A.N. - See my profile if you're curious about the reason for the repost.
This is another one-shot that was very persistent about bugging me to expand upon it. Again, I resisted and again, I'm glad I did (not just because I don't need another extended project).
They thought she didn't know. Aedan was uneasy in her presence, and Alistair couldn't even look at her. Leliana, she was fairly sure, knew nothing of it, and Morrigan regarded her with the same cold disdain as always, certain that the 'sheep' of the Circle could see nothing that had not been expressly pointed out to them.
Silly of the Wardens, and oddly careless of Morrigan, considering that there had been no attempt to muffle or conceal the surge of magic. Perhaps, in her arrogance, the witch had believed that such a foreign spell would not be detectable by those trained in the Circle, but that had most definitely not been the case. Thrumming with ancient power, it had pulled Wynne from a sound sleep in Redcliffe castle, swelled to a crescendo and vanished, even as she was reaching out, trying to determine what it was.
That it had been Morrigan's doing was of little doubt; though the Circle had sent a contingency of mages, the tensions that persisted after Connor had been taken to begin his formal training had resulted in Irving deciding to stay at Redcliffe's inn. Wynne and Morrigan had been the only two mages within the walls of the castle.
The meaning of it, however, did not become clear to her until the armies had almost reached Denerim, when she became aware that the witch was pregnant, only a few days along. That the Circle did not permit the practice of the oldest forms of magic did not mean that its most trusted members did not learn about them: how to recognize them, what they did, how to counter them, if the need arose. The spell had been a binding spell, and the babe that grew within Morrigan carried the faint but unmistakable mark of the Taint, undoubtedly from Aedan; there could be only one purpose for such magic: to ensnare the soul of Urthemiel when it was released from the Archdemon.
She should tell someone: Irving, Riordan, Eamon. To infuse a babe with the soul of an Old God was an audacious plan, and a dangerous one. Perhaps Flemeth would have possessed the skill and power to shape the child's development, but her daughter was little more than a child herself.
But she loved Aedan. Wynne had seen it, watched the walls that the young Witch of the Wilds had raised to protect herself slowly crumble under the Grey Warden's gentle but persistent courtship. The mage was not fool enough to believe that it had changed Morrigan utterly, taken away her ambitions of power or her belief that survival was the only sensible motivation, but she did believe that the child was likely more intended to serve the latter motivation, to keep Aedan alive.
But she would not ignore the potential for power, either. She could not possibly intend to bring the child to term and give birth here, where templars and mages might well sense her secret. She had never cared for human society, and, with or without Aedan, it seemed likely that she would seek to return to the isolated existence that she had known before. Wynne feared that she would find out too late that she was not up to the task of controlling a willful child infused with a primitive divinity. Or, worse, that she would encourage the influence of the old god, creating an abomination that would make Flemeth seem weak in comparison. She should tell someone, summon templars to deal with the matter, because surely Morrigan had crossed the line with this spell, from apostate to maleficar.
She could not. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was completely frozen, unable to make a choice, paralyzed by guilt. If she had only told Aedan and Alistair herself, perhaps she might have averted this.
She had not known the secrets of the Grey Wardens at Ostagar; the order guarded them well, but magic was needed, most particularly to prepare the potion that would fill the cup of the Joining: weakening the blood of the Archdemon, rarefying it in a dormant state that would be activated by the addition of fresh darkspawn blood. One person alone in the Circle was entrusted with the secrets of the Grey Wardens: the First Enchanter, and after Aedan had cleansed the tower, destroying abominations and blood mages alike, Irving had drawn her aside as she was preparing to depart with the Wardens and told her everything.
"They must survive, Wynne." His eyes, still sunken and haunted from his ordeal at Uldred's hands, had burned into hers. "The other Wardens will not arrive in time; the fate of Ferelden lies in the hands of these two. They must survive...and they must not know what will happen when the Archdemon dies."
She had fought him on that: angrily, then desperately, then bitterly, but his logic had been unwavering. Two young men, flush with life and only barely entered into their duty as Wardens, could not be counted upon to face certain death without faltering. No one could reasonably expect it of them, but there would be none behind them to take up that grim duty if they faltered.
She had obeyed and held her tongue. She had gone with them, traveled with them, fought alongside them and healed their wounds, broken bread with them in camp, stood watch while they slept, laughed with them and cried with them. Loved them as if they had each been the son that had been taken from her at his birth. And lied to them with her silence.
*Wynne?*
I am here, my friend. The voice of the Fade spirit was weaker. She was weaker; it was the only thing that had sustained her these last few weeks, but she was a poor vessel, aged and fading and past her time. And yet, its presence could still make her feel like a child wrapped safely in the arms of a loving parent.
I don't know what to do. She knew them now, knew that neither of them would have flinched at what must be done, but the silence that had been born of a perceived necessity had carried on in a misguided attempt at kindness. Aedan had been so taken with Morrigan, and Alistair with Leliana; why not let them enjoy their love without the sure shadow of what she had thought would be inevitable death for one of them?
I've botched things quite royally, I'm afraid. If she had told them, counseled them, given them time to become accustomed to the notion, might they have refused to grasp at the chance that Morrigan had offered? She would never know, and now it was too late.
*Follow*
Aedan asked me to stay here, to heal those who are holding the gates. He had taken Morrigan, Alistair, Leliana and his mabari into Denerim, to fight their way through to Fort Drakon, where Riordan would hopefully succeed in killing the Archdemon before they ever got close to it.
She didn't believe that, however, and when the spirit repeated itself with a gentle but undeniable sense of imperative, she turned at once and headed away from the gates, ignoring Oghren's shout. She honestly didn't expect to survive; surely she would encounter some darkspawn, but it soon became apparent that Aedan had made good use of his hard-won allies. Around every turn, she encountered elves, dwarves, mages and soldiers mopping up pockets of genlocks and hurlocks, or bringing down a lone ogre.
She didn't stop to offer healing, and only paused long enough to search the corpse of an emissary for a few vials of lyrium. Flames and smoke rose around her as she ran, the scent of blood and charred flesh and the corruption of the darkspawn thick in the air. Her lungs were on fire, her heart pounding, her limbs feeling as weak as those of a newborn foal, but a power beyond herself carried her forward, and her steps never faltered.
Fort Drakon, where she, Morrigan and Leliana had posed as Chantry sisters to rescue Alistair and Aedan, and a breathless laugh fell from her lips as she remembered the witch going on about boils and hives, and the look in her eyes when she had seen Aedan unharmed.
She loves him.
*She does.* The spirit's agreement took her by surprise; it had watched her companions through her eyes, but had never offered any opinions of its own, though she could feel its interest. *It is not enough.*
She had known that, but to hear it confirmed by the one being she had learned to trust unequivocally was shattering nonetheless, and she stumbled to a halt. Then my foolishness has doomed us.
*Follow.* There was no hint of despair, only determination and a hope that infused her old bones with a sudden vitality that lyrium could never match. She moved unerringly through the halls, bounding up stairs like the teenager she had once been, all impatience and energy, finally bursting out onto the roof of the fort.
The Archdemon floundered on the stones, wounded and unable to fly, but still dangerous. A gout of flame burst from its mouth, and the counterspell was upon Wynne's lips with her breath, the magic swirling around Leliana, deflecting the fire. The bard turned her head, giving the mage a grin of thanks, even as her hand reached back for another arrow.
Aedan and Alistair ducked and wove around the dragon, dodging its increasingly desperate attacks while their swords dealt out even more damage. Where was Morrigan?
There, beside the battlements, her hands incandescent with power, hurling flame and lightning, ice and stone; beautiful and deadly, headstrong and willful, she could have been one of the many apprentices that Wynne had taught over the years, and her power and raw talent would have taken her far within the Circle.
What do I do? Kill her? Slip behind her and put a dagger in her back? Knock her unconscious and push her over the side? If Morrigan died, then either Aedan or Alistair would die with the Archdemon, and whoever survived would likely kill Wynne for her treachery, but she had to set things right, had to do something...
*I will go.*
Go? Where? The sad resolution in the spirit's tone puzzled her.
*To the child.*
Yes! Understanding washed over her, bringing with it a wild hope. Morrigan's babe would not grow up knowing only the amoral whims of Urthemiel. It would from the womb be cradled by the nurturing spirit who had sustained her for so long. It would be shown love and kindness to balance and shape whatever influences the soul of the old god might exert. Yes! Thank you, my friend!
*You will die.* Sorrow, regret, reluctance.
I am ready, old friend. More than ready. My time is done, but your greatest task still lies ahead of you. Everything happened for a reason, and if her stubborn survival had done nothing else, it had brought her and her guardian spirit here, to this place, at this time.
The Archdemon was wavering, blood pouring from scores of wounds, and now Aedan lifted his sword high and charged in for the final blow with a savage war cry.
Go, my friend. Quickly.
*I love you, Wynne.* The first and last time it would utter those words, accompanied by the familiar, enfolding and accepting warmth that embodied the emotion, and then it was gone, and she was falling, alone, seeing Aedan drive the point of his sword into the Archdemon's breast, hearing the keening mortal wail as it thrashed about in its death throes.
She was falling, alone...and then suddenly not alone, surrounded by the presences that she had known all her life, had felt each time she entered the Fade, and she recognized their voices now: the gentle voices that the sloth demon had twisted into the nightmare that it had used to ensnare her.
*Come with us, Wynne.*
*Stay with us.*
*We love you.*
Safe in their welcoming embrace, she gladly released her tenuous hold on the frail mortal shell of her body and let them guide her home as the world exploded in blinding white light.
A.N. - Anyone feeling the urge to imagine Morrigan's reactions when she figures out what happened can feel free. I've had a nudge or two on that issue, but nothing strong enough to distract me from my other projects.