"There was a time when Flemeth was young and beautiful. A fair lass in a land of barbarian men, the desire of any who saw her."

"Just how long ago was this?"

Morrigan met Donal's smirk with a raised eyebrow. The length of his nose and the back of his neck had sunburned and begun to peel, so they'd taken to retreating to the shelter of their tent when the afternoon sun bore down hardest. The grimoire sat on her lap and she idly flipped through it as she distracted him with myths.

"Many centuries," she said. "Before this land was even named Ferelden.

'The tales say that Flemeth fell in love with Osen, the bard, and fled the castle of her husband, the dread lord Conobar, and that he swore vengeance for her infidelity. In truth, my mother claims that 'twas Osen who was her husband and Conobar the jealous lord who looked on from afar."

Morrigan's face had a particular animation to it as she explained the imaginary exploits of her mother. Strange, that someone who purportedly had little outside contact with others as a child could be so comfortable and dynamic among them, that she could be so captivating when she spoke.

Donal had always been so accepting of his home in the tower. He used to jeer at his compatriots who made attempt after attempt at escape, particularly the few fools who had a ready supply of apprentices willing and waiting to hoist up the skirts of their robes for them. The only escape that made sense was Jowan's and then that bitch Nema ruined everything. It was almost funny that Greagoir marked Donal as an elopement risk after all that nonsense when he was more than content to breathe his last breath within the safety of the Circle's walls.

Still, it was easy to comprehend why a mage might run, now. They weren't looking forward to a life as an apostate. Perhaps they just had a witch of their own whom they longed to hear more tales from.

"Lord Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife," Morrigan continued. "Osen agreed."

"He sold his wife to another man?" Donal asked. It would interesting to see just how much coin Flemeth was worth, but he gathered that wasn't the point of Morrigan's story.

She shrugged. "The life of a bard is a poor one and love fades in the wake of hunger." She turned a page in the grimoire. "'Twas Flemeth who suggested the arrangement. All would have been well had Lord Conobar kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who bargained with coin he did not possess. Osen was led off to a field and slain, left for dead. Flemeth spoke with the spirits and learned of the deed and swore revenge."

So the closest Flemeth would come to love was revenge, then? Donal kept his mouth shut. "She spoke with spirits?" he asked. "Or demons?"

"Spirits first," Morrigan said. "And 'twas they who slew Conobar. Flemeth did not turn to the demons until... much later."

"That's quite the story." He leaned back on his elbow and scratched the dead skin from his nose. "Thanks for telling me."

She gave a little snort. "Flemeth tells it with far more embellishment than I. But you are welcome." Morrigan stared at him then, with those amber eyes in a way that sent him fidgeting. Donal wasn't familiar with the look she gave him, not quite inquisitive, not entirely cold, and he only knew that he was unused to that amount of undivided attention from anyone.

"Dare I ask of your own mother?" Her features were soft and she tilted her head. "Few are abominations of legend, tis true, but I find myself curious nonetheless."

An odd question for a mage. One that left Donal sucking in air through his teeth as he tried to formulate a substantial answer. There were times as a youth in the tower, when he'd breathe in the air of Lake Calenhad and be left with a wistful feeling that he couldn't quite place. Usually after a stormy night of hard rain that left the lake water choppy and rough, almost like an ocean.

Kirkwall did have a harbor. He felt like someone had been crying. Maybe it had been him.

"I was sent to the Circle very young," he said finally. "I don't remember my mother, not really. I think she had light hair, maybe blonde. It's hard to say sometimes if they're real memories or just fantastical things I dreamed up."

Wouldn't it be nice if it were real, though? The honey blonde hair adorned with flowers whose petals he would always reach for. Somebody was definitely crying and then there was a hand along the length of his back, stroking, soothing, tracing little shapes in between his shoulder blades, maybe letters.

Gave him a life, gave him a name, gave him to Templars.

Morrigan nodded. "Then you have my sympathies, for what it is worth. Which is very little, I am certain."

"Why do you have to do that?" He reached forward and shut the grimoire on her fingers.

"Do what?" Her nose twitched.

"We're just talking," Donal said. "You bring up something personal and then you brush it off like it doesn't matter."

Morrigan forcefully reopened the grimoire. "You do not remember your mother and I offered my sympathies. I do not know what else you'd like for me to do."

"Not tell me that I don't care for one." He sat upright and grabbed for the grimoire. "I wouldn't try so hard at conversations with you if I didn't care what you thought."

She pulled it away from his hands. "Does it honestly matter what anyone thinks of something that happened so long ago? You do not weep for your mother still, it appears you have healed from that injury."

"Don't devalue your words," he insisted.

"Oh?" Her mouth curved up at the sides. "And is there value you place in them? Are they not just a distraction in the pursuit of a more physical nature?"

"What?" He rubbed at the ache in his neck. "We've been in this tent an awful long time, sweetheart. Don't you think I'd have made my move by now if I thought you were interested?"

"Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak and two, that she finds him attractive." The expression on her face was so confident, so matter-of-fact.

"Morrigan," Donal said. "Look at me. Look at this face. I know that I will never be considered attractive by anyone's standards."

When she opened her mouth, he shushed her with a quick gesture.

"I'm serious. I'm not trying to elicit pity or denials," he continued. "I know I'm not handsome. Simple as that. Hopefully I'm passingly interesting, though, if that's not too much to ask."

She wasn't listening. Morrigan had her nose back in the grimoire, her lips twisted into a petulant frown.

"Too much to ask," he muttered. "Now, you're just being belligerent."

It was Morrigan's turn to shush him. "I'm studying Mother's grimoire."

"You look a tad disturbed." He crawled to her side and gazed down at the text. There was an illustration along with the runes of a body, almost like a puppet, or empty sack.

"Disturbed?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Yes, perhaps that is the right word. One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me."

She shifted the tome so that it would share both her lap and Donal's. Morrigan's fingers traced the cipher and pointed at the simple drawing of the empty husk of a body. Her frown deepened. "Here, in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries."

"I see," Donal murmured. And he did. The gilt was flaking off some of the text, but the words of the cipher were as clear as day. "Where do you suppose Flemeth would find a young, healthy woman as talented in magic as she to steal a body from?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many witches of the wilds throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not. And now I know."

"You believe this?" Donal asked.

"Tis right here, in front of me." A tinge of anger lanced through her voice. "They are all Flemeth! When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter and when the time is right, she takes her daughter's body for her own."

Donal shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would she risk sending you with the Grey Wardens, then?"

"I do not know." The grimoire fell slack in her lap. "Perhaps tis as she said, the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else? Or perhaps she believes that this journey will make me more powerful. According to the tome, if the... host, is already powerful and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to settle in."

Donal pulled the grimoire onto his lap. He had to read it for himself, see it with his own eyes. Sure enough, the cipher clearly depicted a way for an abomination to transfer its essence into hosts, to steal life. He exhaled. "If she truly means this for you, then your mum's a right bitch."

"Then we agree." The set of Morrigan's brow hardened. "There is only one possible response to this: Flemeth needs to die."

"Morrigan-"

"I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled," she said. "Flemeth must be slain and I need your help to do it."

"My help?" Donal laughed. "Morrigan, look at me. Look at who you're asking. The last time I went against a demon, I fell in exchange for a dream about a six-breasted woman. You need a Templar or a warrior, not some shut-in hack of a mage. The best I could do is bore her to death with facts about the Tevinter Imperium."

"You've seen with your own eyes this is what Flemeth intends." She picked up the grimoire and hefted it across the tent. With nothing in between them, she faced him squarely and stared him down. "I cannot face her myself, lest she uses it as an opportunity to claim my body early. You would honestly leave me to this fate?"

He found it funny that such a strong personality was found in such a fragile looking body. With her slender limbs and slight frame, Donal in all of his lanky gawkiness felt absolutely enormous in comparison. Yet he never would have believed that someone as immoveable as Morrigan would have been capable of pleading.

Still, there she was, her knees pressed against his, her eyes round and aghast. There was no triumph in this, no victory.

"No," Donal said. "No, I wouldn't. Just let me think a moment."

"Oh."

"We have to wait until we're reunited with everyone else," he told her. "Edgar will help. He's been raised to be a mindless sycophant of the Chantry and won't think twice about murdering an abomination. Alistair and his Templar training would be helpful, too. Maybe Sten-"

Morrigan's lips silenced his. Strange, he'd always imagined that her skin would be cooler than his. It was sort of bizarre, in a way, to realize that he was being manipulated, that her body was a reward. Perhaps if he had been a better man, he would have turned her away, refused the flushed skin along her collarbone, the quickening pulse in her throat, the hot, heady gasps breathed back into his open mouth.

Perhaps that's why she chose him. Because he didn't care that it was morally right, only that he was weak enough to say yes.