A part of me had hoped she would snap out of it once back at camp when she had a moment to absorb what had happened, but she remained suspended in an uneasy quiet that I knew not to be normal. I was not one to pry - truthfully, I hated it whenever Alistair or Wynne insisted on prodding me endlessly like children poking a dead thing with a stick. This was not one of those instances, though. Something had disturbed her.
Alistair caught my expectant glance, and jerked away as if I'd infected him with the Blight.
"What?" he demanded in a too-defensive voice. Honestly, the man was an idiot sometimes. I sighed.
"Do you not see a problem?" I expressed quite irritably while gesturing a flat hand towards the camp. He followed my gesture, dumbly, to where Isthalla crouched by a fire far-off alone on the edge of camp, her knees pulled up to her chest. He tilted his head in fascination to this spectacle, then turned back to me.
"So she's sitting by a fire..?" he said to me as if I were stupid. A quick smack to his arm and he corrected himself after a yelp of pain.
"OW! Well that was unnecessary-" he paused, absorbed my glowering expression, then made a small noise in his throat. He shrugged. "So she's gone and had a little witchy fit, what do you want me to do?"
Another threat of my extended hand and he cringed, holding up his hands in surrender.
"All right, fine," he pouted. "But don't be surprised if she sends me off with lightning biting my heels!"
I watched the oaf blunder straight over to Isthalla, tactlessly, and attempt to sit down. A jerk of her head told me he would not be granted that pleasure as he raised his hands in familiar surrender and involuntarily opted to stand. The rest was simply an interesting transpire of Alistair shifting from one foot to the other, gesturing with his hand, and then somehow managing to rupture Isthalla from her cocoon and into a fit of slurred screams.
A few moments later the idiot was sprinting back in my direction, narrowly dodging a fire spell after his feet. I waited for him to catch his breath and spout his needless discrepancies and complaints over the matter, then when he finally calmed down enough to talk again - stood up and crossed his arms.
"Enlighten me how that was supposed to work, Morrigan?" he spat rather haughtily in my direction. I crossed my arms in combat and raised my brow, snorting.
"I never said your blundering, oafish approach would manage to work," I corrected with a slight laugh.
"Then why did I just do that?!" he demanded, his voice pitching even higher. Honestly, the man squalled like a female when he was even slightly upset. I had to withhold a grin.
"Well I certainly wasn't going to be the one to have a fire spell blasted up my skirt," I shrugged nonchalantly. This produced a bit of dumbfoundment from Alistair, then incredulity when he realized what he'd done - or failed to do, rather.
"OH- Well that's just-…." he paused, shaking his fists in an attempt to conjure the right insult. "T-That's just mean!" he settled on with a sad puppy-frown. I grinned.
"'Tis not my fault you carry the emotional capacity of a teaspoon, Alistair," I commented with a wave of my hand. This managed to get under his skin. He stood there, dumb and mouth hanging open, before finally making a mutter of frustration and stalking off.
He managed to make a stumble towards the forest before awkwardly turning around and stalking right past me again.
"I am going to my tent," he announced rather importantly before dramatically jerking his tent-flap open and pulling it shut behind him.
"Oh you poor baby," I pouted after him, curt smile on my lips. He yelled a rather high-pitched shut up at me through his tent, though the words were muffled as I turned my attention back to Isthalla. She had since resumed her position curled within her knees, eyes distinctly focused on the fire. I took a deep breath in to prepare myself, and strolled over.
"You can tell Alistair if he comes within five feet of me again, I won't miss a second time," she growled. I perked.
"I'll be sure to make note of it."
A quick glance told me she would grant me more tolerance than my oafish predecessor, and took a quiet seat on the log behind her. She'd opted to sit on the ground since Alistair's shrieking departure, and stayed there, arms locked tightly around her legs.
Silence stretched between us for a long moment, partially from my lack of knowledge on how to approach these things, and largely from her lack of wanting to speak to anyone. I had even witnessed Sten, to my surprise, make a small attempt at speaking with her. Though he only exchanged what looked like a few words, and she in return, before nodding and walking off. Clearly he wasn't a creature for interrogations. A thankful trait.
"About the tower today-" I started.
"I don't want to talk about it," she cut in. Now it was my turn to get exasperated. I sighed loud enough for her to hear - in which she shot me a vicious glare - and rolled my eyes.
"Truly, it will do you no good to bottle it all up until you decide to do something stupid or reckless like throwing yourself into a pit of darkspawn!" I chided her rather wearily. Rather than come to a conclusion of enlightenment, she burst into a startling uproar of laughter.
"That'd actually be fantastic right now," she barked after a pause. I blinked in my surprise, then slowly sunk into my shoulders with a small snort.
"Found that funny, did you?" She nodded, offering me a tired smile and red eyes. My gaze traveled to the half-empty bottle in her hand, and it was only then I became aware of the smell of alcohol that soured the air.
"Ah, I see you have already found your good friends," I nodded in mild amusement. She leaned back a bit too far, then swayed rather lazily the other way, the bottle clutched in her hand.
"A bitter friend," she corrected. I nodded, not looking to dispute the reasoning of a drunken and temperamental witch.
"You wouldn't have a tale to tell your friend, would you?" I eased back into the conversation, hoping to find an open door. Her expression faded to that of darkness. She frowned deeply, her mouth pulling taut of bitter memory.
"Nothing you don't already know, Morrigan," she murmured. With a tilt of her head, she downed the rest of the bottle with a gasp, throwing it across the fire into the shallow darkness. Concern flitted across my face.
"I see.."
More silence, filled with weight and anger that suffocated the air around her. It stretched on long enough that I began to feel uncomfortable, and was considering the idea of simply leaving her to her own devices when she abruptly spoke up.
"You know, I was told very often how smart and bright of a student I was-" she said in a peculiarly animated voice, her finger pointedly tapping the air for emphasis. She squinted her eyes after this, trying to remember the rest of her thought. Her finger tapped the air, trying to find the end of the statement. "Irving himself was my teacher - said I could be handled by none less!" She roared back with a guffaw at this statement, snorting a laugh. I still had not understood the importance.
"Handle!" she repeated with a shriek, her expression turning from amusement to slight disdain. "As if I am some animal to be trained!" she hollered. Now anger crept into her voice, and an all-familiar pressure built around her body, calling forth the Veil. I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flipped around, eyes wild.
"Isthalla-" I spoke gently but assuredly, and after another brief gaze of mistrust she relaxed. I frowned. "I am certain the First Enchanter did not see it that way," I tried to ease her conscious. I almost hoped she was leaning towards sanity for a moment, but instead of relief, her expression filled with more determined confusion.
"No," she grunted, pulling her arm away from me to cocoon herself alone by the fire, back turned. Her arms hung limply over her knees, and her body swayed in the slightest. How much did it take to get an elf drunk, I wondered? Fleeting concern rippled through my mind as I watched her sink into her skin, staring deeply into the bowels of the fire embers. "No," she repeated again, this time much quieter. "Irving was a good man."
Something I had never heard spoken from Isthalla Surana was a compliment. There was such a tone of respect in her voice, I felt unearthed by it - expected an equalizing bout of fury quickly to follow such a statement. However, when none came, I was surprised to find that tears had found their way back into her eyes. She curled her head further into her knees.
"He put more faith in me than I could say for anyone else…"
Her voice steadily grew quieter and more sincere, a tone of honesty I was hardly used to. Though the sting of the alcohol was sharp and permeated the air, I sensed her words were genuine. She respected that man greatly.
"It was my arrogance that stole his trust," she mumbled, her voice now returning to the bitter remnants it was before. "I thought I was untouchable, and I suffered greatly for it…" she whispered, her eyes falling lower, "as did those around me."
And now I knew who she was talking about. I quietly cleared my throat and sat forward, careful to watch her posture this time as I touched her shoulder. She winced, but did not narrow her eyes at me. I pressed my mouth together and leaned back in hopes I could say the right thing.
"He was a very dear friend to you, wasn't he?" I asked. After a pause of consideration, she slowly nodded. Her eyes darted shamefully back to the dirt again. If I didn't know any better, it would seem she was embarrassed by the admittance. She said nothing, so I tried to speak in her stead.
"Though I would not exactly say a templar is the best choice of company for our kind-" I started in lightly, then paused when I saw the slightly pained expression in her face. I faltered.
"He cared for you, that much I could see," I finished weakly, knitting my brow together. I hadn't lied. Truly, despite the anger that bloomed between them in that terrible place when they reunited, he would not have bothered asking his chosen god to watch over her if he did not care. It seemed an important kindness from one such as templar, if not something more I dared to think. She seemed unconvinced by my revelation, though stirred by it.
"I never told you what I did to him," she whispered. I blinked and wondered if she had confused her memory.
"You told me of the details of dreams you had experienced, and his unfortunate involvement in such events," I recounted with a wind of my finger. "And also the instance across your tower grounds that had you-" I paused, not wanting to upset her with certain words.
"…monitored for the remainder of time you were there," I finished, uncertain. Unease settled in my stomach as I recalled in the return to the tower how she had admitted a very vital and dangerous truth she had hidden regarding her eviction. The spirits.
"No, Morrigan," her voice was dry and brittle now, and I feared she would fall into another bout of tears. She did not. She swallowed her throat painfully and uncurled her knees to spread out flat on the dirt, palms pressed against the earth. "How I managed to release myself and the others from the dreamscape of the demon."
"You never did explain that…" I noted a bit curiously. She looked uncomfortable, and made a point to start shifting continuously in her seat, before finally relinquishing the ground and heaving herself up to sit beside me on the log with an uncertain frown.
"The spirit that followed and spoke to me," she said, "was the same, I believe, that attacked Alistair." A knot now formed in my throat, and my skin prickled.
"What?" I asked in horror. She did not offer me a glance, though I felt abused by her privilege. Angry, even. I clenched my jaw, holding back my resentment with her behavior, and waited for her to continue.
"She appeared to me in the demon's dreamscape as well," she said pointedly. I could not hold back my bursting frustration.
"And how did you know she, too, was not a demon?!" I barked incredulously, furious with her for being so naïve at such a dangerous moment.
Isthalla, how could you be so foolish?
Though my swelling emotions wished to say it, I kept the outburst to myself by pressing taut lips tightly together and clenching my jaw. I would not treat her stupidly, not as I did Alistair or some others. She was certainly not stupid. Perhaps it was my reason for such anger; she was not herself.
"I-I don't," she answered honestly, though timidly. Again, my trust was faltering. Frustration gave way to concern as I let out a weak sigh and folded my hands over my lap.
I glanced sidelong at my troubled companion, and found weakness in her eyes. Doubt and guilt traced her frown. She was sick with worry.
For a templar, no less..
I sighed and decided to push my judgment aside, and instead console the wounded creature beside me. She had done far more for me on late, sleepless nights in camp when I had consoled her about my mother. Grudgingly, I had owed her that respect at first - for deeming me useful enough to bring along.
I hadn't liked her. I had despised her for being the conspirator in Mother's plans. Now, I found that I pitied the proud creature Alistair had decidedly adopted as the leader of this strange group. Though broken, she had spirit in her. She was not the mindless sheep I had expected to be a tower-bred brat, unknowing and unwilling to immerse into the world. She was fearless and, yes, reckless. Though myself as did many of the others believed this to be a trait of power, rather than a weakness. She led with a brazen fire unmatched by her peers, and it was in that trait I realized the potential both First Enchanter Irving and Mother must have seen, and possibly the man named Duncan that Alistair spoke so often of.
She was a woman of a like mind, and of intelligence. She had proven that enough to me. In my revelation and release of begrudging loyalty, I had found a friend. Though brief the memory would be, I sought comfort in the presence of a mage much like myself. She didn't seem to mind the company either, social creature that she was.
Presently, she was as a wounded bird looking to fix a broken wing. One cannot repair a wound without bandaging. I contemplated long and hard on a reason and way to heal such a wound, and finally came up with a brilliant answer as I watched Wynne pass across camp, carrying some of the dressing gowns the tower had sent with her. Since the tower's attack either leaving most dead or sent away to other towers during repair, they no longer needed the robes.
"Well, I for one am certainly tired of all this moping about," I struck up in a bright, interested tone. Isthalla, who had somehow assumed me invisible, nearly jumped out of her skin and turned to look at me with wide, bewildered eyes. I grinned, slipping my hand around her arm. "You know what I think?" I asked, standing to my feet and dragging her with me. She blinked, still startled, and shook her head.
"I believe it is in our best interest to make that oaf templar regret his every word," I said charmingly. A look of pure fear flitted across her features.
"Morrigan, I don't want to hurt h-" she started, and I quickly found her misplaced fear and cut her off with a blink of surprise.
"Oh, of course not that," I chided needlessly while dragging her towards my tent. She tried batting my hand away fruitlessly for a moment before finally relenting and stumbling after me towards our tent encampment on the edge of the woods. Though at the entrance she stopped and dug in her heels, looking slightly alarmed.
"What exactly do you have in mind?" she asked, the sharpness returning to her mind. She recovered quickly. I flashed her a brief but meaningful smile before rummaging around in the crate that Wynne had placed outside our camp, and pulled out a slightly dusty robe outfitted in exotic furs and a draping neckline. Isthalla blinked and stared at the thing like a dead animal, completely perplexed.
"Like I said," I continued, ushering her into the open two-sided tent to pull up a crude wooden stool for her to sit on, "we are going to make him regret every word."
I think the realization finally hit her as I laid out the robes on my cot and began to dig through a satchel for my tools. She began to fidget nervously with her hair, before jumping when I snapped the utensils together and stood to my feet. Her eyes went wide.
"I've never cut my hair," she said with clear unease. I laughed, stepping up to her side and briefly sweeping my dark hair into a bun to stay out of my eyes.
"Oh hush, you look like a frightened child at the sight of these things," I snorted, chopping the scissors in the air in front of her. She was unsettled by the things, but said nothing more, and simply relented and shut her eyes.
"J-Just… easy," she asked as the last word, then finally relented to what Alistair later deemed as a "Witchy Makeover" the next day. How childish.