Author's Notes: This tale was inspired by a wonderful drawing I saw over on dA. It is called Meeting and it was created by Sia-Chan.
As much as I'd like to take credit the concept and inspiration belongs entirely to her.
Also my apologies for any and all mistakes made pertaining to the voices/persona of the characters. I tried to keep it as accurate/canon as possible but I am fallible and may have missed the mark despite my best attempts...
Edit: In this chapter there is a quote I ripped off from BSG 2003. Naturally credit goes to them and not to me.
Beta: None as of yet. So my apologies to any and all grammar nazi's out there. This story will make your eyes bleed (not intentionally of course!) but you have been warned.
V
'You still have not answered my question,' Alisa began as she grabbed a nearby broken log and took her seat across from Morgan. The hour was late and the Warden had already long since retired to her tent. Alisa, however was entirely awake and eager (much to his exasperation) to make conversation.
Two days had passed since the former Templar had unleashed her fury; it had been about as long since they had spoken. As much as he wanted to mock her for her ignorance Morgan decided it was far wiser, and less painful, to play ignorant to her question. With a raised a brow, he gave her a curious look but said not a word. Unaware of his thoughts Alisa pressed on. 'So why do you have that paint on your skin anyways? Is it magical? Do you have to draw on it everyday?'
Morgan sighed, so much for her seeing through his ruse. He did not know what annoyed him more, the fact Alisa was incapable of silence or that he was incapable of walking away.
'They are called tattoos, and no, I do not drawthem on my flesh every morn. Surely, if you must ramble you could at least find a subject worth mentioning,' he answered in exasperated tones.
'I just did. You just take it for granted that everyone knows what a tattoois,' Alisa pointed out. Morgan rolled his eyes in reply. One thing he had observed over the course of their brief time working together was that acquiescing Alisa's curiosity often proved effective in silencing the warrior. It was for this reason that he tolerated her ignorance.
'Father gave me these tattoos. They are symbols of protection and power,' he explained. 'Does that mar your good sensibilities, or your pious Templar beliefs?' Morgan enjoyed rattling the ex-Templar, but her thoughtful expression was not so disappointing either. Ignoring his remarks, Alisa continued. 'So the tattoos are spells that are always active?'
Perhaps there was hope for the foolish warrior after all. 'Yes,' he answered. Morgan was rewarded with a moment brief silence before Alisa spoke out.
'Does it hurt? Getting those mar-tattoos?'
'Why are you not asking the Warden these questions? Her skin is marked with ink is it not?' he retorted. It was an uncomfortable topic; one he did not wish to continue. Memories of his father's careful hands carving the flesh of his body with a sharpened bone needle while drawing upon long litany of spells flashed in his mind. At six years of age, Morgan was far too young to understand the reasoning behind his Father's actions. Even as a boy, he learned just how much pain he could handle before succumbing to it. His Father believed that suffering was good for the soul, so Morgan suffered. Years later, the warlock was still haunted by memories of his Father's training and tutelage.
'Cousland is asleep, and you're awake,' Alisa with a wry smile. 'Unless you want to face her wrath and the wrong end of her blade, I suggest we keep it that way.' Morgan had to admit she did have a point.
'I was but a child when Father gave them to me, so yet it was painful,' he reluctantly confessed as he stared ahead at the fire. 'Are you quite done now with your questions?' he quickly added making it clear he did not wish to discuss the matter further.
Alisa silently studied the marks on his arms. It was a strange feeling to be so carefully observed, but not necessarily a negative one; much to Morgan's surprise. Cautiously, Alisa reached out to touch the markings that decorated his arms. Her fingers calloused from long hours training with a blade and felt cool against his warm skin. The warrior's gentle touch was oddly soothing, though he was loathed to admit it.
Almost as soon as her fingers had brushed against his arm, Alisa was withdrawing her hand. Her expression grew pensive as she opened her mouth to speak. Whatever was on her mind was soon forgotten, as the sound of the Warden's mabari barking alerted them to trouble.
There was no relief to be found in the interruption, only a sense of annoyance. The realization left Morgan more troubled than he cared to admit.