but there was no discernible muscle beneath the white flesh. The lean strength borne from hauling boats up the shingle had melted away during her four years in the Circle.

You idled a month at Ostagar. You were meant to spend those weeks honing your strength in preparation for what was to come. Instead you spent it drifting around and distracting your commanding officer.

Ooh! Oh, dear.

Flora gritted her teeth, picturing the poor man who lay somewhere gutted like a fish. The wooden spire of the Chantry rose above the rooftops two dozen yards ahead: she lifted her chin and lurched forwards.


AN: Hahaha sorry Flora, I couldn't resist just making you unfit :P it's your penalty for being too hot to handle (literally if you're poor cockblocked Alistair). Just another reminder that she's not a fighter and isn't suited for a battlefield (or so she believes).

Hope everyone is staying safe out there! And wearing a mask if you do have to go out. I'm missing my work commute (aka my writing time) but I do like the bonus lie in hehe.