In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice.
Riordan's rueful words echoed through Moira's mind, replaying over and over until they became a twisted, dark mantra. She had never wanted to be a Grey Warden, not even for a moment. When Duncan had come to Highever, she'd dismissed his interest politely but firmly, content to allow her friend Ser Gilmore to seek out Duncan's favor. After Howe's betrayal, Duncan had extorted her conscription through a devil's bargain with her father, promising to rescue her from the charnel house that had been her family home only in exchange for her oath of fealty to the Wardens. She had protested wildly, but at last relented, if only to give her father peace of mind as he rasped his dying breath. But she had never wanted it: not then, when Duncan had dragged her kicking and screaming from her family's side; not later, when she discovered the true, gruesome nature of the Joining and witnessed Duncan's cold-blooded murder of Ser Jory; and certainly not after she learned from Alistair of her ultimate fate, to be slowly corrupted until she became one of the monsters she was to spend her entire life fighting.
And yet, now that she knew the full, terrible truth, she did not feel vindicated in her distrust of the Wardens and their secretive order, and the outrage which had filled her after each successively horrible revelation did not come. She felt only a ghostly emptiness, as if her soul had already vacated her body in preparation for the final sacrifice, leaving her hollow inside. Something like despair pressed down upon her heart, but she sensed it in a vague, abstract way; as if her mind knew that she should be feeling hopelessness and anguish, but her body had forgotten to summon up the actual emotional response. All she could feel – all she could truly sense – was Loghain, the warmth of his body surrounding her, and so it was to him she clung, her solitary connection to the world, the only thing that kept her afloat in the grey sea in which she now floundered.
His shirt was damp and cold, soaked through with her tears, as she pressed her face into his chest, unwilling to move, to confront the reality of what awaited them. She did not know how long he held her, there in the corridor outside Riordan's room, but she could feel, through her soul-grinding misery, his hand come up to tangle in her hair, slowly stroking it with a calm, gentle hand, soothing her wordlessly. The simple motion, which a few weeks ago would have been entirely unexpected from him, sparked something within her. His affection and concern for her, his steadfast support, her own tumble of confused feelings about this man who had now become more dear to her than anyone else who currently lived: all mixed together into a heady rush of sentiment, and a fresh supply of tears welled up in her eyes and poured out, soaking his shirt all over again as she clung to him and sobbed.
They stood there like that for what could have been minutes or hours, the passing of time an irrelevant concern as the walls of her life collapsed around her; but eventually, as her eyes burned raw and she exhausted her supply of tears, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and emerged from the solace of his chest. The corridor around them was unchanged; the red and gold carpets were plush and inviting and utterly out of place amidst the turmoil that had just engulfed her. And yet, as reality reordered itself in accordance with the grim and unassailable fate that awaited them, she too realized that she had to reorder her mind, to come to grips with Riordan's words, because she had no choice.
"Will you be all right?" His voice was as gentle as she'd ever heard it, and knowing that he felt such worry for her, even while facing the same grim possibility as she did, nearly broke down her dam yet again. But, now that her grief had been spent, she was rapidly coming back to herself, pulling herself together and putting the pieces back in place, just as she'd done on that awful night Duncan had dragged her out of Highever, forcing her to ride blindly into the night as her world was demolished around her. The pieces no longer fit together in exactly the same way, but she would make do, just as she had that night. For a little while longer, because she had to. Because it is what her father and mother, and Fergus, would have expected of her. Because it is what Loghain will expect of her.
But she could not lie to him; he had earned her honesty, at the very least. "No," she said, her voice hoarse and cracked after her wracking sobs. "Not yet. But I will be. I have no choice." I haven't had a choice since that night in Highever. Not really.
"It is a small price," Loghain said, his tone still gentle, but resolute. "One life in exchange for the end to this threat and the safety of Ferelden secured. It is a price I will gladly pay, should Riordan fail."
Once again, the thought of him, of this man who'd come to be her constant companion, being wiped away from the world brought a sharp stab of pain to her heart. "No. I will do it." The words came out before she had consciously realized they'd formed. She blinked away the vestiges of her soul-wracking despair and allowed the dire thought to take root in her mind. "I will do it," she repeated. "I am the senior Warden. If Riordan fails, it is my decision. And I will kill the Archdemon if need be."
"Moira, don't be foolish," he chided softly. "You are young. You have much to live for."
"Do I?" A tinge of the bitterness that had followed her since Highever crept back into her voice. "And what is that, pray? A life as a Grey Warden? Thirty more years of fighting darkspawn and being lonely and wishing my life had been different, before I try my best to get myself killed in battle before the corruption takes me and turns me into a monster?"
"Do not be so eager to throw your life away!" His voice, though still retaining an undercurrent of concern, now took on a harsher tone. "You have… you are worth more than that. I have lived a full life. My honor, my title, everything that I have is forfeit. I have brought so much pain to so many. Let me atone for my sins."
"Loghain…" She reached out to him without thought, grasped his hand in her own, savoring the rough warmth of his skin. "Don't think that way. You have… I will not deny that you have made many mistakes, but… you don't deserve to die." Not like that. Not forever. She felt a lump of sorrow form in her throat and forced it resolutely down.
"And you do?" he rejoined quietly. He squeezed her hand, a barely perceptible pressure, and she felt her heart skip a beat. But then he released his grip, leaving her skin tingling in its absence. "Come. You need rest. We will have a hard ride ahead of us if we are to save Denerim from destruction." His reminder of the horde shamed her; in her overwhelming despondency over their fate, she had forgotten about the fates of all those who lived in the path of the horde, many of whom would die before the Wardens could even hope to reach them and put a stop to the Archdemon. The thought boosted her resolve; if she could think of what she faced as a battle to save innocents, if she could frame such a sacrifice in a way that did not remind her of what she had to lose, then perhaps she could find the strength to carry on.
She walked back with him, neither one eager to leave the other's company, until they stood just outside their rooms. She looked at him again – his eyes never once leaving hers, as if seeking silent assurance that she would indeed be all right. Her gaze wandered across him involuntarily, and she noted the dark patch of sodden dampness across his chest, and blushed.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For making such a scene. You must think me weak."
At that, he merely smiled, and – to her immense surprise – approached her and leaned in to place a gentle, chaste kiss against her hair.
"I would never think you weak," he said, his voice tender but brooking no disagreement. "Now get some rest. Good night, Moira." And with that, he entered his room and closed the door gently but firmly behind him.
Moira's head was still spinning from his entirely unexpected kiss, and she stood out in the corridor, stunned, her heart hammering in her chest, for several long moments. She reached a tentative hand up to the top of her head, where he had kissed her, as if by touching where his lips had been she could somehow scry his motives. She no longer doubted that he truly liked her – one did not kiss a woman one did not like. But the kiss was not romantic – at least, not overtly. Was it the sort of kiss an older man might give to a woman he saw as a daughter figure, in an attempt to cheer her up? Or was it the kiss of a man who did not know if the woman he cared for did not share his attraction, and he did not want to disturb her? Did she – share his attraction, that is? If he was indeed attracted to her?
Of course you do. Don't be ridiculous. You remember the way you gawped at him when he was shaving beside that stream. And he had known she was there, and had even, it had seemed, teased her – and of course, there had been the missed moments, when it had seemed like they had almost –
Enough! Moira was aware that her emotions were running high after all the turmoil of the evening, and that she was focusing on the tumult of her feelings for Loghain to distract her from the doom that awaited – but there was nothing to be done about either situation tonight. Loghain had retired to bed, and they would march out to meet the horde in the morning. She could do nothing except take her long-awaited bath and try to get some rest – and hope that she could suffocate the despair that she had just managed to stuff beneath the surface long enough to make it through to the end, whatever fate might hold in store for her. With a shuddering sigh, she pulled open the door to her room, her hand raising to her shirt to begin unlacing it –
– and found herself staring at Morrigan, who stood pensively before the fire that now roared beneath the mantle by her bed.
"Morrigan? What are you doing in my room?"
Moira must have sounded as shocked as she felt, because Morrigan turned to face her, though her trademark smirk was nowhere to be seen.
"What am I doing? I am standing here, warming myself before the fire," the apostate said, a hint of mirth reaching her strange amber eyes. "Perhaps what you should instead be asking is why I am here."
"Do not play your games with me," Moira snapped, a sense of ominous foreboding welling up within her. "I am very much not in the mood." She had never gotten along with Morrigan; the witch was secretive and sly, had little kind to say about anyone, and was never shy in expressing her disgust any time Moira went out of her way to render aid to anyone. She entirely distrusted the apostate and her even-stranger mother, a suspicion that had only grown since Morrigan had presented Moira with her mother's alleged grimoire, which had supposedly detailed Flemeth's terrible plans for Morrigan. She had believed Morrigan's distress, and sought out the Witch of the Wilds, a fight which had become far more than she'd bargained for when Flemeth had transformed into a dragon. Whatever secrets she and her "mother" harbored, Moira was inclined to believe they were nothing good.
"Always so paranoid," Morrigan chided. "'Tis no wonder you get along so well with Teryn Loghain." A ghost of a smile flitted across the witch's face as she watched the barb hit home. "But whatever you may think of me, I am here as a favor to you. I am here because you are in danger."
"In danger." Moira regarded the witch with open skepticism. "Of course I am. We are all in danger! There is a darkspawn horde rampaging throughout the land, or hadn't you heard? So if that is all, I'd really like to take a bath and get some rest."
"It most certainly 'tis not 'all,' and I think you know exactly what I mean." Morrigan's voice held none of its usual mockery, and Moira's sense of foreboding mounted.
"I have a way out, you see," the witch continued, as she slowly paced before the fire, her amber eyes aglow in its flickering light. "A plan. The loop in your hole, so to speak."
Moira fought back her anger at the enigmatic mage, knowing that her agitation would only delight Morrigan all the more. Determined to remain calm, she took a deep, steadying breath.
"What 'plan'? What are you talking about? Speak plainly," she said in her best command voice, the ominous sense of dread taking firm root in her gut.
"Very well," the mage replied in clipped tones. Morrigan turned from the fire to face her, and there was no longer any trace of scorn or irritation in her eyes. "I know what happens when the Archdemon dies," she stated baldly and without prelude. "I know that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed. That sacrifice might be you… or it might be your Teryn Loghain. Neither possibility, I assume, pleases you. I have come to tell you that this does not need to be."
Moira stared at Morrigan in wild, mounting disbelief. "You… what? You know? How?" Her disbelief was almost immediately subsumed by an intense, rising anger. "You knew and you didn't tell me? Why?"
"And what good would that have done?" Morrigan retorted. "'Twould only have caused you grief, even assuming you had believed me in the first place. 'Tis a hard thing, to face one's mortality. Harder still to face the notion of oblivion. But as I said, this does not need to be – for you or any of the Grey Wardens. I offer you a way out."
"A way out? A way out of what? Killing the Archdemon?" Moira shook her head incredulously. "If you have some magic at your disposal that can kill an Archdemon, don't you think you might have, I don't know, mentioned that before now?"
Morrigan shook her head impatiently, as if frustrated with a stupid child who was slow to learn. "There is no magic that can kill an Archdemon… at least, no magic beyond the method of which you are now aware, that which requires the sacrifice of a Grey Warden," she said. "I cannot kill the Archdemon for you. But what I can do is prevent your death when you do so."
Moira narrowed her eyes, her pervading sense of distrust growing steadily by the minute. "And how is that accomplished, pray tell?" She knew, beyond a doubt, that whatever Morrigan had to say, she would not like the answer.
"It is a ritual," the witch said simply. "Performed before the battle, in the dark of night. It is old magic, from before the time of the Circles. And it will spare your life when the time comes to kill the Archdemon."
"A ritual," Moira said flatly. "Can you be more specific?" A creeping, dark suspicion seized her. "Is this 'ritual' blood magic?"
Morrigan scoffed openly at Moira's accusation. "There are some who might call it thus. There are many ancient and powerful magics now lost to the ages because of the Chantry's simple-minded superstitions," she said cryptically, and Moira noted that the witch did not quite answer her question. "All you need to know about it is that it will save your life. I cannot imagine what possible objections you could raise in light of that rather salient detail."
"That entirely depends on the nature of this 'ritual,'" Moira retorted. "If you mean me to sacrifice an innocent in my stead – "
"Oh, do not be so dramatic." Morrigan regarded her with a bemused glint in her eyes. "'Tis nothing so barbaric as that. In fact, you need do nothing at all."
"Then why are you here?" Moira's patience for the witch's equivocations was waning rapidly, and her distrust of all the secrecy surrounding the so-called 'ritual' filled her with a sense of dread. "If you can perform this 'ritual' without me, and save my life, and it does not require the blood of innocents, then why are you asking my permission? Just do it. I'll be sure thank you later. Unless, of course, there's more to it than that, which – knowing you – there naturally is."
"Are you so blinded by the Chantry's fables that you distrust me – distrust my magic – so thoroughly that you will not even listen? That you will not even allow me to save you?" Morrigan appeared, for the first time in Moira's recollection, to be truly angry. Moira frowned – the witch's motives were a complete enigma. Morrigan had never made any secret of her lack of love for Moira, and why it should now matter so much to her that she save Moira's life – when she had shown so little concern for the lives of true innocents – was utterly mystifying. The less sense it made, the more Moira's sense of premonition prickled in alarm.
"Then speak," she said. "Tell me about this 'ritual.' But first, tell me how you know of it. I did not know of the Warden's sacrifice until tonight – I admit I am very curious how an apostate swamp witch came by this knowledge."
Morrigan smiled wryly. "My knowledge comes from Flemeth, of course. Why do you think she saved you from the Tower of Ishal? Why do you think she was so eager that I join you? All has been in preparation for this moment."
"Flemeth." The name came from Moira's tongue like a curse. "The same Flemeth you bade me murder so I could steal her grimoire for you? The same mother who was grooming you like a pig for slaughter so she could steal your body and preserve her youth? And you expect me to trust her?"
"You need not trust her," Morrigan snapped. "You need only trust me. And whatever malice my mother might have been planning for me, I can see no ill in this. Of that you have my word."
"Your word." Moira made no attempt to disguise her disdain. "Very well. But I will not believe that any ritual concocted by Flemeth – or you – does not have a price. I will decide if what you offer is worth whatever the price inevitably must be."
"What I offer is your life, and so I suppose only you can determine its value," Morrigan said simply. "And there is no price." She paused, and a small, mocking smile ghosted across her face. "Well. I suppose you might consider it a price… but one you, and Loghain, should be willing to pay, should you wish to ensure the survival of both you and your teryn."
Her teryn? Did Morrigan assume…? "What does this have to do with Loghain?" Moira asked suspiciously. "Besides 'saving his life?'"
"It has everything to do with him," Morrigan said simply. "What I propose is this: I must lay with Loghain, tonight. From our joining, a child will be conceived. As the child of a Grey Warden, it will bear the taint, and when the Archdemon is destroyed, its soul will seek out the child's like a beacon. At such an early stage, the child can absorb the essence and not perish, and no Grey Warden will die in the process."
Later, Moira would not be able to say which had been worse: the simple horror of Morrigan's words, or the casual, matter-of-fact way in which she delivered them. She stared, appalled, at the swamp witch for several long moments, digesting what she had just heard. She wants to be with Loghain, to lay with him. A wave of something like nausea surged through her. To bear his child. But…
"This child," Moira said, her voice barely above a choked whisper, "this child would become the new Archdemon? You would turn Loghain's baby into a darkspawn?"
"No." Morrigan once again frowned, as though Moira were too stupid to follow. "The child will bear the taint, but the ritual will ensure that the taint is destroyed. The Archdemon, you recall, was once one of the Old Gods. And so it shall be again: untainted, as it was before the Fall."
"And what of the child's soul?" Moira demanded.
"What child?" Morrigan laughed. "The Archdemon's destruction will occur merely days after conception – can such a thing truly be said to be a child at that stage? No 'child' will be harmed. The child that is born will be a normal, healthy baby – albeit one that carries the soul of the Old God within it."
Moira's head spun, and, against her will, an image of Morrigan and Loghain, in bed together, making love, forced itself into her brain. She shoved it out as violently as it had come, and a heady, acute anger rapidly filled her. The thought of this woman – this woman who had made no secret of her dislike of them – laying with Loghain, bearing his child…
"This is your ritual, then?" she spat, eyeing the witch with disgust. "Whoring yourself to a man you don't even like so you can conceive his child and curse it with the soul of an Archdemon?"
"Do not be such a fool!" Morrigan hissed. "Think of what I offer: a chance to avoid death! Better yet: a chance to slay the Archdemon and live, reveling in your glory!" A sudden thought seemed to occur to Morrigan. "Ah." She smirked, then, and Moira grew even more incensed. "I see. You are jealous. You should not be – the sex will mean nothing. 'Tis a means to an end, nothing more. I do not aim to take your precious Loghain from you."
"I am not jealous!" Moira knew, as soon as the words left her mouth, that they were a lie – and she could see from the knowing, infuriatingly smug look in Morrigan's eyes that the witch, too, knew they were a lie. She decided to change tack.
"This has nothing to do with how I feel," Moira proclaimed. "It is monstrous, to use him like that. Why did you even come to me? Why not to him?"
"Because you know as well as I that he would refuse me outright," Morrigan said. "I had hoped that, given the… closeness… of your relationship, that you might be able to persuade him where I never could." Morrigan's features softened just a bit, and she seemed to regard Moira with something akin to sadness. "He cares for you, where he cares nothing for me. He would never do this for me. But, for you, he might."
Moira's vision blurred as tears came unbidden to the surface. She thought of Loghain, holding her close in his strong arms, comforting her, soothing her fears. What if what Morrigan was offering were true? That this was a way to keep him safe – to keep them both safe? To make certain that he survived the awful fate Riordan had foretold? And yet…
"Do you really want to consider the possibility that Loghain will sacrifice himself to destroy the Archdemon?" Morrigan pressed. "I imagine he has already informed you that, should Riordan fail, he intends to take the final blow? Of course he has – he is a man who puts his duty above all else." Morrigan regarded her with open sympathy. "Only you can convince him that he has something to live for – that he has someone who loves him."
The blood drained from Moira's face as the world swam around her. Someone who loves him. "I don't – I – no, I mean – why would you think that?"
"Come now – do you think I have not seen the way you look at him – and the way he looks at you? 'Tis plain to everyone – except, perhaps, the two of you."
"I…" And yet, even as the second denial formed, Moira could not make herself speak it. She closed her eyes, feeling a tear slip down her cheek and no longer caring enough to wipe it away. The grief she'd grappled with earlier in the evening roared back in full force, and she thought of losing him – of truly losing him, forever – and the horror of it was beyond contemplation.
I do love him. Maker help me.
If what Morrigan offered was genuine, if this ritual prevented a Warden's sacrifice to destroy the Archdemon, then it meant she and Loghain could…well, assuming he cared about her. But what Morrigan said… the way he looks at you… could it be true? All she would have to do…
Her stomach lurched again at the thought of Morrigan seducing him, leading him into bed. Conceiving his child for the sole purpose of using it as a receptacle for the Archdemon's soul.
"And what of this child?" she said. "What am I supposed to tell Loghain?"
"You should tell him nothing," Morrigan responded, and whatever sympathetic platitudes she had to offer were now gone. "He need not even know of the child's existence. After the ritual is completed, I will depart. You – and he – will never see me again. The child will be mine, to do with as I wish. That is my one condition."
Moira stared, aghast, at Morrigan, and as the witch's words took root in her mind, she quickly began to feel a visceral disgust at how close she had come to accepting the offer. She had even believed Morrigan's proffered sympathy to be genuine – but now she saw that was not the case. Morrigan wanted to perform this ritual – Moira saw that, now – for whatever ends of her own, and they had nothing to do with saving Moira's or Loghain's life, or ensuring that they lived happily ever after in love. No, she wanted this baby – she wanted Loghain's baby –to do with as she pleased, and Maker only knew what unfathomable thing she had planned. Moira's stomach churned and her blood boiled as a white-hot anger percolated through her. How dare she – how dare Morrigan use her feelings for Loghain, manipulate and twist them into a justification for this awful ritual that would use him so cruelly and deprive him of his own child?
"Why do you want this?" Moira managed to choke the words out through a throat closed tight with anger. "What is this child to you? Because it is abundantly obvious that this has nothing to do with saving my life, or Loghain's life, and everything to do with giving you an innocent child to use as your plaything for whatever Maker-forsaken purpose your vile mother has conjured up through this ritual of hers."
Morrigan's expression cooled at once, and she regarded Moira with open scorn. "And what should it matter to you? You will be alive, and so will Loghain. Your future is yours, to do with as you wish. Is this one child such a grand price to pay that you would consign yourself – or the man you love – to eternal doom? All out of misplaced pity for a 'child' that will not exist unless I will it to be so?"
"You said that this 'ritual' would not require the sacrifice of any innocents," Moira rejoined. "That was a rather creative lie, even for you. I can imagine few things more innocent than a child."
"And there will be no sacrifice, as I have already said! But you are too blinded by your petty small-mindedness to listen!" Morrigan exclaimed. "The child will be healthy. It will be perfectly normal, in every way – save that it will carry the soul of an Old God. Such an ancient being does not deserve to be extinguished from the world if it can be saved – or do you not agree? I had thought you marginally more sophisticated than most of your simple-minded fellows. Perhaps I was entirely wrong about you."
"The Old Gods of Tevinter were hardly benevolent creatures even before they fell prey to the taint," Moira said. "That you would use an innocent child as its vessel is atrocious. That you would try to manipulate my feelings for Loghain to convince me that you must use his child is even more so."
"'Hardly benevolent?' According to whom? The Chantry?" Morrigan grated out a mirthless laugh. "My, but you are every bit as benighted as all of the rest. I'd hoped for more, but you, as with the rest of your kind, continue to disappoint." She regarded Moira now with open derision. "Will you not reconsider? Or will you consign yourself to oblivion out of obstinacy and ignorance?"
She could change her mind. She could agree to talk to Loghain now, convince him that this needed to be done – that he needed to bed this cruel, scheming witch, get her with child, and resign himself to never seeing or hearing of his baby ever again. Even as she thought it through, she knew that – if what Morrigan said was true, if he truly did love her – she could convince him. He would do it, if she begged him. She knew he would.
But could she ever live with herself – knowing at what price their freedom had been bought? Knowing that Loghain's baby had been irretrievably altered, transformed into something ancient and terrible, something that had caused so much destruction and grief? And knowing that, no matter what, he would never know his own child – that the child would be at the mercy of one of the people Moira trusted least in all the world, groomed for a fate that she could not even begin to imagine?
She could not bear to lose him; but neither could she bear to force him to undergo such unnatural cruelty for her own sake.
There was only one thing left to do.
"I will not," she said firmly. "What you propose is monstrous. I will not be party to it. I will not use Loghain to further Flemeth's sinister agenda. If Riordan fails and the sacrifice is demanded of me, then I will make it. I would rather die with honor than allow you to unleash this horror on the world in the name of your own pride and vanity."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed, and her mouth set in a fearful grimace.
"Then you are a fool," she spat. "Die, then, if you feel it so worthwhile. Or live, and lose your lover. I care not. I shall not stay to watch, either way. Enjoy your death, Warden. I hope 'tis as glorious as you hope for." Eyes burning, Morrigan gathered herself, and walked purposefully towards the door.
"So that's it?" Moira said, incredulous. "You're leaving? Just like that?"
"'Tis not I who willed it thus," the witch retorted. "You have made your choice, and you shall have to live with it. Or not, as the case may be. 'Tis no longer my concern." And in a flash of light, Morrigan no longer stood before her – in her place was a sleek grey wolf, which did not hesitate before bounding out of the door, down the corridor, and away.
Moira was left alone, her door ajar, with only the persistent crackling of the fire to keep her company. She stared numbly at the open door, dimly aware that she had taken their only chance to survive the final battle and thrown it into the flames. Perhaps Riordan would fulfill his vow and slay the Archdemon, but if he did not, then it would come down to her, or Loghain.
Which was worse: to destroy yourself, or to live knowing that the man you loved was dead and utterly gone forever?
Slowly, mechanically, she sank down to her knees, staring into the dancing flames, willing the tears to come.
But she had none left, and all that remained was a desperate ache in her heart.
I love him.
She could finally admit it out loud, now that she had to choose between losing him and losing everything.
A/N: From my author's note for Chapter 8: "rest assured that this story will not go on a multi-week long hiatus."
Well then. Famous last words, as they say. My apologies for the wait time for this chapter, which had to do with a combination of DA:I, holidays, and travel. I can say with reasonable certainty that the next chapter will be out much sooner than this one was, but I will not make the mistake of giving a firm deadline again! That said, now that I am back home and back in the groove, look for more frequent updates. I would not want to torment you all with too many cliffhangers, after all.
Much of Morrigan's dialogue in this chapter is lifted directly from the game; what Morrigan says is the only information the player has to go on in deciding whether to accept the dark ritual, and so it seemed only fair that Moira should have the same knowledge. I think this is the last chapter in which I will need to use significant amounts of game dialogue, fortunately.
Once again, thank you all for continuing to read, review, favorite, and follow this story! Reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks once again to my beta, EasternViolet, for making sure my wordiness stays under control!