Chantal had never seen Morrigan so distressed. The woman had the grimoire, the one they'd found, in the circle tower. It appeared she'd finally had time to read it all, but whatever she found hadn't been the knowledge she'd been seeking. Instead, Morrigan appeared more pale than usual, her eyes darting to the darkness around them. She'd retreated, as she often did, to her own fire. Some nights, Chantal could coax her to join them.
She didn't think she'd be able to this night.
Chantal watched Morrigan tug her necklace anxiously while she glared into the fire. Chantal steadied her own nerves. Wynne had told them to chuck the book of black magic into the lake, and she certainly didn't want to run back to the woman and say she'd been right.
"You asked me once if I had sisters." Morrigan blurted suddenly, turning her uncanny gold eyes to Chantal. Perhaps it was the flickering flames of the fire, but there seemed to be a certain madness in them. "There have long been legends of the witch of the wilds and her many daughters, after all."
"Yes." Chantal agreed cautiously, very pointedly not looking at the book that Morrigan's eyes darted back to. "You said if you had sisters, you didn't know any of them."
"No." Morrigan snapped, lifting one hand to impatiently brush her dark hair from her brow. "No I would not."
Chantal drew her knees up to her chin and waited. Morrigan flicked those burning eyes back to her and Chantal saw the way her shoulders drooped, defeated. Helpless. Vulnerable. That, perhaps, was the most frightening of all these things. Morrigan looked like a little girl lost when she finally crouched down on the grass beside Chantal. With a whine, Trout lifted his head from where it lay beside Chantal's feet and flopped his massive skull onto Morrigan's thigh. She did not push him off, but merely curled her fingers through the fur around his neck.
"My mother prolongs her life using ancient magics." Morrigan whispered, staring into the fire. "When her body grows too old, she simply transfers her essence into another."
Cold sweat broke out on the back of Chantal's neck and she couldn't help the horrified whisper that escaped her numb lips. "Her daughters?"
"Yes." Morrigan admitted, tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. "I have had many sisters. And she has killed them all."
She didn't know what to do. If Leliana had confessed a secret like this, Chantal would not think twice to throw her arms around the other woman. Morrigan could very well take offense to the gesture. As a compromise, Chantal scooted closer in the dust, leaning over Trout to place her cheek against Morrigan's cool shoulder.
"What are you doing?" The witch snapped, although she did not move away. Chantal stayed put resolutely, feigning the same nonchalance she watched Zevran use so effectively over and over again.
"I'm comforting you." Chantal didn't meet Morrigan's eyes, let her gaze pierce the fire as well. "Let me know if it works."
"I do not need comforted!" Morrigan seethed, although she did not pull away. "I need to… I need…"
She trailed off, staring hopelessly into the fire. Chantal slowly reached for Morrigan's hand, folding her staff calloused fingers over hers.
"Anything." Chantal promised easily. "Anything you need."
xx
"I'm sorry - we're doing what?"
Alistair looked at her like she'd grown another head. Chantal paused in the act of buckling her belt around her tunic to shoot him an annoyed glance. "We're not doing anything. You're staying put."
"Oh, good, I was wondering how long it would take for you to crack under the stress." Alistair rubbed his face with his hand briskly. She ignored him and bent to pick up Zevran's dagger, sliding it pointedly into her boot. Alistair continued to babble. "It doesn't, I don't know, seem like a bad idea for you to go back through Ostagar? Which is the opposite direction of where we need to go, by the way. Then, when you get there, you're going to slip right through all the darkspawn and into the wilds to slay a homicidal swamp witch?"
"You're saying this like we haven't done crazier things." Chantal declared waspishly. "Remember the possessed cat in Honnnleath? The dragon and cultists in Haven?"
"We did them!" Alistair pointed out. "Chantal you can't… this is crazy. If we're going, we should take the calvary, right?"
"We can't." Chantal grabbed her staff with one hand and placed the other on her hip, staring up at Alistair. "Somebody has got to end the blight, Ali. If I don't come back, it's up to you."
"That's another problem with your plan." Alistair insisted. "Chantal I can't…"
"You can!" She fought the urge to reach out and shake him. "Ali, you have to. I know, I know it's scary and I know you didn't sign up to rule a bleeding country or tromp across every mucky acre of Ferelden. I know you didn't want to be one half of the only people trying to save our home, but…"
"You didn't either." Alistair's shoulders dropped and he sighed.
She was eighteen. Barely eighteen. She smiled bravely up at Ali and patted his cheek fondly. "I'll be back, you know."
"Right." Alistair huffed out his breath and looked around the camp. "So I'll stay here and wait. Are we certain this isn't just Morrigan's attempt to kill me when you're not around?"
"Do you really not trust her?" Chantal asked, tipping her head to one side. "After everything we've done together?"
Alistair hesitated and she saw him look over his shoulder at the black clad figure huddled, solitary and quiet. He frowned and remained stubbornly, unusually quiet. Chantal reached out with her free hand and laid her fingers over his elbow, bringing his warm eyes back to hers.
"She's my family." Chantal felt the truth in that statement like none other she'd ever made.
"And so are you. Wynne, Sten, Shale, Oghren, Leliana and… and Zev." her throat caught on his name, she half choked on it. "Even Bodahn and Sandal. All of you."
All of them, but especially Zevran.
"Some family." Alistair muttered sarcastically.
"Better than the one Morrigan came from." Chantal squeezed his elbow and resolutely continued to look up at him. "Better than not having one at all, like we used to. Families are more than just blood, Ali."
"Come back, then." Alistair grinned sadly. "Because I'm not certain we'd be a family without you."
xx
She knew he'd be mad, but she didn't expect his jaw to tremble with suppressed emotion as he stood in front of her. He'd already packed, assuming he'd be accompanying her back to Ostagar, back to the wilds, into battle with a dangerous foe.
And, really, why wouldn't he assume he was going? He always accompanied her, she couldn't bear to leave him behind if they split up. She had told herself, at first, it was best to keep an eye on him. She couldn't chance leaving him to his own devices, after all, and risk him coming up with a new assasination attempt.
She couldn't quite remember when it had shifted from watching him, to enjoying the way he watched her, to desiring his company. Maybe it had been slow, maybe it had been all at once. She didn't know. It didn't matter.
She had solid, strategic reasons for leaving him behind. She needed ranged fighters, she needed solid, heavy armor, she needed healing. Zevran didn't fit any of those needs.
But her biggest need, one she couldn't quite admit to herself, was to keep him safe. This was dangerous and she knew it was before she walked into it, a novel experience from walking in blind, not knowing what to expect. This time, she knew, this time…
This time she knew she could keep him safe.
"Perhaps you should leave Leliana." Zevran's eyes flashed when he spoke. "If you have need for one rogue, then you should take the handsome one."
"Leli can shoot a bow."
"As can I." Zevran maintained stubbornly. Chantal couldn't help one eyebrow from rising in disbelief.
"Oh, is that true?" She asked with a wry smirk, momentarily distracted from the gravity of the situation. "Like the lock-picking skills you bragged about?"
Zevran didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. He grinned, the expression sunny but strained. "Guilty, true, but I still should accompany you. Take us both."
His daggers against magic. Ancient, powerful, dark magic. She couldn't do it, she couldn't bear it. She shook her head silently and Zevran's eyes darkened. Still, he stepped backwards, his head ducking into a dramatic bow. "As you wish, Warden."
Warden. Just warden. Not little witch, not belleza. Not mi amor, whatever that was. He turned on his heel, quick and graceful as only he could be, and she couldn't bear to let him go either.
"Wait, Zev!" She cried out, stepping forward quickly. She caught his arm and tugged him back to her, falling into his chest and seeking out his lips with hers. They crashed together, thunder and lightning, his tongue ruthless as the fingers digging her chainmail into her skin. She didn't want to let him go, she didn't ever want to let him go. Not after the blight, not even when she died.
Maker help her.
xx
Wynne could not help but observe their parting, the way they clung to each other like vines. The force it took to pry them apart, the sheer will it took for Chantal to let go, to turn her back on the Elven assassin…
If Wynne could bottle it like a potion, she'd wallow in riches the rest of her life. It was difficult to reconcile the woman striding towards them, pulling on her leather gloves impatiently, with the girl perched in the window of the tower.
She'd grown so strong, grown so impossibly lovely and kind. Wynne couldn't be more proud of her, not if she slayed the archdemon singlehandedly. And that thought, as it always did, caused Wynne to send a silent prayer to the Maker, thanking him for giving her this chance to see her through. To see her live. To see her thrive, see her overcome, see her…
See her fall in love.
She wondered if they knew. She feared them never realizing, but she feared too the day they did.
"We are ready." Leliana smiled in the heavy silence, shrugging it off as quickly as she could. "He will not even have time to miss you! Come now, don't be so glum."
"We are, after all, on a cheery mission to slay the swamp witch's mother." Shale's voice rumbled. "That seems as good a cause for celebration as any."
"Are you ready Wynne?" Chantal asked quietly, calmly. Her dark eyes shone steady, but there was a gleam on them that touched Wynne's heart. Reminded her of a child with plaited hair resolutely trying not to cry about the skinned knee Wynne peered at.
"Are you well, child?" She asked gently, reaching out to straighten one of her braids. Chantal frowned, her face tight with worry and strain.
She was so young. So very young to carry the world around with her. "What do you mean?" Chantal asked cautiously.
"It did not look easy to say goodbye." Wynne said it, and instantly wished she had not. Chantal's color rose immediately, a red flush over her pale skin. She thrust her chin out stubbornly and tipped her head back.
"I know!" Chantal snapped, stepping away from Wynne's side. "I know! You think it's stupid, and careless…"
"Yes," Wynne broke in. This was, certainly, stupid and careless. "But…"
Love was reckless. Love was madness. Love was impossible. She loved him. Wonder of wonders, he loved her too. But then again, how could anyone not love her?
"I don't want to listen to it anymore!" Chantal exploded, her glare icy and furious. "I am not a child and he is…"
Chantal trailed off, unable to find a word for what Zevran was to her. Leliana, smoothly, slipped her arm through Chantal's. Wynne did not miss the other woman's exasperated, smug expression that plainly said Wynne was an old fool and she should sit things out while the expert handled it.
As if Wynne had not once been young and foolish herself.
"Walk with me." Leliana cajoled. "I have thought of a new story I never told you! Do you know of the dashing rogue known as the Black Fox?"
Wynne did not hear Chantal's muted response. She sighed and pinched her nose, tamping down her own flare of irritation. It was not Chantal's fault for assuming, after all, Wynne had hardly been accepting. She heard barking over her shoulder and turned, watching Zevran forlornly scratch at Trout's ear.
She felt a flash of irritation at the daft man. How was it that throughout time, men remained stubbornly impervious to common sense? How fair was it for Chantal to march away, without even a name to give to the nebulous feelings between them?
"Is the elder mage accompanying us or is it content to wither away here?" Shale asked dryly. Wynne fought the urge to curse.
"Why must you always be so perverse?" She asked, fussing with her sleeves as she began to follow the young women.
"Why must the elder mage stick its nose into the business of the grey warden?"
Wynne smiled softly, watching as Chantal's dark head leaned close to Leliana's red one. If you took away their weapons, they'd simply be two friends out for a stroll. Perhaps in a kinder world, a more fair one.
"I fear I think of her like a daughter. And it is a mother's business to interfere." Wynne admitted quietly. Shale paused, as if to consider.
"May I remind the elder mage that, perhaps, now is not the best time to be an interfering mother if it values survival."