SEVEN
He was climbing the wall of a chasm - a chasm so deep he couldn't see the bottom, although in the back of his mind he was aware he had come from there originally. The walls were jagged and cut his hands, but despite the blood that flowed freely over them, he continued. The pain seemed separate from him. He was nearly at the top - he could see the edge of the wall ahead and the closeness of his goal was enough to spur him on to greater efforts.
Finally, he pulled himself over the edge and flopped, exhausted, on the dirt floor of the enormous cavern.
"Well, well," a voice drawled from above him. "Who have we here? A deepstalker with hands?"
He looked up into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her jet black hair was pulled back from her chiselled cheekbones, emphasising the deep pools of her clear green eyes. The eyes were familiar. He felt a jolt of recognition, although he couldn't place where he had seen them before.
Her full lips were curled in what looked like a snarl which, if anything, made her more lovely. She was dressed - barely he was suddenly, painfully aware - in what looked like a motly array of rags, and he could see the top of a staff over her shoulder.
Apostate, he thought as he hastily pulled himself to his feet. But what is she doing here?
Hang on... where IS here exactly?
Manners took over and he sketched a quick bow."I am Duncan," he said. "No deepstalker, lady. Who might you be?"
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she folded her arms across her chest. "Manners is it?" she said then. "Well it seems your mother taught you well in that regard at least. More than I had hoped for, truly."
"And yet you do not deign to answer me," he said.
She laughed then, a deep, hearty chuckle that was seductively infectious. "And I must apologise," she said. "You can call me Morrigan."
Duncan remembered almost too late that he stood on the edge of a cliff, as he was about to take a step back. How had he not recognised her? Leliana's description had been accurate and eloquent, yet the woman seemed young - as young as Duncan. But then, she was a witch of the wilds, daughter of Flemeth, who had lived for many centuries.
"Ah, I see you have heard of me," she continued. "Which is all to the best, I do believe." She unfolded her arms and took a step forward, then another, until she was so close that he could smell her scent - flowery with a hint of musk, almost overpowering in its sensuality. She lifted a finger and lightly touched his cheek, tracing her finger down past his chin... his neck.. to the opening of his shirt. Duncan's breath came faster and he had to fight to keep control of his body, which was torn between wanting to twist away and wanting - oh so badly - to sink right into her embrace. She leaned forward until her lips brushed his ear. "I need something from you, my dear boy," she whispered, and her voice sent shudders through him from head to foot. "Because I think you know where he is, don't you? Or if you don't...." her fingers, which had been lingering at his throat, parted his shirt and trailed lower to rest lightly just over his heart, "you soon will."
He took a deep, ragged breath, unable to speak as her scent overpowered him. Her fingers started to roam again, lower and lower and alarm bells were flashing in the back of his head. This was the woman, he thought frantically who slept with his father - who conspired to kill her own mother. She can change into a spider - a bear! She...
was my mother's friend....
A clear picture of his mother's face cut through the haze of desire that was crowding him and his hand shot out and captured that of the witch - just before it was about to venture into his most intimate regions.
"My lady Morrigan," he said, and although his voice was hoarse, his tone was steady, and he fixed her eyes with his own. "If you would be so good as to tell me who it is you are seeking, for the sake of my parents who owe you a debt, I would be more than happy to help you. As it is, however, I can do very little else that would give you satisfaction at this time."
Morrigan's eyebrow shot up as his hand enfolded hers and she pursed her lips for a moment. She did not step back however. "I find that difficult to believe," she said then as her eyes flicked downwards. He found himself blushing furiously, but moved her hand away from him firmly. She stepped back then - gently freeing her hand. Was she angry? Pleased? Her expression was unreadable but she did nothing but look at him.
"It took me a long time to find you in this corner of the fade," she said eventually. "It seems a waste not to take advantage of our time here."
Duncan laughed then, a quick, harsh sound. Morrigan's lips twitched and she began to smile. With her scent removed from him his faculties began to return in full. He was dreaming, he knew that now, although he had never had a dream so real.
"Can we be sensible?" he said then. "You want something from me. I will help if I can, as I said. There's no need for... anything else."
She cocked her head and considered him for a long moment. "You are far more like your mother than your father," she said then. "You have her look, you know."
There was a pause as they considered each other. Duncan was still standing at the edge of the cliff, and although he knew it was a dream now it was no less terrifying a drop.
"I'm sure to wake up soon," Duncan said then. He was anxious for this discussion to end - he knew he was at a disadvantage and was certain he could have handled himself better. This woman was dangerous, no matter how much of a friend she had been to his mother.
"My son," she said then. "He's gone and I need to find him. I must find him. I know he's communicated with you before. I know you have a connection to him. Please," her face lost its guarded expression and she simply looked lost, "please tell me where he is."
She was beautiful, and perilous, and he knew somehow that this request was not one he could agree to without condtions. Her son, he thought. My friend. That final contact they had had - he had been trying to evade Morrigan, going against her wishes. And he had seemed so genuine in his desire to help.
And yet - this was his mother. There was no mistaking the genuine concern in Morrigan's eyes - the sense of yearning. He sketched a bow to her. "My lady," he said. "If it's within my power to help you, I will try."
She smiled then, and it was a smile of genuine relief. "Thank you," she said simply. Green flames surrounded her and she faded from view.
He awoke in a pool of sweat with his sheets tangled around him to such an extent that it took him five minutes to free himself.
