Disclaimer: Je ne possède pas Dragon Age
Morrigan shifted slightly on the mossy patch on the log that she had claimed as her perch for the night. The dull crackle of the fire before her and the snores of her travelling companions were the only sounds she could hear. She gazed up into the night sky, a small sigh of contentment escaping her lips. They weren't so bad, but she would never let them know it.
Well, maybe Leliana was that bad. She was vapid, and vacuous, and Morrigan thought all of her talk about the blighted Maker was a load of nug shit. Normally the two of them kept watch together, but tonight Leliana had disappeared back into her tent early. Morrigan didn't blame her, though. She had had a difficult day, caught between her sordid past and the redemption for it she so desperately sought. But still, if it brought even just a temporary reprieve from Leliana's seemingly ceaseless pontificating, Morrigan was grateful.
The latter woman's eyes unconsciously sought a strange patch in the sky. It was completely devoid of everything. In that patch, there were no stars, no moonlight. Just darkness. She found it soothing. It never condemned nor condoned, it just let her be.
It never vindicated her for what she was born, as the almost-templar did. It never leered at her lewdly as the drunken dwarf did. It never denigrated the school of magic in which she specialised as the older mage did. It had always provided her guidance, perspective, ironically shining a metaphorical light.
"Why stare at the one part of the sky that has nothing there?"
The voice was strange, and it startled her. Not just because it broke her reverie, but because she did not recognise it. The stranger must have seen her jump in shock, because it apologised.
"I am sorry, friend. I did not mean to disturb your thoughts. I only came to ask if I may share the fire. The weather has turned too cold for one to travel alone."
Morrigan huffed in response. The stranger chuckled.
"Thank you for your hospitality."
Morrigan nodded as the stranger took a seat on the ground across the fire from her. Even with the light of the fire on their face, Morrigan was unable to discern much. They dressed simply, as a traveler is wont to do. They were not particularly strong, nor frail. The cloak that they were wearing obscured their face in shadow.
"My mother once told me a story," Morrigan found herself beginning. She rarely talked about her life with her mother in the Korkari Wilds, and she never divulged anything to a stranger. Even though she could not see the stranger's face, Morrigan was able to tell by their body language that they were already enraptured in her tale.
"It is from a time long ago, and it begins as most often do. With one man who thought himself better."
The stranger chuckled darkly.
"I know that beginning far too well, my friend. But please, do continue. I do not believe I have heard this tale before."
Normally Morrigan would bristle at that endearment, but for some strange reason, she found it tolerable. Just. Even though Morrigan could not see the stranger's face, she knew that the converse was not true. She raised a brow in fake confusion.
"Surely as a traveler you must have heard all kinds of tales."
The stranger just shrugged.
"Indeed I have, I have heard tales of great adventures, and tales of not-so-great romances. I have heard fantasies and truths and falsehoods. But I do not believe that I have ever heard anything about the hole in the sky."
"Well, then, perhaps if you do not interrupt, I will finish my tale," Morrigan snapped, but not unkindly.
The stranger gestured with their hands for her to continue.
"One evening, after I had returned from collecting herbs in the wilds, my mother called to me. 'Come, child,' she said. 'I have a story for you.' My mother and I said, much as you and I do now, and she told me a strange tale.
"At first, I had thought it to be a lecture. She began much as I did, by saying that it began with a man who thought himself to be better. She had had the propensity to use such parable before, so I initially dismissed it as sheer allegory. I had, recently, done something quite foolish.
"She told me of a man from the Tevinter Imperium. Mighty and powerful, his reputation preceded him. 'In his hubris,' she said, 'he wrought not only destruction upon himself, but upon everyone.'
"But the tale did not end there. She told me who the man was. He was once the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium. He had two armies at his disposal: One of slaves, one of soldiers loyal to him. 'Yet, it was not enough,' she told me.
"Even the Old Gods that the Tevinters worshiped feared him, it was said. But his insatiable lust for power drove him to abandon. I will not go into the details, for I am sure you know the tale. I myself had heard it myriad times before.
"The tale did still not end, and it was then that I knew that this was no mere lecture. 'Fearing himself,' my mother told me, 'The Maker divided himself and his power into three. One part contained his cruelty, and his malice. One part contained his kindness, and benevolence. The third contained his indifference.'
"The three were equal, and each had no more sway than the other. Or until the first blight began. 'Unable to simply observe any longer, his benevolence personified itself upon Thedas.' No longer able to counteract The Maker's malevolence, His Benevolence was cursed for his meddling. Forever would he carry Thedas on his shoulders, forever would he decide its fate.
"And so The Maker's benevolence traveled, much as yourself. Always he appeared to give advice in impossible situations, whether it was heeded, or it was not. Wandering, and observing."
"But what does this tale have to do with the space in the sky?" The question was not impatient, it was intentionally designed to force Morrigan into her denouement.
"There were once three moons, in the sky," the witch whispered conspiratorially. She would never hear the end of it from her travelling companions if they discovered that she actually held credence in the myth of the Maker. Luck, however, was not on her side tonight, as she recognised the girlish lilt that belonged to Leliana.
"What is the name of this traveler?"
"He is known as the Wandering Eye."
The stranger chuckled again, this time with mirth.
"That is quite the tale. I thank you for sharing it with me," the stranger said, bowing low in a grand, overly dramatic gesture.
"Indeed it is. I must ask you for the permission to tell it myself," Leliana beseeched.
"The permission is not mine to give," Morrigan snapped. "You must ask our guest, for it his tale that I just told."
The stranger stood up languorously, stretching before lowering his hood. A grin spread across his face and reached his eyes, shining pure moonlight, hidden behind locks of hair as black as the night sky.
"And you told it well. I was completely enraptured. I must say, though, I am impressed with how quickly you determined who I was. Your mother raised you well."
At this revelation, Leliana dropped to her knees, and bowed her head in reverence.
"Come now. I am not quite who I was, so there is no need to stand on such pomp and circumstance."
When Leliana remained in her position, the Wandering Eye stepped towards her, and placed his fingers under her chin to lift her head up.
"I am just a traveler now."
Stubbornly, Leliana turned her head to the side. Wandering Eye sighed bemusedly, a wry grin replacing his concern.
"Tell me, Morrigan. What else did your mother tell you about me?"