Morrigan wasn't particularly fond of snow, even less so when it was never ending and stole into everything she possessed. Whatever enjoyment could have been acquired from watching the beautiful white flakes settle on the ground was lost as several flakes slithered into her boots and clothes, chilling her as they settled stubbornly against the small of her back and paralyzed her feet.
Remembering Leliana's nearly blistering red face in the tent, she grinned to herself, warmth flaring in her gut, and set a brisk pace toward where Alistair was no doubt still gawking at Cailan's charred body. Smoke bellowed up from the pyre, a wave of black in void of white, and Morrigan could practically smell the wolves stalking around the camp. She did not need to hear their howling to know they were hungry. Food was scarce and she couldn't imagine the beasts approved of Alistair's mourning.
His royal ass would have feed a pack for a day at least.
Morrigan tsked at the elder Warden's foolish sentiments about the dead. Cailan was dead and burning the body would not make a difference. It wasn't worth the effort and denying predators an easy meal would only make them the only source for food. They would attack the rag tag group, if they were hungry enough.
Winter had stolen across the land savagely, blanketing every inch of Ferelden in suffocating waves of white that hindered their travels and no doubt caused trouble for the prowling creatures that now called Ostagar their home. Morrigan wished to be rid of this place but Alistair-and Catherine, she had to admit unwillingly-had vehemently suggested they reclaim what they could from Ostagar.
Catherine, upon an earlier scavenge, had discovered two swords of particular interest. After leaving Alistair with the king's body, the rest of the group had marched on, intent on clearing the frozen fortress of enemies before they set up camp and their persistence was rewarded. The blades were not so easily granted though, as it seemed they had been lodged in an ogre's chest by a man Catherine only referred to as Duncan. To complicate what would have been a simple retrieval, that ogre had been raised from the dead by a hellishly annoying little necromancer they had chased through half of Ostagar. If anything, this new challenge had made Catherine more eager to get the swords.
Morrigan had voiced her desire to simply allow herself and Leliana to take the creature out from a distance,far away from those crushing hands, but Catherine had shaken her head and gotten that stubborn glint in her eye. Morrigan had long since learned that look meant something was about to get bloody.
It had not be an overly tiring battle. Sten had charged the undead beast without hesitation, his face showing nothing but concentration, unnervingly silent as he swung that great sword of his as if it weighed nothing. The strange man danced in battle. He did not thrash around like Alistair with the foolish shield of his, he did not smash bones and rip sinew with unrelenting force like Catherine did with Starfang. The damage he dealt out was savage but he only struck where he needed to. The goal was not to incapacitate like Alistair or cripple like Catherine-he meant only to kill his enemy as quickly and cleanly as possible.
The two warriors were a formidable team; Sten slashing the ogre's tendons until it could barely move, while Catherine launched herself at the darkspawn beast, journeying along the same path Duncan had across its chest to sink Starfang into the ogre's head with a satisfying crunch. It was almost comical-in a grotesque way-to see Catherine using the darkspawn's eye socket as a handle on the way down, trying to stop herself from pitching forward and snapping her neck or bloodying her nose against her helmet.
While Catherine made her way back down to solid ground, the necromancer made to run while the Templar and Qunari warrior were distracted, but it didn't get far. Morrigan had been a second too slow to end the monster's life, allowing Leliana to earn a chance to send a single arrow flying. The bard even had the nerve to wink at Morrigan as the arrow found its mark right between the necromancer's beady little eyes.
After freeing her arm from the ogre's eye socket and removing her dented helmet, Catherine shouldered her great sword and regarded Leliana with a lazy half smile, dimples pressing deeply against her cheeks. Her lower lip has been gashed and Morrigan guessed Catherine's teeth has bitten into the soft flesh of her lip on the way down. The blonde woman didn't seem overly concerned about the flesh wound and neatly strolled up the ogre's body to wrench free the swords embedded in rotten flesh, taking care to wrap and bind them tightly so the naked steel would not accidentally cut anyone.
To Morrigan's knowledge, Catherine had simply taken the supposedly prized blades into the main tent and hidden them under her pack. What she planned to do with them was of no concern to the witch, but she had a feeling it involved Alistair.
The witch clicked her tongue in irritation at that thought and forced herself to speed up, hoping to rid herself Alistair as fast as she could. It was bloody cold and if that fool wanted to freeze to death, it was his prerogative.
The man had not moved an inch since she last saw him. His boots appeared to be sunk into the snow and his hair was soaked, dirty blonde strands clinging to an equally dirty face. Simultaneously battered with sweltering heat and blistering cold, he looked very much like a half drowned rat.
Staring won't bring him back, fool.
With the heavy snowfall and howling wind beating them from every direction, she was surprised to see the flame still roaring, rending every scrap of flesh off the king's body. If the flush on Alistair's face was anything to go by, the heat was overwhelming but still he stood his vigil, face stony, eyes unseeing upon the king's corpse. His battered gauntlets had been tossed aside and his fingers were black-from cold or flames, Morrigan couldn't say-and blistered to the first knuckle.
Knowing Alistair, he had probably used his hands to keep the flames alive instead of his sword or even a stick to resurrect them. He wasn't a very smart man, Morrigan was wont to admit, but she thought better than digging at him while he was standing his vigil. The polite approach it was then.
"Alistair?" The use of his name, not fool or any other insult Morrigan saw fit to dub him as, ripped him from his thoughts and he blinked at her, confused. Almost as if he didn't know where he was or who she was.
"Morrigan." Realization dawned on his face and his lips thinned behind a tangled mass of blonde stubble. She had never seen someone age so fast. The hours spent beside his fallen king seemed to have sucked every last drop of life from him and left a withered old man in his place. Bags hung under bloodshot hazel eyes, from crying Morrigan summarized, and he possessed a gauntness that for a moment she thought him a corpse risen again.
"There is stew in the tent," Morrigan tried slowly. "'Tis no use to starve yourself." Gesturing back the way she had come with an impatient flick of her wrist, she tried to divert his attention back to the here and now. Dwelling on a dead man would do no good.
Alistair's eyes hardened and swiftly returned to the blackened bones laying on the pyre. "I have no hunger," he muttered, blackened fingers curling tightly into fists. "Leave me to mourn, witch."
"Witch? My, how original of you." Morrigan crossed her arms, staff resting at the bend of her elbow, and regarded him with amusement.
The Warden's shoulders twisted under her scrutiny. "What is it you want, Morrigan?" The deliberate snare of her name momentarily caused a flash of regret at wasting her time, but just as her legs started to turn away, intent to spirit her back to the warmth of the tent and the pleasure of Catherine's company, she steeled herself.
Selfish little man. You won't rid of me so easily.
Gloved fingers dug into Alistair's shoulder, warm through two layers of cloth and steel, hard enough to make him flinch. "What I want is to be rid of this wretched place. What I want is to be warm and through with you. What I want is for you to stop acting like a child!" Morrigan had spit enough venom to mortally wound any lesser man, but she had never raised her voice. Now her voice bellowed out, echoing so loudly through Ostagar it seemed the battle was replaying. For a moment, Alistair thought he was going to die.
A shove sent him stumbling, then another and another, until he was on his ass and she towered over him, red from cold and fury. "What I want is for you to think! Cailan is dead, Alistair! No amount of mourning or crying," she jerked a hand toward the pyre, "or foolishly freezing yourself will bring him back!"
Her staff lie abandoned on the hard packed ground and her hood had been thrown back, locks escaping her neat bun and flying behind her, a crown as black as night spilling around her head. Her fists were inches from his face, pale and clenched, mana coursing through her veins so thickly Alistair felt heat coming from her fingertips. She looked every inch a warring goddess, hands nearly aflame, beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl that rivaled Catherine's warhound when his blood was up.
Her hand started downward, toward his face at an alarming speed and Alistair scrunched his eyes shut, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheeks, hands frozen at his side.
A moment that stretched an eternity passed in darkness, the taste of blood on his tongue, belly clenching in preparation for pain. No slap came, no burning agony lit his body, and above the roar of blood in his ears, he heard a sigh.
"Take my hand, Alistair." The Warden's eyes shot open in surprise. "Don't gawk at it, take it!" Morrigan thrust her hand closer, palm up, and Alistair settled his larger hand into hers.
She steadied him until he found proper footing and regarded him with a critical eye. "Catherine can't do this on her own." Her voice was not harsh but still Alistair's face burned with shame. Morrigan released his hand and collected his gauntlets, throwing them unceremoniously at his chest. "There is stew in the tent, 'tis quite good."
Alistair understood. The leather gauntlets chafed his burned hands but he slid them on, readily bearing the pain to get some warmth back into his frostbitten fingers. He turned his gaze one last time to his king and turned on his heel, following Morrigan. The dead could hold no more of his time. He had said he goodbyes.
The walk back to the tent was silent, barring the crunch of snow underfoot and their breathing. Morrigan dusted her staff off and glanced back at the usually chatty man, equal parts relieved for silence and irked by it. Not even the wolves sang. It felt as if the storm had swallowed everything and left them alone in the world.
The tent was their lone haven in the storm, and soon they found themselves at the entrance, huddling into the shelter. Cold air rushed in with them, an unwanted intruder in their safe haven, almost lashing the fire into submission, but Morrigan was able to wrangle the flap closed before the flames were suffocated completely.
Sten and Catherine's warhound had rejoined the party while Morrigan had been out, and brought with them three dead rabbits that looked too small to feed a child, let alone a group of their size. Grif looked absolutely pleased with himself beside the fire, regardless of the size of his quarry; eyes bright, stumpy tail high and wagging, ears at attention, he looked as if he had brought a bronto down instead of three malnourished rabbits.
Grif rose gracefully, red kaddis standing against tawny fur, spiked collar gleaming wickedly in the firelight, monstrously large paws padding silently as he strutted toward the two new arrivals. The bloody remains of a hare sat in his maw and Morrigan had a feeling she knew where he was about to take it. The Mabari had an insane need to bring her gifts, whether she wanted them or not. More oft than not, she found the half eaten, mutilated corpses of animals in her pack or laid out in front of her tent.
If she threw it away or gave it back to him, he treated it as a game and found more interesting places to stuff it and surprise her. After finding the rotting corpse of a squirrel in her bedroll, she surrendered and demanded he bring them directly to her. The spark in his eyes had vexed her to no end, but at least she could use the meat and bones if he brought the body in one piece.
On his feet, Grif stood at waist height on Morrigan and he nudged her hand until she accepted her bloody gift with a grimace. "'Tis quite...lovely." His big, brown eyes shined and he bounded away, taking his rightful place back at Catherine's feet near the fire.
She would add the mangled creature to the stew later. At that moment, however, she wanted nothing more than to shrug off the heavy woolen cloak Catherine had lent her and sit beside the fire to warm herself. Prying slender fingers from wet leather gloves, Morrigan thrust her hands toward the fire, shrugging the cloak off her shoulders and sitting opposite Catherine.
Sten set out from the tent with Grif to hunt(or play, Leliana suggested once while Sten was off, but Morrigan wasn't inclined to believe anything she said)and Alistair was eating noisily beside her, finding his hunger now that ghosts were no longer on his mind. Much to Morrigan's chagrin, Leliana was perched right by Catherine, strumming her lute and singing softly near the Warden's ear. They were close enough to kiss and one twitch from the blonde would see their lips mash together.
The closeness was intentional, and while Leliana's lips were singing for Catherine alone, blue eyes seeing nothing but the blonde woman beside her, the Warden's eye was elsewhere and her lips holding a smile for another. Through out the song, Morrigan could feel the weight Catherine's gaze on her, skin burning in all the right ways under that mischievous green eye.
When the bard was finished, she stowed away her lute and retreated to her own tent with nary a kiss or word from Catherine aside from a mumbled thanks and compliment on the song. The Warden's mind was decidedly on something else. The forlorn look on Leliana's face as she left sent a stab of pity through Morrigan but it was quickly forgotten when Alistair too slunk off, sounding much happier now that he had eaten, and left her alone with Catherine.
Any thoughts about skinning the gift rabbit vanished when Catherine shifted across from her, laying on her side, face propped up by her hand, fingers curled lazily along her cheek. "Thank you." She had changed out her armor, the flaming sword that stood as a stark reminder of why Morrigan shouldn't be interested now out of sight and definitely out of mind. Instead, she donned leather breeches the color of blood that clung to her muscular thighs and calves like a second skin, a roughspun brown tunic under her black leather jerkin, and black leather boots she had looted from a bandit before they arrived.
Morrigan felt a burn start in her belly and decided she had never seen anything so wanton. "'Twas nothing, truly," she answered back, turning her mind to Alistair to cool the flames settling dangerously close to her loins.
Catherine smiled that lazy smile of hers and got to her feet, walking around the fire to stand beside Morrigan. Hand out, eye bright under blonde curls, Morrigan had no choice but to take her hand and let herself be helped up. "Thank you, nonetheless." Strong fingers slipped into raven locks and Morrigan lowered her head as Catherine pulled her disheveled hair into a sloppy bun, hands steady and careful not to tug.
The witch's eyes lolled closed and all too soon, Catherine's fingers left her hair, a messy bun the only evidence of their close contact. "Good night, Morrigan." Tucking a strand of rebellious hair behind her ear, finger lingering long enough on the pale expanse of her neck to send a shiver down Morrigan's spine, Catherine smiled down at her and turned toward the entrance.
"Good night, Catherine," Morrigan whispered to herself, tasting the Warden's name on her tongue and finding she hungered for much more than just her name. "Catherine," she tried, louder, and her heart jumped in her throat when she found herself again under that smiling green eye. A boldness seized her then and she stepped forward, taking hold of Catherine's forearm. "Come to my tent tonight." Her fingers skimmed over Catherine's skin, feeling rises on her flesh that could only be scars, and she tilted her head up, meeting Catherine's eye. "I have a gift for you."
So close, Morrigan could smell the mint on her breath. "Pray tell," Catherine murmured, eye traveling down to the witch's face, "what do you have for me"
"A simple gift." Morrigan leaned up, copying Leliana's earlier position and moving her lips next to Catherine's ear. "'Tis one you'll like, I've no doubt."
The Warden didn't speak for a moment and Morrigan feared she may have gone too far, but when Catherine's head turned and that smiling green eye met hers, she knew she had nothing to fear. The smile on Catherine's face, teeth showing and dimples pressing deep, told her all she needed. "We have third watch tonight." Her voice whispered across Morrigan's skin and she ached in an all too pleasant way. "I will see you then, Morrigan," Catherine whispered, voice dropping lower than Morrigan had ever heard.
"Until then, Warden," the witch whispered, sliding her fingers lazily over Catherine's forearm once more before releasing her. An odd platitude came to mind as she watched Catherine leave. "Sweet dreams," she called softly.
Halting at the tent flap for a moment, Catherine looked back at Morrigan and grinned roguishly. "I always dream of you." Then she was gone, swallowed by howling winds and raging snow. Morrigan didn't hear the howling for the blood pounding in her ears.
And I always dream of you.
Thank you Silvershadow090 and that unnamed guest for reviewing! Seeing your reviews made me want to write more XD