A/N: So, so incredibly sorry for the wait on this one. As I've mentioned before, I am a full-time student, and these chapters are now taking a whole lot longer to write. I'm trying my best going forward to improve how I balance my time writing these, but thank you for your patience in the meantime. I am going to continue to try and update monthly, but please understand that my schedule may continue to deviate occasionally. Thanks and enjoy! :)
MORRIGAN
The owl's eyes—two bright beacons in the dark of night—bore down upon her, the bird's watchful gaze cruel and unwavering as it hooted softly in time with the rustling of the trees. It was soon after that she began to feel the creeping pain of her womb, and heat and sweat pool on her forehead and beneath her arms. Morrigan brought her knees to her chest and did what she could to ease the ache—but the ghost of it would not leave her, and the discomfort of her blood made her face twist and her eyes scrunch and water.
Huddled upon the flat face of a cool rock clutching her arms in the cold, she wondered if Alistair would follow after her into the woods, as he had for the woman each night since the Tower. Morrigan did not find it likely, and quickly grew angry with herself for even thinking it. She was angry with herself, too, for following in that woman's footsteps and throwing herself another childlike pity party. For running away from a confrontation with the fool instead of simply biting off his hand at the wrist and continuing on with her evening.
The truth was that she did not want to go back to that camp. Not even her own tent—as far removed as it was from the rabble. She would rather die, she thought. Die starved to death still sitting on this rock, as the owl who would not cease its hooting watched her wither and decay, only to eventually fly away in disinterest. And even still, Alistair would not come to check on her.
There were templars there. And not a one of them had removed their sharp, calculating eyes from her person since they had set foot back on the road. She was not afraid of the them, perish the thought! But there was a key difference between the templars she had encountered in the forest as a young girl and the templars she now traveled with. The difference was that she was no longer allowed to kill them.
Heavy feet approached on the forest floor. She glanced up. It was Sten, securing the last of the laces on his trousers.
"You have left the camp," he noted, eloquently. "Why?"
"Because I wish to be alone," she snapped. "Is that not apparent enough?"
The beast scowled, if such were possible, for it always looked as though he were scowling.
"Imekara," he said, and though Morrigan knew none of the Qunari tongue, it sounded much to her like a profanity. "Children. You and the Warden, both. We will accomplish nothing with this dallying about, aimlessly, like lost sheep."
Morrigan straightened her back and narrowed her eyes. "How I spend my time alone is none of your concern, Qunari. Take your preachings elsewhere."
"A mage unaccounted for is everyone's concern. Return to camp, or I shall alert the templars."
She grew hotter in the face as he marched away, unfazed. She would have thrown a rock at the back of his head—the largest, sharpest rock she could find—if she had not known he would crush her skull in an instant with only one of his palms in retribution. And she knew the threat was more than empty air. The Qunari did not spend words frivolously, she had quickly learned.
Instead, she complied, though her blood boiled. She was going to return soon anyway. After all, she had left her mother's grimoire back at her tent, and she could not stand to be parted from it for long. Time was too valuable.
Merely opening the book had been the first of many challenges. The grimoire had no lock or buckle—merely a taught strap made of something like leather that bound the front cover to the back. And despite her attempts, no knife would cut even the smallest tear into it. After that brief interlude resulting in an accidental slice in the pad of her index finger, Morrigan began searching her memories of her mother for a word—any word—that she might have invoked as some sort of magical passcode. Utter the word, and the strap would dissolve, or something of that variety. Her guesses were weak, and few, and none of them worked.
Then, she settled on spells. Though with this, she exercised great care. Cast the wrong spell, and she suspected the book may self-destruct. She used spells of low-power that caused no direct damage—healing spells, protective wards, cooling spells. It was when she cast a mild warming spell that the book flickered with the faintest glow, but did not open. Morrigan's eyes lit up along with it, understanding quickly the intent behind the grimoire's protective seal. Flemeth had always had the most sadistic sense of irony.
Taking a deep breath, Morrigan had set the book down on the grass, well-and-away from her tent and belongings, and backed away. She quickly exhaled and sent a fireball crashing to the ground, erupting the entire book in a barrage of tall orange and blue flames. She caught herself letting loose the tiniest of yelps at the sight, rushing towards it to check for damage, struggling to navigate the hot, burned grass beneath her two bare feet in brief, hobbled hops.
Thankfully, the grimoire itself was none the worse for wear. But the tree carved into its front had been illuminated, embers forming at its trunk and rising, stretching out to each limb and singeing the leather, tiny plumes of smoke rising from its surface. When the tree and all its tendrils were black with soot, the leather strap at last snapped in two.
The book had appeared at first to be utterly indecipherable. That was likely why the fool Irving had it locked away gathering dust in some old chest. Her mother may never have intended for any eyes to gaze upon it but her own, but even still she was far from careless in the grimoire's composition. Most of the book was not comprised of words. Instead, there were symbols and diagrams and drawings—none without meaning, clearly, but all foreign and strange. In some cases, entire pages—sometimes sections—had been torn out by the book's spine, likely to be relocated. Maybe destroyed. To decode the entire book, if even possible, would take years. Perhaps Morrigan's whole life. And who knew how long that would be?
Flemeth had told her little of her spells, fewer still of her plans, and absolutely nothing of her dalliances upon leaving their hut. Of common magic, Morrigan knew a great deal. Such was a part of her training. But Flemeth performed many spells and rituals of her own creation, and she seldom involved her in their completion. Morrigan had only caught faint, brief glimpses. Broken noises—shrill, ugly sounds that pierced one's ears and kept frightened little girls awake at night. Colors of sickly green, black, and blood-red. Unfortunate templars and Chasind folk who wandered too near to their abode—whose bodies her mother would dispose of alone.
It was possible that she would find answers to all of that and more within these pages. But right now, that which concerned her most of all were the pages which referenced "M.", and "child". If the book and nineteen years of living a life in isolation with the witch had taught her anything, it was that her mother did nothing without purpose. It was the question that nagged at her mind for years, and now consumed it like a disease. It had been there, in her childhood, when she first began to understand that her mother had no genuine care for her. That she thought little of her, regarded her less, and called for her only when she had the potential to prove useful. Not a daughter, a tool. Thus followed the question.
For what purpose?
What use had Flemeth for a young daughter?
So far, the grimoire was reluctant to give way to such secrets. But Morrigan, as it so happened, was far more stubborn, and far more persistent. Outside of the book, there was nothing. Nothing that mattered more. Inside its pages was…everything. Everything in the world. It did not matter to her if anyone else understood that.
Such was why, just as soon as she had finally settled back onto her bedroll and delved back into her studies, it was so irksome that she felt the presence of yet another standing over her, attempting to look over her shoulder and concern themselves with that which by its very nature did not concern them.
She scowled and looked up.
"Have you found anything?" Solena asked. That the question was, in fact, polite, only raised Morrigan's ire more.
"I am not interested in small talk, at the moment," Morrigan cut back.
"Good. Neither am I. Which was why I asked about your book," the woman said, continuing to be irrationally and maddeningly well-mannered. "I know you tend to mock the Circle—probably for very good reason, but I did conduct studies there. I know what an all-nighter looks like. By the sheer volume of notes around you and the state of your hair, I'd say you've pulled a few."
Morrigan said nothing.
"This is important to you," she concluded.
Morrigan glanced around her—the state she was in, the loose pages of mad scribblings the woman referred to. The book in her lap. Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip.
"I…" she knew not what to say, or why, even, she had begun to discredit the woman's claim. It was true, after all. "Yes," she admitted, seeing no further point to the façade.
She sighed and rubbed furiously at her temples.
"I've found rather close to nothing. It's…it will take time. A great deal of it."
Solena knelt down on the grass, gesturing to a page of Morrigan's notes.
"I take it that's not Common."
"No. Nor any language I've ever seen," Morrigan told her.
"Is it all like this? Symbols with no words?"
"Not exactly. Though all of it looks just as foreign to me."
Solena furrowed her slim brow, eyeing the grimoire in Morrigan's lap. She moved a hand towards it.
"May I?"
The reactionary "no" threatened to escape, along with the urge to grasp the book in both arms and hold it as far away from the blond-headed mage as was possible. But that was…silly. The woman had no reason to steal or defile it. She had granted it to her in the first place, after all. And she did not seem to have any desire to mock her, as Alistair had.
It must have shown on her face.
"I'll be careful with it, Morrigan. I know it doesn't belong to me."
Belong was an interesting choice of word, seeing as they two had stolen it from the office of the woman's feeble mentor, who had somehow stolen it from her mother. That Solena considered it Morrigan's regardless of that fact was…appreciated.
She carefully handed over the tome.
Solena's eyes scanned the page, then she flipped to the next. Her lips scrunched and moved and folded under her teeth, conveying various degrees of deep thought. Morrigan thought that she looked tired, too. Not in lack of rest, perhaps, but…something else. When she spoke she sounded strangely—almost as if she were in a daze. As if she were back in that tower still, trapped by Sloth in his web of dreams. As if she had never left.
If she were anything like Morrigan, she must hate the fussing, she thought. The fool, prattling on about her state of mind, regarding her like a string pulled taught, that could quite easily snap under the slightest pressure. And her, sitting there, regarding her as she was. Morrigan shook her head and averted her eyes. She would not like to be thought of as such. She would pay this woman the same courtesy.
The woman's eyes widened slightly, and she pointed to something on the page, tilting the book for Morrigan to see.
"There. This bit here, I recognize it—it's in Tevene."
Morrigan looked at the book, then back up to the woman's face. She was no braggart. She did not shove her discovery down Morrigan's throat, so that she was forced to sit there and revel in her Circle-bred intellect. It did seem to Morrigan that she was, in fact, genuinely attempting to be…helpful.
"Really?" Morrigan asked, simply.
"Mm," Solena mumbled in confirmation. "I'm nowhere near fluent. But it would come up from time to time in my studies. That word, there, that's the word for daughter."
Incredulously, Morrigan continued to glance from the page back to the woman's intent look. "What else do you see? Anything?"
Solena seemed to pause, staring blankly at the book. "Yes," she said, "one more thing."
She pointed again, at the next page over. "Immortality."
Morrigan grasped the book in both hands and pulled it from her lap, eyeing the page.
"Where?" she demanded, frantically. "Wh-what does the rest of it say?"
"I don't know. As I said, I'm not fluent. I'm sorry, Morrigan."
Slowly, Morrigan lowered the book down to the blanket. She stared at the page below her. Two words. It was the most concrete translation she had yet gathered, and it had taken her weeks, and the eyes of another. There were hundreds more words written in that language, and even that was only the smallest fraction of the whole tome.
Flemeth would find the book in her possession and kill her for it before she translated more than a single page.
"Morrigan," Solena said, cautiously, "just how old is your mother?"
Morrigan merely shook her head. "Truly, I…do not know. She…told me a story, once, from back when she was a young and beautiful woman—if you can believe it. She recited it to me once upon request, and never again. But I have never forgotten it. As she tells it, she was once married to a man named Conobar, Bann of Highever. However, the marriage was one of her father's making—his daughter's virtue for a small sum of land and a few goats, or something equally insulting—and so she cared not for him as a wife should."
"She was the Teyrna of Highever? A noblewoman?" Solena asked, appropriately surprised.
Morrigan scoffed at that. "Doubtful a position for any woman in her time would be so dignified. A prize slave, more like. Regardless, one day—she told me—in the Bann's court, a young poet arrived. His name was Osen. Flemeth claimed that his verse caused her to…fall in love, for the first and only time in her life. Desperate, the young lovers sought the help of Chasind folk to help them flee Conobar's lands and take refuge in the Wilds—out of the Bann's reach, where he might never find them. For years they hid, until word reached the South that Conobar lay sick and dying, and Flemeth, for whatever reason, felt that it was her duty to visit him one last time, to put old ghosts to rest. Osen went with her."
Morrigan glanced up briefly to find the woman still hanging onto her every word, though she knew not why.
"It was a trap, of course. Osen was butchered by soldiers on arrival—his head mounted on a spike—and Flemeth imprisoned in the highest tower of Highever Castle, her one window large enough only so that she might look down upon the ramparts and watch the head rot in the sun."
Solena swallowed. "And then?"
"And then she used her magic to break free in the dead of night and kill Conobar as he slept, and fled back to the Wilds, where she's lived ever since," Morrigan explained with a shrug.
The woman frowned. "The details seem rather muddy."
"They seem muddy because they are muddy. The story is a lie. Every word of it."
"What?" she blinked.
"There was no Bann Conobar, ever. I checked. I would often…dally in towns on the fringes of the Wilds, when Flemeth was on one of her long and frequent absences. One had a library. Tomes on genealogy and Fereldan noble houses are not difficult to find."
Solena's brow lowered in confusion.
Morrigan continued. "Then, I thought, perhaps she had merely changed the names, so I searched for any record of any Bann murdered by an adulterous wife—that took quite a while, but I did find one, from Highever. Tal...something. His wife's name was not Flemeth or anything resembling it, and there was no mention of the Wilds or the Chasind tribes. The wife was released from her prison cell by sympathetic servants, who then found her sitting by her husband's bedside the next morning, covered in his blood, shaking and petrified. She was executed at dusk."
Morrigan swallowed. "But, even if, somehow, that woman was indeed Flemeth and had somehow survived, that would make Flemeth just over six-hundred years old."
"That's…impossible," Solena noted.
"That was my thought as well, as a young girl. Now I know differently. The estimation is far too low."
"Low?" the woman gaped. "How old do you think she is?"
"Old. Very, very old. She told me that tall tale because she knew I would ask questions. Because she knew I would seek the truth of whatever story she chose to tell me. Her supposed truth is just unbelievable enough to be believable. That Flemeth had murdered a jealous husband who had done her great ill? That all accounts of her magic had been erased from the history books? That instead of facing execution she had escaped into seclusion, devising a spell to slow the process of aging so she may never be found again? All things that my mother, as I knew her, could easily accomplish, had she the will to do so."
Solena shook her head. "I don't understand. If the story holds up, why do you doubt it?"
Morrigan narrowed her eyes. "Because she does nothing on accident. She did not stumble, helplessly, to where she is now as the result of some great suffering, eternally mourning for a lost love, in hiding from the rest of the world. She is what she is because she has always been thus. She is a creature of pure evil. And capable of things neither you nor I could ever conjure in nightmares. And her grimoire, according to your very own translation, contains far more than a spell to merely slow aging."
The two of them then seemed to sit in pensive silence. They both stared at the open book.
"Redcliffe Castle has a full library," the woman said, suddenly and confusingly.
"And?"
"And I would be shocked if their collection did not include books on Tevinter language. Bann Teagan owes me more than a few favors. I'm certain I can get ahold of them for you."
"Why are you doing this?" Morrigan demanded, harshly, and full of vitriol, and instantly she hated herself for it. She tried to soften her expression, but she was sure it just looked pained and awkward, and the feverish anxiety that now coursed through her, she knew, was more from hot shame than her moon blood. She lowered her eyes to the ground.
"I have done…nothing to deserve—" her voice broke, and quickly she aborted the sentiment she had started. "I have nothing to give you in return for this. You know that."
Something flashed on the woman's face that Morrigan was not certain she appreciated. Something like the pity she was so fond of. But it soon became something that Morrigan found far more tolerable.
"I'm not asking for anything," she said, with a gentle smile. "You've helped us plenty. You saved my life, and Alistair's."
"Then you should thank my wretched mother. I did nothing to speak of," Morrigan said, crossing her arms.
She seemed to think for a moment. "I saw you back there, before we left your hut. Flemeth sent you with us without any regard for what you wanted. The forest meant so much more to you than she ever did. Leaving like you did…it must have felt like abandoning a loved one on their deathbed."
Morrigan swallowed stiffly.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be presumptuous," she continued. "I know we're…not that close. I just…I saw that, and I recognized it, is all. I felt for you. I know you're not fond of pity. But when I left the Tower, the first time and then the second, I…well. I don't know quite what I felt. It wasn't the place, it was…me. A part of myself that died, I suppose. And…and then, Niall."
The woman closed her eyes and held them there.
"Maybe there's something there that we can both understand," she said. "That's all I'm saying."
"Perhaps."
The woman left then, without further ceremony. Morrigan appreciated it. The hour grew late, and the pain in her belly would only lessen with rest.
Though when she shut her eyes and sleep took her, the ache followed her into the Fade. In the darkness of the Void, the grimoire floated before her. The cover flew open, and the pages fanned in the wind. Suddenly, the book ignited. Flames ate through the ancient book and consumed every word—every bit of it, turning each page of her salvation to ash that fell into the Void below like snow. Morrigan went to scream, but her screams were the dwarf boy, who had seen her hide the book in her pack that morning and had sounded off like an alarum bell, frightening her to her core. Above it all came the laughter—her mother's laughter.
When she woke, she did not dare close her eyes again.
They arrived back in Redcliffe the following night, as Alistair had predicted. As if by some miracle, the village appeared no worse for wear than it had upon their departure. Some of the wretches had even begun to crawl out of their homes to mill about the town center, though as Morrigan passed them by she could smell the fear still wafting off of them. She wagered many of them now jumped at their own shadows when the sun grew low.
Meanwhile, the fool would not cease with his looks. Every so often, Morrigan would happen a glance over her left shoulder and there he would be—eyes on the back of her skull. Morrigan could not hope to deduce anything from the blank stares, other than that perhaps he hoped to somehow sprout magical powers with which to control her mind, forcing her into completing his inane request from the night before. She chose to ignore him.
As they crossed the castle drawbridge, clouds gathered above, and the air grew too still and too quiet. There were guards stationed at the portcullis, which at the least told them that all the inhabitants of the castle had not been massacred as soon as they'd left. But the men's faces were tired, and haunted.
It is as if this village were frozen in time, Morrigan thought. Like one of the paintings on the walls.
They hitched their horses outside and made their way to the main hall. Morrigan rubbed her hands together and blew on them. It was dread cold, even within the stone walls. Though not cold like autumn was. Cold like death.
The Bann greeted them straight away, embracing Solena and clapping Alistair firmly on the shoulder, a sheen in his eyes. The shrew—the Arlessa—raised her head to look at them. Morrigan stared at her curiously. A wisp of a woman she was, with deep, round, purple bags beneath her eyes and gaunt cheeks. She might have been skinner by half than when they had left, if such were possible. Her fingernails were blunted and chewed; her hair crazed. Dressed in a white, flowing dress, she looked half a ghost.
Morrigan grew sick to look at her, so she looked away.
The great hall looked much as the Arlessa did. Worn and weary, starved and grieving. A meagre fire was lit, but its warm light stretched thin, and the rest of the room remained dank and grey and old-smelling, as though it had been abandoned for an age.
It was then Morrigan took notice of the mage—the guilty one—who sat clapped in irons in the corner of the room, asleep in a wooden chair. Near him was the archway which led to the rest of the castle, warded by his hand. A sensible move—and likely the very one which had kept the village standing. But it would not hold forever.
The Enchanter entered with his small posse of templars and spoke carefully to the Bann and the shrew both, and from the looks of them, his words were a sweet mercy.
"How will you do it?" the shrew asked eagerly.
He smiled. "Delicately. And, mercifully, if need be."
Her lip quivered at that. "You—you think—"
"We shall strive for the best, my lady. And prepare for the worst. Steel yourself. Your son is not lost to you yet." He placed a wrinkled palm atop the ones that she had folded in her lap, though it did not seem to comfort her any. Morrigan thought that she had even grown paler.
The enchanters went to work preparing the lyrium, which they handled in a copper pot placed atop one of the room's long oaken tables. The Bann comforted the Arlessa as best he could. Alistair sulked away in a dark corner, knowing when he had no hope of being useful. The chained mage in the corner had woken by then, and he looked almost as miserable as the Arlessa had. None spoke to him. Morrigan wondered if anyone had spoken to him since they left.
Most of their party kept to the sides of the room, save for Solena, who played the attentive apprentice, fluttering about the enchanters and helping when she was asked to. Morrigan wondered if such was how she had always behaved in the Circle. Like a trained dog, content and obedient. 'Twas sickening, really.
Morrigan sat upon the floor, with her knees tucked to her chest.
The pain of last night lingered like a ghost, but the agony and the tears and the heat had left her. Her belly did churn, but she was no longer so certain of the cause. She grew less certain with every moment that passed, as she looked between the blond woman flitting about and working busily with the rest, and the glances—which now she was sure carried with them a strange twinge of sadness—spared her by Alistair.
She dared not hope for an apology, surely. He had meant the words he had spoken last night, and she had given him no reason not to. He had no care for her, and she had no care for him. Such was the way of things. But he had great care for her, though. Morrigan had seen evidence enough of that to last a lifetime.
She thought of her mother's grimoire, and of Solena's sad smile, and kind eyes.
After quite a while, when the enchanters had finished their preparations, they began to step away from the lyrium now glowing and singing on the feasting table. The Bann and the Arlessa stood at once.
The old Enchanter seemed to breathe deep, then, before speaking.
"We will have need of a mage, to…volunteer, to enter the Fade and confront the—"
"I'll do it," said Solena.
"Solena, no," said Alistair in immediate reply.
The woman snapped her head to where he stood, glaring daggers at him. "Don't tell me no. This isn't your decision."
The old man's hand graced her elbow. "Child, truly, do you believe it is wise to undertake such a task, after all you have endured these past few weeks?"
"I'm fine," she bit, in a way that much confirmed to everyone that she was not. She shrugged off the hand.
"Bullshit. You're in no state," Alistair argued.
"What would you know about it?"
Chains rattled to the left, and the mage spoke from his corner.
"Solena, please, let me do it. I—"
"No." The word seemed to come from Solena, the shrew, and the Enchanter all at once.
"I have no motive to enter the Fade simply to betray you again! I could die, just the same as you. Only difference is, I'll deserve it," he said, and looked at his feet.
"That may be," said the Enchanter, coldly. "But no one here will allow you anywhere near the Fade, or that boy."
The mage sat back down in his seat, no happier than he had been before.
"The matter still stands," the old man continued. "While I still cannot recommend this course of action, I accept it may be our only option. Very well. You should—"
"I'll do it."
Morrigan had not allowed the words to leave her mouth until then, though she had been stewing them over for quite a while. Letting them go now was an oddly satisfying release.
The room was quiet. She stood.
"I…I apologize, I'm not overly familiar with…what was your name, dear?"
As she considered whether or not to answer him, she found herself looking once more to the corner. And Alistair's eyes upon her.
"Morrigan."
"Morrigan, you are most kind for your offer. Which Circle did you say you hailed from again? Ostwick, was it?"
She did not respond to that. Instead, she and Solena met each other in the middle of the room. It looked as though Solena had lost all of her breath. The woman placed a hand upon her forearm. It was gentle.
"Morrigan, you…you don't understand, I—" She wore confusion on her face, clear as still water.
"I understand well enough." Morrigan spared one more glance to the corner, then back again. "I shall be honest and say that I do not know how you accomplished what you did in that tower, nor why it has you so contemptibly full of yourself of late, but one task is not the other. Any mage could do this; it needs not be you." Morrigan then lowered her voice, so that only she would hear her. "And you know that you have given me more than I could ever hope to repay you for, so let me contribute something, at least."
"You don't have to," she responded in near-whisper.
"I do. Cease the polite formalities and let me do what I have offered before I change my mind."
The woman looked as though she might have more to say. Though, to Morrigan's surprise and relief, she chose not to say it. A moment passed and all she gave was a gentle nod and the subtle flickerings of a smile. Solena turned to Irving.
"I trust her. I vouch for her. She is as fine a mage as I am, and she knows the Fade. And the dangers and tricks of demons."
Behind her, Morrigan heard the old man release a great deal of air through his nose, sounding not unlike a bellows.
"Very well," he agreed—his mild displeasure silently and clearly aired. "Let us begin, with haste."
Suddenly, she felt a tug on her arm. She looked down. The shrew had grabbed her hand in both of hers, almost massaging it with both thumbs. Wetness danced in her big green eyes and she gasped for air as she spoke.
"Please," she said. "You must…please, my son...my son. Please, I beg you, save my son."
Morrigan might have grimaced at the sight, had she her wits about her. But caught off-guard as such, her mouth only hung open, like some dying fish. Upon realizing this, she closed her lips tight and locked her jaw. She did not hiss at the woman. That was the most she could offer her.
She did not remember closing her eyes. But when she opened them, she stood in the Fade.
The screams were everywhere, and painful.
Connor, Father, Connor where are you, I see you witch, witch, witch…
Morrigan did not bend to them, or flinch. Demons preyed on weakness, and she had none of that.
The demon screamed so loud that in the physical world it might have shattered glass.
Instead, here, the scream brought to life a plane of existence before her—all at once, like the lighting of a candle in a pitch-black room.
This realm was Redcliffe Castle, though not. Morrigan stood now in the courtyard. The sky was sick and green, and there were no leaves on the trees there. Instead they were black and burned. The air was still, but cracks of sharp thunder and the rumblings that followed told her a storm brewed in the distance. Surrounding her, crooked grey gables and tall stone towers stretched upwards to the wispy black clouds and cast dark shadows below that twisted and stretched to take the form of monsters.
Sat on a grey stone bench was a tall man, facing away from her towards the tree that grew in the courtyard's center, though it was dead and barren like all the rest. He was dressed in elaborate and exquisite garb—white puffy sleeves and a tunic embroidered with florals both large and delicate, all in a blue that might have been rich and deep—though all colors in this plane appeared dull. He did not stir. He did not even seem to breathe.
Morrigan stepped closer, moving around the bench to peer at his face.
Blond-grey hair was combed neatly backwards from features that were stern and dignified—a strong nose, and a strong jaw, and a strong brow. But the Fade had given him a green pallor that made him look ill.
At first glance she might have elsewise thought him a king. But she knew the Arl of Redcliffe from his portraits, the shreds of which still lay in the castle halls, gathering dust on the floor.
He turned his head to look at her, no great interest in his eyes.
"Have you seen my son?" he asked, sounding far away.
She shook her head.
Something flickered on his face. Some…deep sadness. Then it left.
"Then leave me to the courtyard. The winds are favorable today, and the gardens are in bloom. Off with you, girl."
She granted his request, heading up the stairs and across the terrace made of stones cracked and broken, some of which floated in midair around her and would sometimes crash to the ground and break into tiny pieces. Weeds grew in small forests and twisted vines hung down from the floor above.
A witch in the garden…, the air cried. A witch! A witch!
The vine tendrils stretched and grew and slithered quickly after her. Morrigan ran towards the nearest open door, but even as she sprinted it only seemed to move further from her view. A thorny tendril latched itself painfully onto her ankle and she cried out. Soon all her limbs and chest were wrapped in vines as they pulled her down, down, down beneath the stone and into the ground below.
Then, she was falling—falling forever, it seemed. Until after so long she landed, hard, on a cold stone floor. Nothing was broken or fractured, and she maintained full use of her limbs, though she felt sharp pain everywhere that she was capable of feeling it. She coughed and moaned groggily until she was able to find strength enough to push herself up off the ground and into a kneeling state.
Connor sat upon the edge of the bed, his legs swinging back and forth off the side. It was his room she had found herself in, she decided. The bed was smaller, and there was a large wooden rocking horse by the fire, carved by some expert craftsman and likely given to the boy as a gift by his wealthy parents. Still the Fade, she reminded herself, focusing on the bookshelves along the walls that floated and bobbed in the air.
His neck craned down to look at her, and his eyes studied hers intently. They were green, like his mother's. Or were they black?
"What are you doing here?" he asked, sounding more like a young boy than she had ever heard him sound. But she would not let herself be fooled. She knew plenty enough about shape-changing. It was easier for the demon to play its games here. To hide behind the dream. In the Fade, the demons made their own rules.
"I was looking for you," she told it.
"Oh. Well, here I am."
"Here you are."
They tested one another for quite a while, staring at the other until one broke first. It was not her.
"Time for you to go, I think. You're boring me." The demon yawned.
"I think not. Unhand the boy, and I may let you live."
The demon furrowed its brow in feigned frustration.
"What are you talking about? You're not making any sense. You're an idiot."
"Demon, my patience wears thin. Out there—the boy's mother and uncle and the rest, they are weak, and they are timid, and they may be merciful, but I am not. If you press me further, I shall kill both you and the boy, and be done with it." She stood.
The boy brought his legs up from over the edge of the bed and tucked them to his chest.
"You're evil! You're just an evil witch! Mother would tell me stories about your kind—you live in the swamps and eat little children and dance naked under the moonlight, drenched in the blood of good men!"
Morrigan laughed. "Is that so? If that's what I do to good men, what do you think I'll do to you?" She cocked her head.
For a moment, the demon just stared back at her with a frown. Then, the pain must have started. From its toes, rising, ever so slowly. Its eyes grew wide and terrified. Morrigan was almost to the neck when it shrieked a "Stop!" that sounded not at all like Connor.
She did not stop.
A shriek rang out again, just as painful as the one that had illuminated the castle. The walls and the floor shook, like an earthquake. Dust and debris fell around them.
"STOP IT STOP IT STOP!"
Connor began to bleed from the eyes.
The world went black again.
Connor? Connor, where are you? WITCH! Father! What's happening? WITCH! Father, help me! WITCH!
Smoke formed plumes in the space around her feet. She was in an open, empty field that stretched to the horizon and far beyond. The demon of desire stood before her, in true form.
"Very well," it spoke languidly, its long purple tongue slithering out of its lips and hissing in the wind. "We may speak now, face to face."
"How did you come to possess the Arl's son?" she asked it. "What deal did you make with him?"
The demon mocked sadness. "His poor father was sick. Dying. He prayed in his sleep. Prayed for his father to live. When his god didn't answer him, I did. What his god couldn't provide, I could."
"His father sleeps in an endless coma," Morrigan sneered.
"Alive." The demon smiled. "I stabilized his condition. Assured that the poison that evil mage administered would never kill him. I saved him. He would have soon decayed and wasted away otherwise. The whole family, alive, thanks to me. Father and son, together again, in the Fade. And yet I receive no gratitude." The demon even had the nerve to look offended.
"Yes," Morrigan said. "How very strange indeed."
"There. I have shed my layers. Now you must shed yours."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Why do you do their bidding?" it asked, circling around her. "Why put your life at stake for any them? What have they ever done for you? That blond-headed whore, the pretty idiot and his silly little adoptive family—none of them care a wit about you, do they?"
"The boy means nothing to you. Let me have him. And in return, I will give you power."
Morrigan might have snickered at the attempt. "You are afraid for your life, and so you offer empty—"
"I know what is inside your book," the demon lied.
Though Morrigan's heart beat faster all the same.
"That is what you seek most in this world, is it not? Answers? Your mother's well-kept secrets? I can reveal them to you, if you'd like." The demon shrugged its feminine shoulders, and its fiery pink eyes surged with flame.
"I do not need your—"
"You will never find them otherwise. They will be lost to you forever. Your mother will murder you. She will rip your still-beating heart from your chest and feast upon it whilst you are still alive to watch. And you will die knowing that she won."
Morrigan blinked at the demon. Once, twice. As if giving truth to the demon's words, her heart began to beat so fast it felt as though it were being squeezed and crushed. She could see it. She could feel it. Her mother's victory. Her death. Her complete and utter obsolescence. The endless Void. She gasped in horror. A salty tear fell into her mouth.
The demon's sharp mouth drew to a smiling point.
No, she said. Even this, I am stronger than. She closed her eyes. Morrigan let herself feel the breeze of the Wilds through her hair, and on her skin, and remembered where she was, and where she had been—and where she still would go.
Her yellow eyes opened. Laced with fury, she shot the demon from her at least ten paces, and watched as it landed flat on its back.
In an instant, it was back on its feet, tssk-ing at her.
"Leave," Morrigan demanded once more. "Or I kill you both. I will not say so again."
"Leave?" it asked, batting its long, feathered lashes. "And go where?"
"I do not care."
"With you, perhaps?" the demon ignored her. "Shall I live inside your pretty head instead?"
"Go back from whence you came. And nowhere else."
The demon frowned. "It's awfully dreary in the Fade. And me, alone, with no one there to—" it howled in pain as Morrigan began to rip the demon in two from the inside. pulling at its fibers and tendons and stealing away its life force. It screamed. But Morrigan did not relent.
YOU CAN'T YOU CAN'T YOU CAN'T YOU CAN'T
Blending with the demon's screams, she heard the squeals of Connor as well—long and painful.
The demon's once unblemished purple skin grew grey—drained and decaying as its body started to shrivel, and die. It gasped for breath.
Just before the last bit of color left the demon's face, the Fade went black once more.
When Morrigan opened her eyes, she was back in Redcliffe, staring at the ceiling, and feeling a sharp pain on the back of her skull.
"Do we have a healer—a healer?"
Fingertips graced the spot that pained her, and she smacked them away, raising herself up on an elbow. The large circles of color that clouded her vision became smaller, and she could soon make out details—like the worried crease between Solena's two finely groomed eyebrows. An imperfection, Morrigan thought. How very refreshing.
"You fell back out of your seat and hit your head," she told her.
"Yes, thank you, I quite gathered as much," Morrigan snapped.
"Don't sit up so fast, you may have—"
"A concussion." The old man was kneeling behind her and assessing her injury, without her permission. "Almost certainly. Look at me, dear. Can you focus your eyes on my finger, here?"
He held his pointer finger far too close to her face. She tried to do as he asked, though she wished very much to tell him where he might shove his finger instead.
"A mild concussion, perhaps. Hard to be sure. We shall see how you feel the remainder of the day. Solena, child, could you seek out Wynne for me? She will be better suited to treating our friend than I."
Solena stood and left, without a word. Then, Irving's voice lowered.
"Tell me now, and tell me true. What became of the boy?"
Morrigan could not respond. At first, because she kept forgetting what it was he had asked her. Then, because she realized she did not know the answer. The look he returned her was grave.
"Well?" came the harried voice Morrigan was expecting. "What happened? Wh-what did…what did you do? Is he…i-is he…?"
Irving leveled his gaze and breathed deep. "We do not know, my lady."
"What do you mean you don't know? She was there! What—what did you see? What happened? What has happened to my son?" Her last question came as a sob. Snot pooled around her nose. The Bann steadied her, and tried to hold her close, though she made every effort to pry him off.
Morrigan shook her head at the sight, her eyes grown wide. "I…I don't…I…"
The Arlessa seethed, and spun quickly to the doorway, where the bound mage sat—spine straight and frozen to the spot.
"Lower your ward! Lower it! I want to see my son!"
He gulped and stammered. "My lady, I don't know if that's wise, we can't know for certain—"
"Lower the fucking ward!"
The room erupted in a commotion then. Irving stood and walked to the Arlessa, adding his voice to the rest. Solena had since returned with Wynne following behind, who walked to her at once and began saying things to her in some intolerable cooing voice. Morrigan did not particularly care what they were.
"I think your son is alive," she said to the room, though none heard her. Only Wynne, maybe, and she did nothing but stare back at her, confused.
"I think your son—" the old bitty attempted to shush her for some inane reason. Morrigan decided to just speak louder. "I think your son is alive!"
That, the Arlessa heard. Her eyes met Morrigan's through the shuffle of bodies. Some of the room grew quiet.
"I think you should lower the ward." Morrigan nodded, as though agreeing with herself. She realized then that her throat felt very dry.
Irving furrowed his brow. "Just how…certain of this would you say you are? I should not have to remind you that lives are at stake."
Morrigan hissed. "I have no certainty to offer you. Only what I believe. What I met in the Fade was a demon. It does not deal in certainty."
"But the demon is…gone? No more?" he asked.
"It is either gone, or dead," said Morrigan. "For the boy's sake, we should hope for the former."
The room was entirely still, until Irving gave a single nod to the mage in the corner. With a wave of his hand and a shimmering noise, the magic barring the doorway evaporated. Yet still none moved.
The Bann swallowed. "Isolde, I will go ahead first."
"You will do no such thing. He is my son."
"Please. Follow just behind me if you will. But let me be the first. In case…"
Isolde shook her head a somber no. "He is either dead, or he is alive. Either way, I will know. I will see it with my own eyes. And you are a fool to think you could keep me from that." She walked forward through the door and out of sight. Following a pause, the Bann continued after her in stride.
The old woman helped her to stand, guiding her to a sitting room with a large couch for her to lay upon. Morrigan resented the aid but did not fight her. She left the room and returned some moments later with a small bowl of water and a towel—drenching the towel and wringing it out before laying it on Morrigan's eyes and forehead. The relief then was almost as strong as when she felt gentle healing magic working against the back of her skull. Morrigan must have sighed, or moaned, or something else utterly embarrassing. Though she did not have much time to feel thus ashamed before the old woman had left the room and shut the door.
Years could have passed then. Morrigan did not care. No sooner than she was left alone with the cool towel over her eyes had she fallen into her first dreamless sleep in months. She woke at the sound of the door opening again, and a shuffling to her right that told her a chair had been moved. She thought it might be the old woman once again to check on her, but it was not.
"Here, drink."
She lifted the towel up over her eyes to see a flask offered to her. Alistair looked down at his extended hand expectantly.
She sat up, took it and drank without question, emptying the cannister in long gulps. She was grateful for the water, but would have appreciated a strongwine just the same. When it was all gone, she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and returned the flask.
Her eyes darted between his face and the cracking fireplace he looked into so intently, waiting for him to speak. It was quite a long while before he did.
"He's alive. He's fine."
Morrigan swallowed, then nodded, turning her gaze to her lap.
"Don't take it personally if Isolde doesn't thank you. She's not really the type. Even if she were, she's far too busy with Connor now to pay anyone else any mind."
"I do not need her thanks," Morrigan muttered.
"No, I know you don't."
He said nothing further. When Morrigan risked a glance over, she found his face and mannerisms indecipherable. He could not even really look at her.
She cleared her throat.
He jolted, as if woken from some trance. "I—I'm sorry, I'll let you rest." He stood, returning the chair to where he had moved it from.
"Please. If you wouldn't mind."
He turned, and this time, seemed to almost force himself to look at her. For one moment, then another. Then he nodded, curtly, turned and left.
Morrigan did rest after that, and well. It was late morning when she woke again. White sunlight streamed through the arched window, and the fire had long since died. She turned her head on her pillow to study the ashes for a long while until she smelled the bacon, and her mouth began to salivate. Groggily and rubbing the grain from her eyes, she stood, and left the room towards the main hall.
Looking upon it now, Morrigan wondered if she had in fact been asleep for many days. It was not the same room that she had left. It had been swept, tidied, and far better lit than it had been before. It bustled with servants, milling about, cleaning and serving plates of food.
Many were already awake, it seemed. The Arlessa sat with her son at the far table, a fool smile gracing her face as she ran her fingers through Connor's copper hair and spoke to him in soft tones. The boy saw Morrigan standing in the doorway, and his green eyes regarded her curiously.
That prompted Morrigan to turn away quickly and sit at the other table, across from Alistair and the sister who sat at a measured distance from each other, but seemingly still eating together and conversing occasionally and amiably. Next to them sat the dwarf merchant and his son, also eating away with contented smiles on their faces. Leliana generously spread butter and honey on a biscuit while Alistair tore a piece of bacon with his teeth. He pushed a platter towards Morrigan as she sat. It overflowed with rich red fruits and soft cheeses. A servant brought her a tiny cup—too small even for drinking—that Morrigan looked at confusedly. The woman then produced an egg from her apron, rubbing it clean and placing it in the cup, before setting a small spoon beside it. She then left, saying nothing. Morrigan stared at it harder, as if willing the answer to come to her.
The sister reached over the table, grabbing the spoon and knocking the top of the eggshell off with one deft stroke before sitting back down and turning her attention back to her own plate. Morrigan said nothing, but was silently grateful.
Soon she was handed more food and drink than she knew she could possibly eat, or for that matter, had ever seen in one place in her entire life. Amber ale in a mug larger than her head, biscuits in an unappetizing looking grey sauce that Alistair enthusiastically told her was gravy, black blood-sausage, hotcakes with apples and butter and apple-butter. Morrigan saw Alistair dipping his bacon in the egg-cup, and so she followed suit. Then the servant only brought another egg to replace the last, and Morrigan glared at her irritably. Wynne soon appeared over her right shoulder and gave her hot water in a cup with lemon and honey, and told her to drink. Morrigan thought it unnecessary, but did so anyway.
Morrigan wondered aloud where the servants had all come from, and Alistair answered that the Arlessa had sent them back to the village weeks ago when it was finally deemed safe again and had called them all back in the middle of the night. She then asked after the Qunari, to which Alistair replied with a shrug that he took his meal in the kitchens somewhere, and seemed to have low tolerance for the newly populated castle. Morrigan only wished she had thought of that as well.
"Won't the templars take the boy away, then?" she asked, thinking of Connor's unsettling gaze but not daring to look behind her again.
Alistair chewed and swallowed. "Yes. Keep your voice down, though. Isolde won't hear it. She screamed at Irving all night. I thought she'd woken the whole castle."
Morrigan scoffed. "What did she expect? The mercy they did her was not killing the boy. It's more than I would have gotten."
"She knows he has to leave. I think she's even accepted it. It's his father she's angry about. She wants Connor to be here when he wakes. Irving won't relent, though."
Morrigan bit into a biscuit with cheese. "And the mage? The other one? To be executed, I presume?"
He shook his head, and his voice grew even lower. "No. Irving's denied her that, too. He'll be taken back to the Circle as well. Made tranquil."
Morrigan took note of Alistair's somewhat distracted gaze. She soon found its focus: towards the very end of their table sat Solena, wide awake and fresh-faced, with an attentive Bann Teagan sitting at her side. She had her hair pulled from her face in a loose braid, showing the pink blush of her cheeks at whatever the Bann's sweet words were. Morrigan thought he might start feeding her from his hands, from the way he leered. Clearly Alistair thought the same. He gripped his ale tight as he drank from it.
Soon, after they were all stuffed full and the servants at long last began taking platters away, Solena and the Bann both rose and moved to stand behind Morrigan, to her left.
"Good morrow, friends. You all slept well, I hope," the Bann greeted them.
The dwarf merchant looked up at him with a toothy grin. "Like babes, milord, like babes!"
"Excellent, excellent. When you all are finished with your meals, there is something more I would discuss with you. But I would not do it here, where…certain ears might hear us." His eyes gestured to where Connor sat across the room.
He took them to the Arl's study. The room was small in comparison and they all stood rather close together but it was comfortably far enough removed from the great hall. Teagan stood behind the great wooden desk, with his hands resting on its surface, though he did not sit in the chair.
"My nephew is safe, thanks to you. I have no words with which to thank you all. Nor, I fear, can I offer you what it is you seek. But, I know who can. My brother still sleeps. The demon is gone, and its hold on this village thus lifted, but along with it, the protection it granted Eamon."
"What do you mean?" Alistair asked anxiously.
"Our healer who sits by his bedside called for me in the night. His condition is no longer stable, yet the poison still holds him in its unrelenting grasp. First Enchanter Irving has offered some of his mages with knowledge of healing magic to remain here and help keep my brother alive, but he is worsening. That much, they tell me, is now unpreventable. I have not told Isolde the truth of this yet. It is the last thing she needs to hear now."
"What can we do?" Solena asked.
The Bann hesitated. "You…you may think me a fool. Truly, I think myself one. But when I say I have reached the very end of my rope…" he closed his eyes. "Isolde believed…believes, that the cure to my brother's ailment may be found in more…unconventional methods. Religious ones. I speak of the Urn."
Morrigan shook her head. She had a keen urge now to seek the solace that the Qunari had found, rather than hear one word more. Even Solena looked desperately uncertain as she looked between Alistair and the Bann.
"Forgive me, I just…" Solena began. "Truly, is there nothing else?"
The Bann raised his head. Then shook it back and forth, grimly.
"We'll do it," said Alistair after a resolute pause. "We'll find the Urn, if that's what it'll take."
Morrigan scoffed and walked to the corner of the room. She was ignored, it seemed.
Admittedly, she knew little of religion, to her great fortune. But she knew of Andraste's sacred ashes, oh yes. She remembered the parade that day—the one where she had been gifted her mirror. A merchant peddling what he claimed was the cure to all ailments: the ashen remains of Holy Andraste, rediscovered by man and now sold by the pouch for ten sovereigns each. Even as a girl, she knew a con when she heard one.
The Bann shut his eyes. "You grant me more hope than I could ever have expected. Thank you. Isolde has sent knights to Denerim, seeking out the aid of one Brother Genitivi, who keeps a home there. That may be a wise place to begin your search."
"I'm familiar with his work," said Solena, bright-eyed. "He's a great scholar."
Morrigan doubted that.
"Such may be," said Alistair, "but we'll never make it into the city. Loghain's placed a bounty on Warden heads. Even if we make it through the front gates, we'll be in the belly of the beast. Surrounded by Loghain's men."
"I can get us into the city," spoke Leliana. "No need to concern yourself with that. As for remaining safe once we're through the gates, well. We'll simply need to keep our heads down."
That seemed to be the end of that discussion.
"Unfortunately, he is the only lead I can offer you," said Teagan. "He has studied the Urn of Sacred Ashes and its possible whereabouts for years. But the trail has since gone cold. We have received no ravens from our knights abroad, nor anywhere else, as you well know. We cannot know if this is Loghain's interception, or…something else. If you can find out what has become of our men, I would be most grateful."
Many thank you-s and gratitude-s were thrown about then, and once Morrigan had heard so many polite formalities that she thought she was like vomit, she left the room. To Denerim, then, was their next destination. Morrigan thought they'd have a better time stopping the Blight if they all threw themselves from the top of Redcliffe Castle, but she was not asked her opinion.
The mages and their templar guardsmen left before they did. Jowan, clapped in irons, and Connor quite nearly pulled from his weeping mother's arms. Solena stood next to her on the ramparts and watched them leave, her face a blank gaze. Morrigan passing wondered how she felt about her friend's impending fate, but dared not ask. Based on the horrid man they had met in the tower, execution would have been kinder. The First Enchanter, before seating himself upon his horse, threw his former charge a warm smile and a wave, but it was not returned to him. At that, Solena turned on her heel and retreated back inside the castle. Morrigan followed soon after.
They packed their things and the food they could carry on their horses and left the following day, horses' hooves trotting loudly over the drawbridge as the castle faded into the deep morning fog behind them.
A/N:
I am rachelamberish on tumblr.
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Comments and questions always welcome. Thanks for reading. :)