A/N: Occasionally people have commented on how underpowered/submissive/passive Sylvanna is. This is an AU exploring what I think I would have probably ended up writing had I intended Sylvanna to be more proactive with her desires.

With thanks to oneplusme and juri for betaing.

Warnings: the usual. Basically the same as last update, minus the kitsch.

The Tower

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The sun rose in its smug, indulgent way, as it had each morning for the past seven years. Morrigan watched it gliding over the horizon, glamorous golds and reds banishing the gloom of the Fereldan countryside.

Ishantha would probably call it beautiful, sacred, as if the act could be ascribed to divine intervention. The two of them had not spoken for days - possibly even months. Time moved differently here, distilled to saturation point until one merely floundered in it like an ant trapped in honey. Morrigan marked her own time in a book, each day noted with careful precision. Wintermarch, Guardian, Drakonis... the months melded into a blur, her tower impervious to the seasons.

She picked up a quill, adjusting her grip before noting the date on her page: seven days until the anniversary of Ishantha's birth. Perhaps they would permit Morrigan to attend the festivities this year. Not that she cared for celebrations, but it would present another opportunity to flee.

It was all her fault. Morrigan flexed her fingers, wincing as the joints creaked. The warden had broken them, one by one, voicing useless platitudes about how sorry she was with each jarring crunch. Without intervention, they had healed poorly, broken bones fusing together in a parody of normal function. The warden had promised to restore them, eventually, dangling the possibility like a juicy carrot before Morrigan's nose.

Morrigan did not intend to linger long enough to learn whether she would keep her word.

"Good morning," the warden said, the door opening and closing behind her. Morrigan refused to turn around, her nib trailing ink across the page as she drew a separator under the last day of the month. A rustle of fabric sounded behind her, a breeze stirring the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Did you sleep well?" the warden asked, not expecting an answer. It had taken her years, but eventually Morrigan had learnt how to summon fire with her voice alone. Shapeshifting was harder – how many books had she thrown against the wall in frustration? As a mouse, she had snuck beneath the tower door, skittering from step to step all the way down to the ground. She had taken her first breath of freedom, pressing her claws into the soft mud before they had managed to stop her.

The shock of being forced back into her own body had been nothing compared to what came next. The warden had cried all the while, tears streaming down her face even as she removed Morrigan's tongue, wielding the knife with nary a tremor.

"It's a beautiful day, at least for now. Ishantha thinks it might rain this evening." The warden picked up a comb, pulling it through Morrigan's hair with long, smooth strokes. Morrigan remained still, her gaze following the arc of a hawk in flight. The tower looked out in all directions, once serving as a vantage point for encroaching armies. Morrigan had quarrelled with the warden, violently, just prior to losing her voice. She had been returned to the tower, only to find the windows barred, scarcely a sliver of light emerging from beneath their covers.

That night, alone in darkness so thick she could scarcely breathe, a voice began to whisper to her.

Revenge.

"We'll move to the Free Marches this summer," the warden said, holding up a mirror for Morrigan to observe her reflection. "Your mother was right, as always. The most delicious rumours have been coming out of Kirkwall. It'll be exciting, don't you think?"

Moving meant a change in routine. The voice at the back of her mind suddenly grew louder, a burst of shared excitement causing her to grit her teeth, preventing any sounds from escaping her lips. She had waited this long. She could wait a little longer.

The warden sighed, then moved to sit beside Morrigan, one perfect finger tracing over the dry ink on the open page. The proximity of her heat and perfume made the voice inside Morrigan twitch, begging for a preemptive strike. The warden's hand closed over her wrist, and she fought the urge to snarl.

"Things will be different," the warden murmured, a vision of doe-eyed innocence. "I never wanted this for us, Morrigan. You know that."

She leant in, and Morrigan forced herself to remain absolutely still, neither flinching nor surrendering as her lips found the lobe of her ear, the base of her throat. The warden moved, seeking more, her mouth pressed against Morrigan's, hand tangled in her hair.

This was the most power that Morrigan had, right here, denying the warden what she desired the most, and Morrigan relished the moment with all that remained of her pride.

The warden drew back, not even trying to disguise the hurt in her eyes. She bent down and kissed the crown of Morrigan's head, her perfume lingering. "I'll see you later, my love."

The door opened and closed. Morrigan released the shuddering breath she had been holding, repressing the need to tear something apart. There were only a few more weeks 'til the summer; she could endure, knowing that this would soon end, one way or another. The voice within her disagreed, stirring restlessly; she had promised it an out, but not yet - not yet - and so she forced it to quieten with all the strength she could muster.

Morrigan returned to her table, twining her hair into a tight knot and patiently stabbing it with pins, the metal ornaments cool to her touch. The pressure hearkened back to a simpler era, and she smoothed away a stray strand of hair, observing her reflection in the mirror.

Things would be set to rights, she promised herself.

It was only a matter of time.

A/N: With many thanks to mutive, often indecisive, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.