Wow - the 150-review milestone has finally been hit! Thanks everyone, for taking the time to give feedback on this little writing experiment.
If you're wondering about this and the other chapter: I've been writing like Zev isn't even in the party, and, well... shouldn't he be a bigger deal?
This whole chapter was inspired by Anders' little comment on the tree in Awakening.
The Smell Of Freedom
Morgana
She cannot help but be angry at their treatment. She sees the glances, the glares, sneaked at her; sees the hands tightening on daggers, the jaws clenching, Zevran's expression of absolute non-surprise.
Of course she understands how it feels to be misunderstood, mistreated, have freedom taken from you - she's a mage, for Andraste's sake.
The word starts as a small whisper, growing louder and used more often as they walk through the camp, and she listens to it carefully, spotting Leliana's expression - one of sadness and tension. It takes her a while to work out what it means.
It does not matter what their intentions are, that she is a mage - she, Alistair and Leliana are shemlen; she doesn't care if it only means "human" - she sees the word spat in dark corners, sees people's faces turn away, and knows it is meant to hurt. Her race is an insult.
Alistair is looking nervously around them, too, and he looks at her, eyebrows raised. "We probably shouldn't overstay our welcome," he murmurs, and she nods, mouth suddenly dry.
She hears the beginnings of a story, sees Leliana turn towards the sound; even with the looks they receive, natural scholar's curiosity, honed by years in the Tower, overwhelms her, and can't help but cautiously approach the sound.
That is how they hear the tale of the Dales being stolen, one which she knew, but only vaguely. She sits on the woodland floor - an action slightly uncomfortable in splintmail - and Alistair joins her, similarly awkward. He gives her a grin as he notices their mutual armour troubles, and she returns it.
She keeps half an ear on the story, genuinely interested, but can't take her eyes off the trees, foliage swaying above her in the wind. She remembers Anders describing to her just this; he used to call the scent of fresh pine "the smell of freedom". She'd frown at the expression, not understanding, but as she sits here, breathing in the forest, she thinks she finally knows what he means.
For her, it isn't pine - it's the smell of earth and grass after rain, the smell of woodsmoke.
Woodsmoke? She wonders where she could have found the smell; she wasn't thinking of the campfire. Besides, she can smell it now, so it can't be that...
She is snapped back to reality by the clank of metal as her fellow Warden shifts beside her; he still hasn't taken his eyes off the elf, eyes curious, his brow crinkling slightly as he listens. She finds herself simply watching his expression out of the corner of her eye, wondering what he is thinking.
The unfamiliar ache in her chest - caused by memories of Anders? - stays until they stand up, brushing themselves off, and give their thanks for the story.