Thank you, thank you for taking a moment to review, it is greatly appreciated since this, to me, is such an out-of-the-way story and there are quite a few amazing writers in this genre. It's a little daunting to be in such prolific company, but on we go.

Mild spoilers for Witch Hunt.

King without a Castle

By: Syntyche

Four: Two Hearts

Someone was coming.

Morrigan cocked an ear, listening fiercely in the still air for she took nothing for granted now, not the rustle of a decaying leaf nor the snap of a dry twig; not the caw of a distant crow nor the whisper of the wind.

Not the presumed naiveté of an ex-Templar.

And especially not the affection of her mother.

She had always been cautious, for she had lived a life of hardship and continual adaptation simply to survive both her mother's merciless lessons and the challenges of the Korcari Wilds. Yes, she had always been cautious…

Now, she was paranoid.

There was no other sound that reached her hearing but she was already alert, aware that something had disturbed her finely honed senses and she would be foolish to ignore it. The witch hastily put out the small fire she'd used to cook a modest dinner and scattered the remnants that indicated anyone had stopped in this secluded area.

Morrigan rose and stretched, sneering distastefully at the wretched wave of exhaustion flooding her limbs. Day after day of near-constant watchfulness had worn down the razor's edge of her reflexes and strength, particularly in her … delicate position and she was finding herself increasingly weary. She had many long months of pregnancy facing her, and she almost - almost - wished she hadn't been so hasty in giving up what small security and rest there had been in traveling with darkspawn-sensing Wardens.

But she could not have stayed with that small group, even had she the desire to. She could not remain in any place for long, not while her baby grew within her womb.

And not while her mother lived.

Ishmael Cousland had believed Flemeth defeated when they had slain her dragon form and retrieved her true grimoire, but Morrigan had known her mother's demise was no more than temporary. She had now spent many weeks studying Flemeth's writings, trying to decipher the deliberately garbled words of the old woman, and she had learned of spells and plans that had both fascinated and terrified her, as well as lustful ruminations on Flemeth's many lovers and the history and ultimate endings of the daughters who had preceded Morrigan.

And there was more, much more; dark writings from a darker mind, and these were the promises Flemeth intended to keep that had set Morrigan on her path of constant movement. Her hand drifted to her belly, flat yet, and she again promised her child she would keep it safe at any cost to self. Morrigan had all her life been very selfish, with no reason to change, but something about the tiny life within her and the knowledge of what her mother intended to do with that life had softened the icy rim around her heart, had instilled within her a desire to do something for one other than herself.

Morrigan continued to listen until she heard it again - the far off crunch of boots on dry grass. She licked her dry lips and murmured quiet words, her voice snapping off in irritation as a yawn interrupted her spellcrafting.

Really, this is getting out of hand, she thought disdainfully, despising her newfound weakness yet unable to blame her babe for causing it. She shook her head sharply and muttered the spell again, gratefully feeling her bones shifting and changing shape, her long, elegant fingers stretching into wings as black as night that lifted her now-smaller body up onto the overhanging branch above her.

The noise of heavy, booted feet was drawing closer and she surmised there were four or five of them based on the sounds. They were not trying to be silent but they had scarce reason to in this area of Ferelden; little moved here other than creatures already indigenous to the forest and wandering bands of Dalish that rarely stayed in one place for long.

There was no road to speak of, simply an overgrown path that had once been heavily traveled years before but now was seldom traversed, and Morrigan wondered what business other travelers would have this way; perhaps there was a slim chance these were the elves she was searching for?

But alas, the party she saw were not the Dalish for whom she was scouting, but ones she least wanted to lay her sharp eyes on:

Templars.

Morrigan's lip curled in a sneer (though the reaction was purely mental as she was sporting a slim beak at the moment) at the waning sunlight glinting off their ridiculously impractical armor as they pushed forward along the mostly hidden path, taking little care to cloak the clamor of their boots; but she knew their senses, at least, would be casting about, probably lazily as the forest was emptily silent apart from usual woodland chatter, just enough to spare a modicum of caution.

Morrigan found she envied them bitterly for their lack of necessity to be as alert she forced herself to be at all times, and perhaps she even coveted the fact that they had one another for company.

You're getting soft, she snarled to herself. Morrigan hopped a little closer along the branch, trying to discern their purpose and she was surprised to catch sight of a bedraggled figure stumbling quietly in their midst, his dark blonde head dipped low against his chest. There was something familiar about his walk, the hunch of his broad shoulders beneath the thin tunic he wore …

Morrigan squawked in surprise at the same time he lifted his head warily, confirming the confused reaction in her gut.

Alistair.

OoOoOoOo

Well, well, little Templar. What have you gotten yourself into now?

Morrigan watched, intrigued, but no words passed between the templars and she found her curiosity hungry. Painstakingly discreet closer inspection revealed that Alistair's hands were bound tightly in front of him and a dark purple bruise marred his left temple along with a scattering of other markings in various stages of severity and healing that blemished exposed areas of his tanned skin. Morrigan licked her metaphorical lips at the unbidden remembrance off his warm flesh beneath her, the jerk of his hips lifting her body …

A warm flush crawled over her and Morrigan shook her head sharply to dispel the unwanted thoughts. She no longer had nor needed the privilege of unnecessary memories cluttering her awareness.

And yet she found that her curiosity was piqued as to just how Alistair had managed to land himself in such a clearly regrettable situation. If she had to surmise, Morrigan would guess it had to do with the queen now sitting atop the throne in Denerim; who else would dare turn a Hero of Ferelden over to the Chantry?

Her curiosity won out. Morrigan followed.

OoOoOoOo

She shadowed them for days down unfamiliar paths - strange, to her, for they had traversed much of Ferelden during the Blight yet she knew nothing of the way they traveled. The templars frequently consulted an old, worn map, and it was no comfort to Morrigan that they knew as little of their route as she did. As they journeyed she remained alert for the Dalish she sought, knowing she would in an instant abandon her one-time companion to the dubious mercies of the templars if there was any trace of the elves whose writings she sought.

For now of the Dalish there was no sign and so Morrigan continued to follow, though in her heart she was confused as to exactly why. It was a small blessing to be part of a group again, and she found she could sleep lightly when they camped, as safe as she could be within their lightly watchful circle. She rested when they rested and ate when they ate - and this was made easier by Alistair, for although his guards commented snidely on the warden's perceived weakness, they didn't stop him from feeding the raven that occasionally skittered into camp. He had seen her in this form before, but as there was an abundance of birds chittering in the forest she stood out not at all, and when she approached he obligingly shaved a few crumbs off of his own meager portion of stale bread to share with her. It was the closest she had come in a long time to shared companionship and Morrigan found herself unpleasantly bestirred by emotions she would rather ignore.

It was laughable that she almost missed dinners 'round a campfire with the oddest collection of companions, chatting and laughing and bonding despite the seriousness of their quest. Always overhead was the knowledge of what they were doing, and had yet to accomplish, but somehow they were able to find pockets of levity within their exhausted nights. Morrigan herself rarely joined the others, preferring instead to pitch her tent far from the main campsite, but she had shared enough meals to find that a distasteful softening had occurred within her - toward the end, to her surprise, she had even come to think of Ishmael as a friend - a designation she had formerly been unfamiliar with.

OoOoOoOo

Morrigan soon discovered that the templars accompanying Alistair had not been instructed to be gentle with their prisoner; only, it appeared, to ensure that he reached their destination still breathing, if not much more than that.

She hopped carefully into their camp one evening after they'd ceased traveling for the night, once they had completed their evening chores of dinner and setting up camp and their evening's entertainment of tormenting the helpless Warden.

She could not say what compelled her to come closer on this night, for they beat him regularly and she chose not to intervene on those occasions; Morrigan could perhaps take on the four templars alone without breaking a sweat, but now there was her child to consider and she would risk no harm to the babe.

The sensible part of her mind demanded she leave the Warden to his fate, that he was no longer her concern and she might have listened for she was not so foolish as to say she liked Alistair, but there was perhaps a certain fondness that existed between them - though 'fondness' was almost certainly too strong a word for the mutual tolerance they'd developed after many months of traveling together.

At least, there had been that tolerance once.

Before that night.

Though already well-versed in ways of the forest, Morrigan was yet naïve when it came to relationships and she honestly had not expected the Ritual to change anything between them; it was merely a business transaction, no more.

But something had changed.

Of course, they had plunged into battle the next day, and Alistair had been grievously wounded when he'd killed the Archdemon. She had checked his battered body for signs of life but hadn't spoken with him before she'd departed following the battle, and she had preferred it that way.

He had not looked much worse then than he did now.

The templars had beat him senseless and left him on his side huddled on his blankets. One templar now sat off to the side of the fire, keeping watch, but she suspected he was alert more for external threats than to assure their prisoner remained in their custody: the Warden clearly would not get far even if he did manage to escape.

Morrigan watched, feeling unexpected stirrings of pity move across her. She had seen him in a bad way before - they had all had it rough during their travels, and she and Wynne had spent much time repairing cracked skulls and wrenched limbs, and all manner of gashes and bruises.

But this was different. He was different.

In the flickering firelight, she could see that he looked sad beneath the dirt and blood. He looked … resigned.

She could not heal him, for the templars would surely notice - they would likely sense her shapeshifter spell if they cared to cast about attentively - but they struck her as more brutish than alert, despite Alistair's long-ago wry observance that the Chantry didn't make stupid Templars.

She skittered over to where he lay with his back to the small campfire, staying in the shadows for she had no wish to attract even a curious glance from the templar once again pondering over their map in the dim firelight.

Morrigan noted the rope cutting into Alistair's calf that was fastened to a stake plunged deep in the ground; small wonder they paid their prisoner so little attention once they were finished with him for the day - between the beatings and his tether, Alistair certainly wasn't going anywhere.

The lithe raven ducked carefully under the Warden's lax hand. His callused fingers - missing their fingernails, she noticed - automatically began stroking her fine feathers and she felt some annoyance erupting at the desire the simple motion triggered within her - it reminded her far too easily of thatnight.

One bloodshot hazel eye cracked open to squint at her blearily - the other was too swollen for the lids to slide back - and a small smile crossed his split lips. His voice, when it came, was not the honeyed tones she remembered sliding over her senses like a warm bath - when he spoke rather than whined - it was hoarse and the words cracked unpleasantly when he said them aloud, rising slightly in the middle before trailing off with a wheeze.

"Hey, kitty," he said faintly, his blood-encrusted fingers curling loosely against her soft back.

She rolled her golden eyes.

"It's nice to see you," he said sweetly, his voice barely a whisper and for that she was glad since it would scarcely attract the attention of the nearly-dozing templar on the other side of the camp. She couldn't answer him, and yet she felt strangely compelled to stay with him, to offer what little comfort she could to the man whose beloved had somehow convinced him to lay with the witch for a night, bringing about the culmination of Morrigan's purpose for joining their small party. She had thought about Ishmael at times since that night, and realized that she herself could not allow a man who claimed to love her lie with another woman, even under the pretext of saving their future.

Even as she cursed her softness - she had not escaped as unscathed from her encounter with the templar as she'd expected - she hopped up on his shoulder, combing through his short, sticky blonde hair with her beak.

Alistair breathed out a raspy sigh at her ministrations and continued stroking her feathers gently, somehow managing to find tenderness within even though he himself had been treated so cruelly. Morrigan was not surprised: she had often thought him gentle to the point of weak.

And now he was rubbing off on her. Wonderful. What was she doing? She skittered away in disgust, intending to leave the campsite, but his soft, heart-rending keen at the loss of her presence froze her heart in a way she didn't want to contemplate.

Carefully, almost involuntarily, she tucked her small head back against his broad chest and felt his breathing settle down again.

I am doing this for a friend, she told herself sternly. Not out of weakness or misguided and unnecessary compassion.

She hoped the words weren't as hollow as they felt.

OoOoOoOo

On the thirteenth day she had been following them, they reached their journey's end. Tall grey walls rose high above the small party; guard towers with dim lights gleaming in the windows jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth.

Morrigan shuddered at the dark sense permeating the tall stone fortress, the unspeakable evil that whispered from within of a never-ending hunger for fresh blood. Even the templars with the small party shook in fear at the horrific wailing rising into the air when they stopped at the heavily bolted entrance of their destination:

The Aeonar:

The Mage's Prison.

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Morrigan is a little more emotional than usual, yes, but I chalk that up to pregnancy. ;) Please review if you can!