The Redcliffe Chantry appeared to be deserted: still as a child's abandoned dollhouse. Flora arrived red-faced and breathless, half-falling against the door and using the momentum of her slumping body to open it. It yielded to the timber-lined cavern of the church itself: a space made larger by the absence of pews and stalls. All portable wooden furniture had been carried off to sustain the barricade, which had to be repaired daily. The morning sun cut downwards through the two high windows above the door; lancing beams no wider than Flora's palm illuminated two bright spots on the flagstones. The rest of the cavernous space was mired in brown shadow, as though the Chantry had sunk to the murky bottom of a pond.
Flora took a moment to steady her heart and reclaim her breath - she could not heal if there was no air in her lungs. The door returned home with a soft groan behind her, severing the main source of natural light. A few guttering candles remained on a stand tucked within a recess; the eternal flame at the altar lit only the surrounding flagstones.
Once her eyes had grown more accustomed to the gloom, Flora looked around for her patient. She could feel the unconvincing flicker of his heart like the brush of an insect against her skin. A groan slid around the base of a column; accompanied by a laboured intake of breath.
Flora followed the pained inhalation to its source - a man in his sixth decade lying prone on a pallet. If she had not known the cause of his wounds, she would have believed him mangled by some large and merciless predator; a wolf perhaps, or one of the fanged wildcats from the deeper recesses of the Frostbacks. His belly was open from sternum to gut: it was a miracle that he had survived at all. The pallet was so saturated with blood that it had begun to seep across the flagstones.
It was not a pleasant sight, but Flora was used to mending men gnawed to the bone by the Hag's Teeth. She took an anchoring breath - the air blossomed into aether within her lungs - and knelt before the mass of flesh and ragged skin; bowing her head as if in prayer.
I don't understand how the body can be so fragile and yet so sturdy, she thought, wrist-deep in the man's abdomen. It's like a limpet: strong enough to stay stuck fast in the worst storm, yet I can crush it beneath my boot without a care.
Mortals are contradictory by nature.
Do you understand what the First Enchanter is going to do with the arl's son?
This was met with indignant incredulity and silence: of course they knew!
Flora ploughed on. Will I need to do anything? Can I just keep everyone shielded?
She was relatively confident that she would not be needed in any capacity other than defence: she was far from an elder mage and had no experience with exorcisms. The fact that - for the first time since the massacre at Ostagar - someone older and wiser would be taking control was oddly reassuring.
The man's laboured breathing had eased, his heart slowed by the anaesthetic stupor. Every so often Flora paused to inhale any tainted miasma that had settled within the open wound: a fleck of impurity could breed itself into a mass of gangrenous flesh within days. Her hands were bright red and slick as a butcher's.
Flora felt a sharp sting of relief that nobody had followed her to the Chantry - namely, the other senior mages. She did not want them to watch her heal, for they would surely compare her primal manner of mending to their clean, clinical incantations. The healing taught in the Circle involved the consultation of anatomy texts and the brewing of medicinal tinctures. Nowhere in their books did they mention crouching over the patient like a predator above a kill: mouth bloodied and fingers sunk into the wound.
Concentrate on the mending.
Flora had spent months of her childhood repairing sailcloth and sacking; she had developed a neat, slightly left-leaning stitch. Now her fingers sewed up torn flesh without need of thread: a ruptured spleen sealed itself like lips pressed tight together. She could not name the parts of the body she was mending - let alone explain their purpose - but Compassion worked itself through her.
It did not take long for the man's rended belly to be restored to its former, wrinkled paunch. Once she was satisfied with the mending - she preferred to leave no evidence of intervention - Flora sat back on her rump and took a deep breath, restoring the air to her depleted lungs. A chill from the flagstones crept through the wool of her trousers; the fine hairs rose on the backs of her arms.
The man lying before her let out a groan. He was lean-built and had a pinched face; grey stubble scattered over his jaw like a child's scribbling.
"Your belly might ache for a few days," she said, watching his eyelids twitch. "Because the muscle was grown so quick."
The echo of her voice was caught between the vaulted eaves of the ceiling: it returned downwards in broken fragments.
The man's eye opened fully and he gazed at her a long moment.
"In my great-grandsire's day, we used to burn the likes of you."
"Mages?" She was curious.
"No." He shot her a baleful look. "Redheads."
This made Flora oddly nostalgic: redheads were ill-luck in Herring too. If her hair had not grown back with each mending, the fishermen would have shaved her head bald. She was not bothered by the lack of appreciation; she had never desired anything in return for her services. To wield such potency was a privilege in itself.
Lend our magic freely, her spirits had told her as a child, and expect nothing back.
Her patient eyed her a moment longer, then let out a groan and settled back down on the pallet. It was not a sound of pain, but one of weariness: moments later, a snore slid beneath his bristled lip.
Flora clambered upright, aware of her rustling amidst the stillness. The silence of a Chantry had a foreboding to it; like a breath held in anticipation. She looked around - the air still had an underwater murkiness - and a slight tail of movement caught her eye. It was so brief that Flora thought she might have imagined it; no more than the edge of a shadow shifting against the far wall. She peered into the darkness between the columns, but saw nothing except the dull grey stone.
Dismissing it, she wiped her bloody hands absentmindedly on the sagging front of her tunic. The shirt was far too big - even by her standards - it hung like a hemmed tablecloth.
Is the abomination still in the castle?
It was difficult for Flora to see the possessed creature as a little boy: she knew only a red-eyed, hoarse-voiced creature who had tried to drop the entire contents of a great hall on their heads.
There was no response, only a tautness around her skull like a leather band pulled tight. It set her teeth on edge; she wondered what had caused such a change in mood.
Four decades earlier, the second-largest Chantry in Denerim had gone up in flames when a rack of prayer-candles tipped into a pew. Ever since, every place of worship in Ferelden kept a bucket of water tucked away in a discrete alcove: insurance against potential conflagration.
Flora caught sight of such a bucket near the bronze rack of candles. Only a quarter were lit, scattered points of light amongst a hardened swamp of wax.
It's not blasphemous if I use it to rinse my hands, she reasoned as she crossed the flagstones. It's not holy water.
I can't go back to Redcliffe Castle covered in blood. Jowan's a maleficar. It might…. I dunno. Send him into a wild frenzy?
There came no reply from her spirits, only more of the same prickling disquiet.
What's wrong?
Again, there was nothing. Flora felt the hair on the back of her neck lift; she glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing except the empty Chantry and her slumbering patient. Bemused, she returned her attention to the bucket and knelt before it. Curling her palm into a makeshift cup, she splashed water onto her bloody mouth; the runoff staining the collar of her shirt. The water tasted stale, as though it had stood undisturbed for a long time. Preoccupied with thoughts of abominations and Circle rituals, Flora submerged her hands to the wrist. The blood dissipated around her fingers; slender clouds of pink melting within the water.
She withdrew her hands and shook them, then wiped them on the sagging wool of her trousers. The water in the bucket smoothed itself out, and she caught sight of a man's reflected triumph hovering above her shoulder.
In the same moment, she felt metal bite at her wrist: words sliding past her ear in a hot gloat of victory.
"Got you."
Flora rose in a reflexive startle, losing her balance as her weak knee buckled beneath her. Lurching sideways into the nearby candle-stand, she and the bronze rack toppled over together with a raucous clatter. It spilled its burning contents across the tiles; points of scattering light. Fortunately, the Chantry's wooden pews had been taken to bolster the town barricade and most of the candles died on impact with the stone.
Flora, sprawled amidst globs of wax and wicks, gawped up at the man who had made this bold claim. He was human and in middling years, though hardship had loaned a decade to his face. His eyes were small, cold and green; a rashy stubble meandered uneven across his cheeks.
"Never would have pegged the likes o' you as a Grey Warden," he said, in the coarse brogue of a coastman. "But there ain't no mistakin' it. ' Seek the fairest face,' he said."
Flora was too astounded to make a reply. In the turbulent wake of recent events, she had forgotten that the Grey Wardens were wanted men, and that Mac Tir had placed a price on their heads. It seemed a lifetime ago that they had confronted the band of would-be executioners in the tavern at Lothering.
Alistair threw a bench and scattered them like leaves, she remembered, dazedly. Leliana shot one through the ear and the other in the back
Don't they know there's a Blight?
No, retorted her general, irritably. That's the point.
The manacle around her wrist was crudely shaped from a twist of iron. The man she had healed earlier was still lying prone on his pallet. He was either the most committed sleeper in Ferelden, or he was feigning unconsciousness to avoid involvement.
"The teyrn will pay your weight in gold for you alive," her abductor continued as he shoved her other wrist into the bond: words spilling forth in disbelief and excitement. "I ain't trying to take down your big friend. Lucky for me that you split up, eh?"
Flora was deeply disappointed that the man seemed to be a northerner. In her mind, this was a betrayal worse than anything that the Wardens had been accused of.
"Are you from Skingle?" she asked, already convinced of the answer. "I bet you are."
The manacles bit into her wrists, but this was due to their weight rather than to tightness. They were full-size cuffs intended to restrain an adult male; Flora was reasonably certain that she could squirm her hands loose if she desired.
Her abductor had the fetid breath of a poor diet. Adrenaline made the air emerge in short, shallow bursts from his throat; as he hauled Flora to her feet, he darted a nervy glance over his shoulder. He did not seem as though he had much experience in the art of kidnapping.
"Where's your friend?" he demanded.
"Dunno," she replied, looking down in mild fascination at the manacles. She had not been bound in such a fashion since her capture and removal to the Circle. "Did you know there's a Blight?"
"The teyrn says that there ain't no Blight," retorted her abductor, clamping fingers in a vice around her forearm. "Come on, we're gettin' out of here."
He gave her arm a yank, sending candles skidding across the tiles with the side of his boot.
Taking a stumbling step forward, Flora imagined what Leliana would do if she were in her situation. No doubt the bard would wield her artful tongue to persuade the assailant that there was in fact a Blight! and that it was happening at that very moment! She might even convince the man to turn traitor against Loghain; pledging his blade instead to the cause of the Wardens.
Flora did not possess such eloquence. She judged her own flat northern vowels to be far from compelling. The man also seemed to be immune to her looks; preoccupied with making haste and the promise of a reward. Flora found this mildly irritating: what was the point of such a face if it failed to beguile at the crucial moment?
Instead, in an effort to extract something useful from the situation, she changed tack:
"What is Loghain Mac Tir planning?"
They were now only a few yards from the door, dust motes spiralling in the shafts of sunlight. Flora could envision what lay beyond it: a hidden horse, a cloak, rope and gag, and a long road to Denerim.
The man shot her an incredulous look over his shoulder.
"Tell you the teyrn's plans? I've no Maker-damned idea, fool- you think he'd tell the likes of me what he's up to?!"
He gave her manacled hands another impatient yank. Flora almost fell forward, her weak knee buckling for a second time. The stab of pain brought her to her senses: she could neither persuade the man to change allegiance, nor extract from him anything useful. Her beauty had no effect on him and would not afford her clemency.
"If you fall again, I'll knock yer head into the wall till it's half-pulped," he promised, the whites of his eyes standing out stark in the gloom. "Doubt the teyrn would mind as long as I don't ruin your face."
One palm on the door, he paused and even turned round, stare narrowed. Flora had not followed him for two steps, disapproval scored in a faint line across her brow.
His nostrils flared in anger; pupils shrinking to black pinpricks.
"Didn't you hear? I said, I'll- "
"Crack my head like a lobster claw," she replied, lips pursed. "I heard. I ain't coming with you."
A short, incredulous bark escaped his throat.
"You little- "
Flora's shield billowed outwards like a sail unfurling. The iron manacle tore open along its weakest seam, flung away from her wrist into the space between the columns. The sudden expansion of light illuminated the gloom like a fallen star, each shadow cauterised with temporary brilliance. It lasted only a heartbeat; as long as was necessary.
Flora's abductor put his hand to his eyes but it was too late: the outline of the Chantry interior had been burnt into his retinas. The columns that lined the walls danced at the edges of his vision, his mid view dominated by a formless, milky void.
"I can't see," he croaked, taking a lurching step forward. "I can't see."
"Move to the bottom of the ocean," suggested the helpful Flora. "You don't need eyes there."
A cry of muted rage slid from the man's throat and he fumbled at his belt. His groping fingers found the hilt of a blade and yanked it free: the abductor had turned assassin. He lunged towards thin air, stabbing the blade with wild inaccuracy.
Flora, who had retreated several yards, eyed the flailing man and wondered what she ought to do. She did not want to leave him in the Chantry in case he did some accidental damage to her patient - who was still feigning sleep - or to some unsuspecting visitor. She did not have the strength or materials to bind him, nor the magic skill to restrain him by other means. She was also aware that the blindness was only temporary: the thin veil at the back of his eye had been drowned in light but it would soon drain away.
"Um," she said, stepping back to avoid another unwieldy swipe. "Anything useful you want to tell me?"
Flora thought that it was worth another try: she might not have Leliana's silvered tongue, but perhaps he would be more compliant after realising that she was not as helpless as she appeared.
Instead of offering insight into Mac Tir's schemes, he made a clumsy and rage-fuelled lunge in her direction. Intercepted by a clenched fist, he was grabbed like a rag doll and hurled against the oak slab of the Chantry door. The sound that his skull made on impact with the ancient wood did not require a mender to decipher; nor did the twitching of the body as it fell to the flagstones.
"He had nothing of use to tell." The Qunari looked down at the corpse he had so swiftly made, his face expressionless. "He said so himself."
Flora heaved a sigh, mentally adding the death to Loghain Mac Tir's already lengthy list. After all, the general had spread the lie that Duncan's men were traitors; he had promised coin to those who brought back either a Warden or the carcass of one. She summoned his sallow, hollowed-out face; to look at him was like gazing down at the murky bottom of a well. He was Duncan's opposite despite their likeness in years: pale, thin-lipped and cold-eyed, almost reptilian .
"'Spose not. What were you doin' in here? Hiding?"
Sten shot her a look of intense disapproval.
"A Qunari does not hide. He waits."
"Ooh."
Flora thought about this. The man's leaking blood filled the gaps between the tiles; crimson rivulets following parallel paths across the floor. She moved the toe of her boot away from the encroaching flow. Her Qunari companion seemed to appreciate that she had not asked why he had not intervened sooner. Both understood that she had been capable of extracting herself from imprisonment; Sten had intervened when a more forceful hand was required.
"We probably shouldn't just leave him here," she said reluctantly, eyeing the crumpled corpse. "But this ain't going to put my brother-warden in a good mood."
AN: It's been a while since Loghain made his presence felt in the story - the last time was the band of assassins showing up in the Dane's Refuge in Lothering - so I thought I'd put in a little encounter here! A reminder that there's a price on the Grey Wardens' heads. And it was nice to show that although Flora might appear the easier target out of her and Alistair, she's not a pushover! Although it was important to show that she didn't handle the situation in the best way - she doesn't know what to say, the man gets the handcuffs on her and drags her across the room before she takes action.
Anyway, now it's time to take on Connor and Redcliffe Castle!
