M is for Morrigan
Arren had never imagined a woman like her. Certainly not a human woman like her. From the first moment he saw Morrigan, at a ruin deep in the Korcari Wilds, he had been fascinated by her. She carried herself with a level of self-assurance that few people could emulate, and moved with the same light-footed grace as a halla. The fear the other men had of her surprised him; even Alistair, while not as obviously frightened of her as the others, was clearly nervous of her presence.
Arren couldn't understand why, as he politely answered her questions, and asked some of his own. Learning she was the daughter of Asha'bellanar was surprising; he had heard tales of the woman of many years. Mainly unsettling ones, about her power and her unpredictability, and how dangerous it could be to offend her. When it turned out they had to go speak to her in order to retrieve the lost treaties, he was as polite as he could be, and was relieved that Flemeth seemed more amused by the fear of his companions – and even of his politeness – than disturbed by it.
He hadn't expected to ever see either woman again, but after the debacle at Ostagar, Morrigan was the first thing he saw on opening his eyes. And, at Flemeth's insistence, accompanied him away afterwards, with Alistair. She spent the day in leading them out of the wilds, circling well away from the overrun ruins of Ostagar, north toward Lothering. At night they huddled close to their single small fire, just the three of them, he and Morrigan talking together, Alistair occasionally joining in, but mainly lost in his own thoughts. It was four around their fire the night after that, the mabari hound he'd decided to name Mouse having joined them.
Their first camp after Lothering, she set up her things apart from theirs, with her own small campfire, withdrawing from Arren and his other companions, clearly ill at ease with the increase in their company; the bard, the qunari, the dwarves. He found himself missing their quiet conversations, her sharp wit. Only after everyone had eaten, and dispersed, did she make we way to the central fire, claim a plate of stew, and return to her own spot.
On the third night, when everyone but she had finished their dinner, and he'd seen that she had still made no move to come and join them, he picked up a clean plate, filled it, and walked over to her fire with it.
She looked up from her fire as he drew close. "Arren," she said coolly, dipping her head slightly in acknowledgement of his presence.
"Here's your stew," he said, and handed it to her.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the plate from him. And smiled.