Author's Note: Interesting range of reactions! Some of you want to kick Talia's butt, some of you think Leliana's overreacting. And not a lot of sympathy for Morrigan. Being the 'eye in the sky', I've got sympathy all the way around. Thanks to all of you who shared your thoughts and reactions: TheWickedTruth89, Sulrn, Drummerchick7, BrokenMimir, AD Lewis, EliteSky, jnybot & KalenCaelli

This chapter was originally part of 'Stolen Moments', but I decided to move it here. The first part occurs in Morrigan's childhood; the second after chapter 40, and the third takes place shortly after the end of the last chapter.


"Hurry up, child."

"Yes, Mother," Morrigan replied. Flemeth's voice held no impatience, but the girl knew that there would be no further reminders or admonitions if she dawdled. Merely punishment. She crouched in the tub: oiled hides stretched over a wooden frame, holding a scant few inches of water, set before the fire to warm briefly before it was used.

'Warm' was a relative term; the water was warmer than the winter-chilled pools that dotted the Wilds outside the tiny hut that she shared with her mother, but not by much, she was certain. She made no protest, however; the one time that she had remarked on how cold the water was, she had found herself abruptly sitting in water crusted with a thin layer of ice that she had to break up to finish her bath. That, Flemeth had told her, was what cold truly was.

She washed quickly, using a misshapen lump of homemade soap that smelled foul and a scrap of rough burlap, scrubbing until her skin was reddened. Teeth chattering, she ducked her head, scooping water in her hands to wet her hair and lathered the soap through it, then rinsed hair and skin. If the job was done to Flemeth's satisfaction, she would not have to repeat the activity for a day or two; if not, she would stay in the water until her mother deemed her clean enough.

Brushing wet hair away from her eyes, she cast a wary look at Flemeth, waiting for the curt nod of approval before climbing out of the tub and taking up the thin towel. She rubbed it hurriedly over her body and pulled on the oversized tunic that served as her nightshirt, trying not to think of how long it would be until spring melted the ice outside and warmed the water in the pools enough that she could bathe in them and lay in the sun to dry.

She averted her eyes as her mother stepped up to the tub and hung her robes beside the fireplace. She crawled into her bed, hearing the familiar cadences of magic rising and falling in a murmur as Flemeth cleared the water and warmed it, the soft splash as she settled in the tub. That it might be unfair had not occurred to Morrigan; it was simply the way things were. Her mother's voice floated to her, calm and sure, reminding her, as she did at every bath.

"No coddling, daughter. You shall have a warm bath when you are able to heat it yourself."


Morrigan stalked into her room, wishing that the damnably heavy doors of Orzammar were more slammable. Bad enough that the entire city was a mass of stone, hemming her in from all sides. Bad enough that she had dwarves leering drunkenly at her from beneath bristling brows and bushy beards. No, now she had to be subjected to the condescension of that shriveled old biddy.

The nerve of her, suggesting that Morrigan knew nothing about bathing! As though choosing not to coddle herself with such foolishness made her some kind of savage! She stepped to the side of the sunken stone tub, glaring into it. Even after she had learned how to heat water, defiance had made her refuse, continuing to bathe in tepid water under her mother's amused gaze.

She chewed at her lower lip, wondering which was more insufferable: Flemeth's smug indifference or Wynne's pretense of kindness. And the Chantry wench's fatuous rhapsodizing, as though a simple bath was the height of luxury! Ridiculous, really.

A flash of defiance not unlike that of her childhood made her reach out and open the spigot, sending steaming water cascading into the tub. She tested it with her hand, adjusting until it was almost too hot to bear, then spun away, stripping out of her clothes and draping them over a carved stone chair in the corner. She checked the door, making certain that the lock had engaged, before returning to the half full tub and picking up the first of the polished stone jars that sat on a low shelf beside it. Lifting the lid, she sniffed the contents and made a disgusted face: the sickly sweet perfume was almost overwhelming. Leliana would undoubtedly find such a scent appealing, but Morrigan replaced the lid and set it aside disdainfully. The second was not much better, but the third...the subtle blend of spice and floral essences was rather pleasant, so she tipped the jar, pouring a healthy volume into the water and watching as the salts swirled and dissolved. Instantly, the rising steam was infused with a heady scent that called to mind brightly colored exotic flowers blooming in a dense green jungle, far away from men and their confining walls of stone and wood.

She stepped into the tub, hissing at the heat, but forcing herself to accept it. She settled in, waiting until the water had risen almost to her chin before shutting it off. Tipping her head back against the rim of the tub, she let her eyes slip closed. It really was quite pleasant, she realized: the heat of the water easing the aches of muscles, soothing them to relax, while the scent of the bath salts drew her mind away from this infernal place of looming stone, leering dwarves and meddling crones...

She sat up with a little start, realizing that she had drifted off. The water, while not tepid, had cooled considerably, and her fingertips were quite wrinkled, as they had been when she had been a child and Flemeth had to order her out of the pools where she spent her summer days paddling happily, shifting between fish, duck and otter, as the mood took her.

Taking up the sponge and the soap (which was, she noted approvingly, pleasantly scented as well), she washed herself quickly and rinsed, pulled the plug from the drain and stood, reaching for one of the towels that hung beside the tub. It was thick and soft, drawing the water away from her skin, but she found that the scent of the bath salts still clung to her.

Not a bad thing, she decided as she slipped between the sheets on the bed, her mind already sliding back towards slumber, but she had no intention of mentioning it to either Wynne or Leliana.


The door to her room was locked, the only light from the dancing flames in the fireplace. The tub had been imported from Orlais: narrow, but deep, designed to encourage luxurious soaks. Isolde's tastes being so typically Orlesian, the selection of bath salts and oils ranged from delicately floral to hideously perfumed, but Morrigan had managed to titrate a scent that was tolerable. The servant who had filled the tub had been sent scurrying with a single glare after she had asked timidly if the lady might not want her to add a few buckets of hot water. Only after she had gone had Morrigan cast the same spell that Flemeth had used so many years ago, watching as steam slowly began to rise from the surface of the water.

Despite the heat, her tightly coiled muscles refused to relax. He had been in the hallway earlier, pounding on the door, bellowing at her through the wood. She had said nothing, remaining in the tub, and eventually he had left. There was nothing to be said, after all. Talia was gone by her own choice. Morrigan had done nothing to force the issue, had in fact said nothing of the matter since their conversation in Denerim, and even if she had, she would never have encouraged the fool to attempt to slay Flemeth with only the aid of a handful of superstitious Wilders who would likely flee at the first use of a flame spell.

Fear clawed at her, almost as unwelcome as the grief, and she clung to her anger as an alternative to either. How could Talia have been so headstrong and foolish? Flemeth would scatter the Chasind, kill the Warden, and then turn her attention to her wayward daughter, alone now as she had never been before; none of the others would lift a finger to aid her when the Witch of the Wilds came to collect her new vessel.

She would likely wait, however, giving Morrigan ample time to stew in the consequences of her failure. With Talia dead, he would never trust her in even the smallest matter, let alone in dealing with the archdemon. He would never agree to the ritual, which meant that even if he did manage to slay the creature, he would die, as well. She could try to tell him this, of course, but even if he did believe her, she thought it likely that he would die before he accepted her aid, and if she told him what the ritual required...

She pressed herself deeper into the tub, muttering the words of the spell again, feeling the water heating around her, cocooning her in warmth: a thing that a more foolish, sentimental mind might imagine to be a comforting embrace, or perhaps the safety of the maternal womb. Morrigan was neither sentimental nor foolish, so she simply continued the spell until the water grew so hot as to be just shy of unbearable, and she could tell herself that the salt that she tasted on her lips was simply sweat.


Little bit of sympathy for Morrigan now? Or at least, empathy?