Some rambling for you:
Wow, fifty reviews! If I wasn't a person who just doesn't dance, I'd put on a dress and do the Remigold. I know it's through story longevity and regular reviewers (thanks especially to JayRain and karebear!) rather than sheer amount of readers, but it's still nice. There's also the fact that I've only been doing this for a month - it feels like quite a long journey.
(End of self-indulgent rambling)
Anyway, story...
In which Morgana finally arrives at the Tower. This should be interesting... Oh, and long - really long - for me.
Tower
Alistair
He wakes to the lightening sky above him, and is puzzled for a moment before he remembers that he took watch; and fell asleep on it, he thinks, dejectedly - he'd thought that templar discipline was good for something. What if the darkspawn had come and eaten them all in the night? Or turned us all into ghouls. His far-too-knowledgeable-about-this-sort-of-thing inner Grey Warden seems to be rearing its head.
Ohhh, greeat... he thinks, remembering his automatic reaction to blood magic. Now he has an inner templar and an inner Grey Warden. He wonders for an addled, half-awake moment, still stepping out of the realm of dreams, if they'd get on.
As he runs a hand over his face with a small groan and gets off his bedroll - which, as always, seems so warm and inviting when he needs to do this - he spots his fellow Warden at the other side of the dead fire, still deep in a - hopefully - dreamless sleep, curled tightly into herself on the creased bedroll, still in armour, as he is. Night watch is for darkspawn attacks, and you have to have enough defences to do something about them if they happen - but Maker, sleeping in splintmail is uncomfortable.
He remembers last night, half-unsure whether it actually happened or not. Morgana comforting him about Duncan? A month ago, he would have said that someone was joking if they suggested it. Now...
Now he has no idea what he'd say, as the memory of the shy new recruit at Ostagar floats to the surface of his mind. Someone who actually seemed to understand his humour, who smiled a lot more, who stared at these exciting new things called mabari while trying hard not to look too interested, because she was a fully-Harrowed mage and not a naive little girl.
So maybe he only spent half-an-hour with her, and it was a confusing half-an-hour, but it was half-an-hour where he thought he may have found an ally - a friend. Well, there was also the fact that she was - is - the only woman in the Grey Wardens, which was on his mind quite a lot while he was talking to her. Those half-thoughts quickly died with the whole "Chantry" thing, and the carefully-built wall she put up between them.
He saw a glimpse of the "old" her - not this embittered, often silent, armoured mage who seems to be so good at putting a shield up, even if he hasn't even taught her how to lift a real one yet - last night.
He remembers her constantly looking around upon their first meeting, as if she wanted to drink it all in, as if the world would be snatched away from her at any moment, reminding him a little of himself when he first exited the Chantry. The result of living in the Tower.
A dark little coil of worry tightens in his chest as he remembers the fear and anger he's been half-feeling in his blood from her on the way here - he tries to guess at her reaction to entering the Tower again, and immediately realises that it won't be good.
Trying to shake these thoughts off, he begins his exercises.
An hour or two later, there's a quiet "Muh" noise from behind him, and a low oath, which is actually a whole new word for his ever-growing vocabulary of words not to be used in polite company. Ever. Does what she mentioned even exist?
With a few clanks, she sits up, frowning at the fire, realising and acknowledging that he's standing near it with a murmured, "Oh. Hello."
He nods - companionably, he hopes. "Breakfast?"
She isn't quite fast enough to disguise the look of horror which flickers across her face as she shakes her head with an, "I'll sort it out," quickly adding as she sees his face fall, "Thank you, though. Your efforts are appreciated."
It seems oddly formal, and he's thinking, Oh, raised in a Tower... (since her social skills obviously leave something to be desired), when he sees that there's a small smile hovering round the corner of her mouth, and remembers the warmth in the words. Humour? Well, that's...
... Not that new at all, actually, he thinks, remembering their conversations, and realises that he's been seeing glimpses of the "old" her for far longer than just last night.
He wonders if this is what Leliana's been seeing this whole time.
He wonders what's changed that's meant she's finally let him see this, and wonders when she will clamp down on it again.
She soon does - is all business with him and laughing along with Leliana when the sister gets up again - but he finds he is still in a good mood.
Huh. Maybe a glimpse is enough, for now.
When the Tower comes into view, the long but comfortable silence is gone, and in its place is this horribly intense focus on the building they are edging ever closer to. It's in the new set of her shoulders, the way she is gritting her teeth, the way her hand regularly travels to the dagger - she is still learning with the sword - buckled at her hip. He wonders with surprise if she learned that habit from him.
This is not Morgana, nor is it the formal, negotiating Grey Warden who calms villagers. This is a warrior, ready to go into battle, almost animal, expecting bloodshed but advancing all the same.
This is Duncan facing the darkspawn, dark eyes narrowed and almost black, him at his side, almost scared of the man.
This is him, he realises abruptly,watching the enemy advance, sword, shield and smite ready, the tiny little part of him screaming at him that it would be a really good idea to run away right now, you know almost shut away by years of training, a sharp sword and sheer adrenaline.
It is carefully controlled fear, choosing to fight rather than flee, and he recognises that look immediately.
As she stretches out a hand, without a word, and he drops his sword instinctively and foolishly as it bursts into enchanted flames - the loud clang breaks the silence, but she doesn't look back - he wonders when she became the grim figure standing in front of him.
She takes Carroll down with tense but icily polite arguments, running circles round him, and he almost feels sorry for the man - wait, he does, seeing the telltale lyrium-addict large pupils, the slight hyperactivity, and realising the man is waiting for his next dose - as he rows them to the imposing building.
He swallows, taking his mind off the image of what he could've been in front of him, taking in Morgana's still-tense posture and realising in surprise that the presence of templars provokes almost exactly the same reaction from both of them.
He doesn't miss her slight intake of breath at the front door; Morgana looks to Leliana, who gives her a reassuring smile, and then slips the warrior mask back on, hand steady on her dagger and face set.
She tells the Tower's sunny Knight-Commander that is good to see him again in impressively bland, false tones, rarely interjecting as he describes the Tower falling apart, prey to demons and abominations, many dying or becoming mindless vessels.
Her reaction to the mention of Annulment is the same as his - tensing, staring at Greagoir. She tells the templar that it will not be necessary, but it is clear he isn't convinced. Neither is Alistair.
As they prepare to enter what he imagines will be a living nightmare, she asks the man quietly, "Where is Anders? Still in a cell?"
"I have no clue as to his whereabouts," the man tells her. "Perhaps the Circle is better off without such a delinquent in its ranks."
Something changes in her expression, then it is gone, and she looks into the man's eyes, staring, blank mask back on. Staring him down. It's a wonder the ice in her tone doesn't freeze the room. "The 'delinquent' is one of the Circle's best healers," she states, frighteningly calmly. "Either he is dead, or he is a useful asset. I intend to find out which."
Greagoir looks away first, and then she is striding towards the imposing doors, which the templars open at her approach.
As soon as the doors lock behind them and they are out of the templars' sight, she turns back, briefly, and in that moment, Alistair knows that even if she isn't clawing at the door and screaming to be let out, something in her eyes is.