A/N: As of Feb 2017, the most up-to-date version of this fic is on Archive of our own (same username, 'Aziethe'.) I've only made small copyediting changes, but I would still recommend reading that version instead of this one.
This story follows Morrigan, the Old God baby and the warden Sylvanna Surana, with the major events occurring approximately ten years after the Blight. Sequel to 'A Curious Thing'.
With many thanks to juri and oneplusme for the beta. Dedicated to my wife, sorry it's still not the fluff you were looking for :-p
Titles of the drabbles are taken from Erikson's eight stages of socio-emotional development. Dragon Age belongs to BioWare, I'm just playing around in their sandbox.
Main pairing: Morrigan/f!Surana. Some chapters include f/f sex, although these will have NSFW in the header. Other major characters include the OGB, Alistair and Anders. The plot and Anders' characterisation are not DA2 compliant.
Warnings: References to rape, character death, canon-typical violence. Individual chapters will have warnings if they refer to rape. Chapter 25 includes dub-con. The recap below includes implied rape.
Recap - A Curious Thing
Sylvanna: Oh Morrigan, you're so dark and powerful and sexy! Look, I killed your mother! Don't you like me now?
Morrigan: 'Like' is a particularly strong word.
Sylvanna: How about some meaningless sex?
Morrigan: I suppose I could allow myself to be convinced.
*Wynne disapproves -20*
*Alistair disapproves -15*
*Leliana disapproves -5*
*Zevran approves +2*
[Some time later]
Sylvanna: Can I use the 'l' word now?
Morrigan: Only if you wish for our liaison to end.
Sylvanna: But I really love-
Morrigan: *dumps her*
[Plot happens]
Morrigan: Do not be alarmed. It is only I.
Sylvanna: OMG PLEASE take me back. I miss you so much!
Morrigan: I'm not here for you, fool.
Sylvanna: You want to rape Alistair to get an Old God baby? Are you for real?
Morrigan: 'Rape' is a harsh word...
Sylvanna: OMG NO! Die!
[Later]
Alistair: Wow, I had a really disturbing dream.
Sylvanna: Let me guess. Morrigan was there. And she was naked. And now you're naked. Maker, shield my eyes...
Alistair: I feel used.
Sylvanna: Oh Alistair, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
[Weeks pass]
Zevran: Chasing after Morrigan really hasn't been your greatest idea yet.
Sylvanna: Yes, because all of my other ideas were so much better. Look, just go to Antiva, okay? I promise you'll have a cameo in the sequel.
Zevran: *sighs* As you wish.
[Months pass]
Sylvanna: These recurring dreams aren't creepy at all!
Sylvanna: Oh noes! I lost my dog! Wow, I suck at being a warden.
Sylvanna: Ooh! A cute house on the hill! Killing Morrigan and her baby is totally going to be a cinch, for some reason.
Morrigan: I warned you not to follow me, did I not?
Sylvanna: When do I actually listen to anything you say?
Morrigan: *sniffs* 'Tis true enough.
Old God Baby: *is creepy*
Sylvanna: Aww. She's so cute! I was expecting a darkspawn. Or a lizard.
Morrigan: Such scintillating intelligence! It makes me question what I ever saw in you. Here, hold the child.
Sylvanna: But-
Morrigan: Just do it.
Old God Baby: *does a godly thing*
Sylvanna: I think I love this baby. OMG! I think I love you. Can I live here now?
Morrigan: Caring for an infant is incredibly distasteful. Oh, why not.
Sylvanna: Hurray.
Old God Baby: *sleepily smiles with satisfaction*
Prologue
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Hope
The art of suggestion requires a delicate touch.
Morrigan knows this all too well. She knows the line between submission and resistance is infinitely narrow, with its boundaries ever changing. There are ways to brutalise the mind, of course, techniques used in the heat of battle that require only blood and the strength of a mage's will.
But even now, past the recriminations and unspoken regrets, she does not wish for her lover to suffer needlessly. And so she eases her gently into the realm of possibilities, slowly and tenderly, with all the care in the world.
The child will break her, in the end, but for once, Morrigan will not be held responsible.
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Will
It is dark when Sylvanna awakes in their bed (their bed – the possessive feels strange, even spoken silently in her mind). The other side of it is cold, a slight indent where a body may have once lain. She wraps herself up in a robe, traversing the short distance down the stairs and into the main room.
The fire has long since died down, its embers still glowing red in the cooling hearth. She shivers, drawing her robes closer around herself, but not from the cold.
The child is awake, her eyes watching Sylvanna with a gaze that is openly appraising. Sylvanna bends down, sitting next to the cradle with her knees folded up beneath her.
"Release me," she begs, her voice cracking as she speaks. At her plea, there is only silence, and the unbroken gaze of the child staring back at her. She falters in the wake of that endless void, its depths hiding shadows that she cannot even begin to fathom. "What more do you want from me?"
In the unfolding darkness of the morning, Sylvanna gives in to despair.
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Purpose
That the child hungers comes as no surprise.
Such a tiny body to house such unimaginable power. How frustrating it must be, how ignoble to be forced into this frail vessel of flesh and be bound by all its constraints.
All children need sustenance to grow, and this child is no exception.
It is only a game, at first, a trick to amuse a bored and petulant baby. Sylvanna stands over the cradle, conjuring a string of lights to distract and entertain. The child claps her hands, laughing with delight, and then stretches up a chubby fist to pluck out the heart of each star shining in its miniature firmament. The gesture leaves Sylvanna cold, the spell vanishing as the child sucks the mana out of the air like a vacuum.
When the child turns her voracious eyes upon her, she begins to back away.
There is the merest hint of pressure, the feeling of movement as the child draws the rest of the magic from her body in one long, drawn-out breath. The mana leaves Sylvanna in a stream of light, pouring out from her skin and vanishing into nothing. When the last of it departs, she stumbles to the floor like a marionette whose strings have just been cut.
As she gasps for breath, barely able to move, Sylvanna wonders, not for the first time, how much more will be demanded of her.
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Competence
When Sylvanna first hears it, she assumes she is mistaken.
"Mama," the child enunciates clearly, walking carefully towards her with tightly controlled movements. Sylvanna watches her closely, but the child's footing is steady and sure. Physical control of her new body comes easily to her, as natural as breathing.
"Morrigan is presently occupied," Sylvanna says, silencing the rush of hope that momentarily strips the words from her throat.
"Mother is presently occupied," the child corrects her, in a voice that is beautifully modulated and far older than her thirteen months. Reaching Sylvanna's side, she stretches her arms up, imperious demand in such a simple gesture.
Sylvanna scoops up the child who nestles her tousled head against her shoulder. The child grasps at lengths of her hair, clutching them within her chubby hand and giggling as she twines the strands around her fingers.
Insinuating herself into the hearts of others is just one more trick that the child is able to quickly master. She whispers the word again to Sylvanna, warm and generous, like a blessing.
Sylvanna closes her eyes, hot tears of sheer elation trailing down her cheeks as she cradles the warm body of a daughter that was never hers against her chest. She feels the word embed itself deeply into her heart, twisted permanently into place, and finally knows that this is one love she will never escape.
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Fidelity
They skirt around the subject like swordsmen at play, avoiding any opening that may lead them down those darkened paths. Eventually, Sylvanna can stand it no longer and blurts it out, stumbling over words that were long repressed.
"What were you thinking?" she yells. "How was this ever going to be a good idea?"
"I owe you no explanation," Morrigan says.
Sylvanna stares at her, aghast, and then does the unthinkable.
She slaps Morrigan.
The force of it takes the witch by surprise, her eyes wide with shock as she stumbles back a step. Pursing her lips into a narrowed frown, she straightens and returns the favour, the back of her hand leaving a reddened mark on Sylvanna's cheek.
"Feel better?" Morrigan sneers.
"...No. No." Sylvanna breathes in sharply, her fingers flexing as if aching to strike Morrigan again. She looks up at her, searching for something ineffable in her eyes; remorse, or some trace of righteous surety. "Just tell me... tell me that you thought this was for the best," she pleads. "Tell me that you believed she wouldn't harm anyone, that the world would be a better place-"
"I cannot."
"Cannot?" Sylvanna demands. "Or will not?"
Morrigan brushes past her, but not before Sylvanna grabs her by the arm, her nails digging in as Morrigan rounds upon her with a hiss. "At least tell me that you regret what happened with Alistair," Sylvanna begs.
The temperature in the room seems to drop, Morrigan's expression becoming glacial. "You presume too much," she says, her voice dangerously soft. Her eyes are half-lidded, a trace of murderous intent in the set of her lips.
"How can you live with yourself? If you had any trace of goodness left, you would know that what you did was wrong."
"I did what I had to!" Morrigan's lips draw back in a snarl. "What you forced me to do. Your insufferable refusal to see reason was never part of the plan." Her fingers half-curl, reflexively, and Sylvanna can feel the stirrings of power beginning to gather, the tingle of magic setting her teeth on edge.
"I couldn't let you do it," Sylvanna says, glancing away. "You had to be stopped."
"Yet here you are."
"...Yes." Sylvanna looks up at her then, tears welling brightly in her eyes, and Morrigan bites down the acerbic comment she intended to make. She has long planned for this eventuality, the day when the warden became more of a liability than they could afford to endure.
Morrigan has always made the difficult choices without hesitation, and this is no different. She has already mourned for Sylvanna's death, some four years ago; Morrigan has always known that they were living on borrowed time. All such things must come to an end, and only a fool would try to deny it. She feels the energy swirling deep inside her, dark and potent, and she pulls-
"Mother."
Sylvanna's head tilts to the side, her eyes drawn to the open doorway, and Morrigan forces herself to relax, the magic dying down to nothing as she permits the spell to drain away.
The child moves calmly between them, heedless of the tension that has only heightened with her presence. She walks up to Sylvanna, the warden glancing at her askance, wary hesitation in the lines of her face.
"You look pale, Mama," the child says blithely, taking Sylvanna's hand within her own, much smaller one.
Sylvanna swallows reflexively and shakes her head, as though waking from a daze. "I am well," she offers, tentatively.
"I want you to be happy," the child insists, her voice almost a croon, her doll-like lips pursed in an uncommon frown. Watching them both, Morrigan takes a step forward, as if to intervene. At the slight movement, the child holds up her free hand imperiously, stopping the witch in her tracks.
"I am... happy," Sylvanna says dutifully, though her voice cracks on the words.
The child squeals with delight and claps her hands together, tiny baubles on her bracelets chiming with the movement. Beaming with pleasure, her smile lights up the room with its radiance, innocent and beautiful as no other child could be. She shoots a triumphant look towards Morrigan, smugly confident in this victory, before she turns to Sylvanna, smiling for her alone.
Her mother looks on at them both, her golden eyes narrowed in a frown.
It is not the first time that the child has rebelled against her mother's better judgment, using only the brute strength of her will.
Nor will it be the last.
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Love
When they make love, it is an apology of sorts; a meagre offering on the altar of absolution. There is a sweetness to it, a familiarity that calls to Sylvanna, as undeniable as the taint in her blood. There must be madness in this, she knows, but Maker help her, she wants this, needs it to stay sane.
It is nothing like she expects, and yet it is everything she needs; warm and tender and achingly real.
Within the boundary of their limbs, nestled close and fitting together in a way that always felt so right, she can almost make herself believe that there never was a child. She closes her eyes and pretends that there never was any betrayal, any Blight; that this is all there ever was and all that ever will be.
Sometimes, Sylvanna dreams of saying 'no', just to prove that she still can.
Being with Morrigan is always about control.
It is obvious in the curve of Morrigan's lips, the measured gleam of her eyes; the way she refuses to let herself slip, even for a moment. She was not always this wary, or at least not as Sylvanna remembers her - laughingly indulgent and composed, even in the face of insurmountable odds.
Sylvanna remembers dimly that there was a moment when everything changed.
The past is immutable, and while she knows this to be true, she also knows that to let herself fully remember is to descend into madness.
Morrigan's crimes are far, far too great to ever deserve forgiveness.
Sylvanna knows this, and still she forgives, as she herself desperately longs to be forgiven.
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Care
Sylvanna has never once asked Morrigan what she sees when she gazes upon their daughter.
Watching her now, Sylvanna cannot imagine her any other way. Her face still retains the sweet chubbiness of childhood, all artless grace and beguiling charm. She wears her hair long, despite Sylvanna's groans and muttered curses at the impossibility of removing all its knots. The red of it is striking, fiery and almost glowing in the sunlight with reflected heat. The baby blue of her eyes has since transformed into a vivid, reptilian gold that no elf has borne before. Somehow, the colour suits her completely, its draconic gleam a perfect match for her mother's eyes.
The child runs up to her, unending grace with every movement. Sylvanna's heart fills with such pride that it is almost fit to burst.
"There are men coming to see you, Mama," the child says slyly, slipping to Sylvanna's side.
Sylvanna stiffens in alarm, rising to her feet. The path ahead of them is clear, with no indication of any humanoid life bar themselves. "How do you know this?" she asks, taking her daughter by the hand.
"I saw them, while I was amongst the clouds," the child says. "Only five, all glimmering and glittering in their metal suits of arms. I considered making them love me, but they were quite unbecoming - not worthy at all, not a one of them."
Sylvanna looks down at her. Morrigan is more than a day's journey away from them, too far to be reached.
"They are coming this way," the child says with anticipation, seeming to relish the thought of their meeting. "Perhaps on the morrow."
Sylvanna considers this information, leading the child back to the confines of their house. There are wards placed upon their location, layers and layers of them built up over the years by both Morrigan and herself. Many are the same as those used by Flemeth, that kept her hidden even as the darkspawn erupted from the ground all around her. "That seems... unlikely," Sylvanna says with a frown, going through their defences in her mind.
The child giggles, covering her mouth with one hand. "Oh Mama, you are so silly," she laughs, the sound as pure as the chiming notes of a bell. "They are using your blood to find us."
Sylvanna's face goes as pale as a sheet, vague memories of unspoken threats and delicate glass vials; the metallic smell of blood in the air, red stains pooling at her feet; Jowan and the tower and-
"Then we'll just have to be ready for them, won't we?" she says.
The child laughs with glee and claps her hands together, feverish excitement in the gleam of her eyes.
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The motions of battle return easily to Sylvanna. She settles instantly into the all too familiar rhythms, weaving in amongst the terrain and leading her enemies through the series of traps that she and the child have meticulously constructed.
The enemy has numbers on their side, but these are her lands and her house and her daughter.
The templars never stood a chance.
When it is over, Sylvanna straightens, casting a healing charm over herself almost as an afterthought. She rifles through the satchels and pockets of each of the bodies, whilst the child delights herself by picking over the remains. Sylvanna catches her daughter plucking out an eye with her bare fingertips and squeezing it curiously, and Sylvanna looks away, unbecomingly squeamish at the sight of dripping blood and viscous fluids.
The lead templar had his orders tucked away beneath his breastplate, and the child looks on as Sylvanna unfolds the crumpled paper. Sylvanna's expression darkens as she reads the missive, until she snaps her fingers and the paper is consumed by flames, minute specks of ash floating away with the breeze.
"Queen Anora," Sylvanna says, tasting the name as if to conjure up the past. She recalls an imperious voice, fine hands, a halo of blonde hair that had shone even in the midst of grime and despair. "That ungrateful hag."
She bends down to the templar's body once more and lifts a chain from around his neck, snapping the delicate silver links with a twist of her hand. Hanging from the remnants of the chain is a slender glass vial of blood, and this she remembers.
(Six years old and so naive as to believe her world to be impregnable; torn from her dying mother's arms and taken away in the dead of night. They struck her when she cried and bled her until her phylactery was filled to the brim; insurance against desertion from the prison that stole away the better part of her life.)
Sylvanna uncorks the vial and upends the tube, her blood dripping out and soaking into the welcoming earth. She crushes the empty vessel beneath her boot, the glass cracking and splintering under her weight. Behind her, the child watches on as the sunlight makes the shards sparkle like diamonds.
Sylvanna kneels down, looking her daughter in the eyes. "I will protect you," she avows.
The girl smiles prettily and tosses her hair in the sunlight. "I know," she says, and gently she takes Sylvanna's hand, clinging close to her.
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Wisdom
During their eighth summer, the child vanishes.
This fact is unremarkable, on its own. There are many forms she knows, and many places in the forest for a curious young witch to explore. She has been hunting, with both of her mothers, and never once have they encountered a foe she could not defeat on her own.
And yet, Sylvanna is worried.
"Perhaps we should search for her," she suggests one morning.
"To what end?" Morrigan asks with a scowl. "'Tis most unnecessary. She will return when she chooses, and no sooner."
Sylvanna shakes her head, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders. "I'm going," she declares, "even if you're not."
As she walks away, Morrigan sighs. "Wait," she calls out, and follows, wondering when she had ever become so suggestible.
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It is easy enough to track the child, and this unnerves Sylvanna the most - the thought that her daughter has planned for this eventuality. Her trail leads to a Dalish camp, and Sylvanna frowns at the sight of its aravels. Common knowledge has it that only wild beasts, dryads and witches live in the Arbor Wilds, but Morrigan shows no surprise at the Dalish presence. Perhaps she has been aware of them through her aerial explorations, and Sylvanna swallows down a sudden stab of jealousy at never having been able to master the art of shapeshifting herself.
The edge of the camp is quiet, eerily so. Sylvanna's eyes scan the treetops, expecting to be greeted at any moment by a hail of arrows, but even the birds are silent. Despite her earlier nonchalance, Morrigan also seems uneasy, her lips turned down in a frown as they cautiously approach the heart of the camp.
The sound reaches them first, a susurrus of foreign words that blend together in a musical chant. Sylvanna turns to Morrigan with a worried look, and the witch puts a finger to her lips in a bid for silence as they inch forwards.
They pass empty shelters, tools discarded beside unfinished work. The indignant wail of a baby cuts through the chanting, raw with need and Sylvanna hesitates for a moment. Left bundled in its sling, the infant paws through the air like an upended turtle, its face red with crying, as forgotten as the untended fires and abandoned work.
"Leave him," Morrigan says sharply, and, after a moment, they move on.
Rounding the corner, they verge upon what must be the entire contingent of the Dalish camp - every man, woman and child. They huddle in a posture of supplication with their faces pressed into the dirt, each of their bodies pointed in the same direction. Sylvanna used to dream of being Dalish, being accepted, even loved by a people who found magic as natural as laughter or song. It hurts her now to see them reduced like this, their pride and bonds of kinship offering no defence against the being that stands before them.
At the centre of them all, is their daughter.
She is not how Sylvanna remembers her.
She rises triumphant from the midst of her followers, her hair an incandescent halo of light that floats gently, tendrils drifting slightly with the breeze. Her feet do not touch the ground, as she outstretches her hands towards the huddled masses, glowing and generous with her benediction.
Sylvanna takes a step forward, feeling the warmth of the child's power wash over her, soft and inviting. She closes her eyes, feeling it settle on her skin, basking in the radiance that is far sweeter than any dream she has ever dreamed. Suddenly, she flinches with a start, her eyes opening wide as Morrigan's fingernails dig into her arm just above her elbow, preventing her from taking another step forward.
Both of them turn to look at the being they have unleashed upon the world, struggling to see a trace of the child's former innocence within a form that must have no concept of morality. It is impossible to reconcile this with the girl Sylvanna has nurtured from infancy to childhood, the baby she has cradled at her breast. She imagines Morrigan running through the same thoughts, struggling to comprehend the power they have wrought upon all of Thedas.
"By the Maker," Sylvanna whispers, unable to help herself. Morrigan curses, tightening her grip sufficiently to draw blood.
The Child turns to face them, the elves trembling and prostrating themselves even further into the ground as Her attention drifts towards the two apostates. Magnanimously She smiles, and the force of Her benevolence stretches out towards them like a shockwave, enough to bring Sylvanna to her knees. Beside her, she feels Morrigan doing the same.
THERE IS NO MAKER.
The Voice is felt through their bones, brushing at the fringes of their minds, enveloping them with its cadence and tone. Her smile is beatific, and Sylvanna can feel the warmth of it wash over her even as she keeps her eyes lowered lest they burn from the radiance of Her glory.
Around her, she can hear the elves whimpering, can hear the crying of children that is quickly silenced. When the Voice speaks again, Sylvanna presses her hands over her ears to stop them from bleeding. In her mind, she prays for the fate of the world, and prays that she will not live to see its end.
THERE IS ONLY I.