The flowers were young, but fragrant.
The seasons were strange in this land. Heat, then chill and then bitter cold. In Par Vollen, the air was always warm and humid. The weather was constant and unchanging, like the Qun.
Ferelden was chaos.
Its leaders squabbled over petty things, its people tried to be something other than what they are and even the land itself was unsure of what it was. All the while, the Blight grew and no one except the Basilit-an did anything to stop it.
But the cold was giving way to warmth once more, and under snow and ice, there was life again.
This changing was unfamiliar to Sten, but not unwelcome.
He had once before stooped low to admire the wildflowers as they sprouted from the damp earth, small buds opening to the sun for the first time. Their petals were many-colored -- white, yellow, pink, orange and purple. He had picked a few of them.
The red-haired priestess had seen. She had called him “softie.” The word was foreign and unknown, bu