In which Morgana finally loses patience with her friend's defence of the Chantry and questions of faith. I didn't mean for this chapter to be quite so... angry, but - though I love the character - I find Leliana's ignorance of the Chantry's treatment of elves and mages frankly astonishing. Addresses that, and attempts to explain why I couldn't, in all good conscience, make Morgana an Andrastian.
P.S: There is an important reason the Chantry is returning to the foreground, but all I can say is an annoying, "You'll see..."
Fear
Leliana
The walk is long, and she winces. These Fereldan boots - for all that Morgana says they're comfortable, blisters appear to be forming on blisters.
Speaking of the mage...
Her friend is up ahead, frowning at something Alistair has said and waving a hand in exasperation; Leliana speeds up slightly, falling into step with them. "Is something troubling you?"
Alistair looks up from his contemplation of Morgana's feet, seeming startled. "What? No. She says her boots are wearing out."
Leliana raises an eyebrow at the other woman. She has heard nothing of this.
He sighs. "I offered to fix them for her, but she's determined to do it herself." He puts on a mock-hurt tone.
Morgana glares at him. "I can hold a needle, believe it or not."
He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a couple of steps back, but grins. "I'm sure you all had to stitch your own robes in the Circle."
"We did, actually," Morgana counters, dropping back to walk with her and asking lowly, "Were all the brothers in the Chantry like this, or is it an Alistair thing?"
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. "An... 'Alistair thing'?" She smiles. "No, few were. There are always some, but most were pious. Quiet. The ones that couldn't settle were... sad children. The ones that could, left quickly. The others, that chose devotion, or were already being trained..." It is a slight movement of the eyes, almost unnoticeable, but she sees Morgana's gaze slide silently to Alistair once more, sees the tense set of his shoulders and knows he can hear every word. "Yes," she confirms quietly. "But Morgana, you must understand - being a templar is a great honour. Andraste's soldiers are respected, trusted, feared; in Orlais..."
A quiet exhalation next to her. The other woman's eyes are fixed on a point ahead of them, her voice quiet - dangerously so. "To some. It confines others." She swallows. "It drove Cullen... mad. Made him into the things they talked about in the dormitories. Wandering eyes, hands too quick to reach for a sword. Or a smite."
She has learned from years of espionage to watch those around you carefully. Levi is eyeing them curiously, Morrigan and Zevran silently following the exchange with interest. Sten is utterly disinterested, trudging forward with eyes set on the horizon, a hand absently trailing along the fur on Brian's head. Alistair is walking ahead of them, not missing a beat, fighting to unclench his fists at his side and failing.
"The work of blood mages, not the Chantry," she protests.
"No. You don't understand," Morgana continues, and something in her eyes snaps. Her control, perhaps. "You take comfort in the Chant, relate to it. Some of my friends did, and I don't think I'll ever understand that. Me? I've had it jammed into my head - " She stabs a finger violently to her temple. " - Since I was four years old, telling me what an abomination I was, how I shouldn't exist. How I must be a servant and a prisoner because of magic I never chose." A pause. "A girl I knew, she used to pray every day. She'd cry, quietly, but we'd always hear her." The mage's eyes are far away. "I thought it was maybe to see her family again, or that she might be in pain, that the templars might have... gone above and beyond the call of duty." Her voice is sour, and that light, that flame, is behind her eyes again. She looks to Leliana, mouth twisting. "I asked her, once, and she told me it was to rid her of the curse of her magic, to make her right again. Or for death. Better dead than a mage."
This is... No. She has seen the verses - "magic must serve man and never rule over him" - but they are guidelines. The same goes for the sword and the arrow. She realises something then, and turns to Morgana. "Four years old?" she asks, the question small and cautious.
Morgana nods, looking at the ground. "I can recite the entirety of the Canticle of Transfigurations, but I can't remember my parents' faces." She looks up, and there is something hard and cold behind her eyes. Leliana recognises that look; once, what seems like a long time ago now, it was reserved for Alistair. "Now, think about it." She looks to the man in front of them, and refuses to hide her gaze this time. "He had the same, every day, since he was ten summers old. Mages are evil, an affront to the Maker, a danger to all around them. To pity them, to recognise them as human, to... to want them, is a sin. They are taught to hate us for something the magisters did, to see us as abominations waiting to happen. We are taught to see them as demons in metal masks, able to make us powerless at a whim." She lets out a breath. "Can you not see why I was afraid of him?"
Leliana levelly meets her gaze, blue to blue, and thinks she finally does.