85. The Wicked Witch?

Ruck was… unnerving to deal with, so Percival was glad Marnan did all the talking. The twisted dwarf kept referring to the "sweet song" and the "darkness within"… it was an arrow that hit a bit too close to the heart. Percy felt like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since his Joining because of the Taint.

Still, as they settled down to camp in a side passage off the Ortan Thaig, Percival couldn't help but be further disturbed by the way the boy reacted when they'd suggested telling his mother they were alive. The Warden was so distracted that he couldn't seem to summon the rage for his nightly practice with Oghren, until the dwarf just shrugged and sat by the fire to drink instead of walking him through maneuvers.

This left Percival alone in his contemplation (Garott called it "brooding"), sitting with his hound in the dim light at one side of the camp, doing basic maintenance on his armor and weapons. New greatsword notwithstanding, he just couldn't bring himself to neglect his family blade.

What kind of son would do that… was Ruck really that ashamed, that he'd rather his mother thought him dead than know that he yet lived? Did he truly think his mother's grief over his death would be any better?

Then again, what would Percy think, if Fergus turned up a ghoul like that, rather than dead? He tried to imagine his brave, fun-loving brother, scavenging in the Wilds and turned into a twisted thing. He shuddered at the idea. Part of him thought that, yes, it would be better for the mother to think her son dead than to have her last memories of him tainted by the image of that horrible creature.

Could anyone else in their party understand that sort of familial bond? Not Kazar or Felicity, Circle-grown as they were. What about Marnan? But no, her familial bonds had seemed political at best. Maybe Garott… not his mother, but his sister? He'd aligned himself to a snake for her sake, but that may have just been more of an alignment of like-preferring-like than familial loyalty.

Oghren refused to accept the fact that his wife was probably in much the same condition. Even if they found her as a ghoul and dragged her back, Percy doubted the stubborn dwarf would believe it. Sten never spoke of his family at all… did Qunari even have families like humans did?

And then there was Morrigan and her mother. Percival suspected that, were they to find Flemeth in such a condition, Morrigan would laugh and laugh and laugh. Percival could not understand such antipathy as those two showed for one another. Flemeth may have been a bit rough around the edges (admittedly, so much so that one couldn't tell where the edges were anymore), but she was still Morrigan's mother.

Percival's mind went back to the tome, sitting unknown in Felicity's bag. Its existence had been tormenting him ever since he'd stumbled across it. How could silence make him feel so guilty? Was it his right to keep that book's presence from Morrigan? Was it his right to speak it?

There was a zap of lightning and raucous laughter from the fireplace, breaking into Percival's thoughts. He glared over at the noise, only to jump as a voice spoke directly above him.

"You have been polishing that same spot on your chestplate for five minutes. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, as I do not mind seeing my own reflection."

As if summoned by his thoughts, she stood over him, peering into his chestplate.

"Morrigan!"

The witch arched a brow. "You were expecting someone else, perhaps?"

"Go away." Percy turned resolutely back to his armor. True, he'd been making an effort to be more companionable all around, but he couldn't do this right now. Hugo didn't seem to agree. He raised his head up toward Morrigan and whined.

The woman took that as invitation, and Percy scowled down at his dog. She settled cross-legged beside him, just watching him clean his armor.

After a couple minutes of silence, Percival sighed. "What do you want, Morrigan?"

"Why must I want anything? It is either sit here, or sit over there." She waved a hand vaguely toward the campfire. As if to prove her point, Oghren's voice could be heard drawling something, sending Garott and Kazar into laughter while Felicity's voice rose in scolding indignation.

Percy snorted a reluctant laugh. "I see your point."

"And this is what makes you the sensible one."

Percival turned his attention back to his work, overly aware of her continued gaze. She didn't seem to be watching him for any particular purpose, merely for the sake of something to look at. He supposed the upkeep of warrior equipment would be an alien sight for the witch, and a nice change from the dirt and darkness they'd been surrounded with for the last couple days.

They sat in silence for some minutes, Percy feeling inexplicably twitchy under her regard. After a while, just to fill up silence, he said, "It must be quite a change, going from a life-filled wilderness to a hole in the ground."

She seemed surprised by the words. "It most certainly is. I wasn't aware that you cared."

He snapped a glare up at her. "Do you have to make everything into a fight?"

"Twas no attempt to fight; twas fact," she replied stiffly. "You have never previously shown any interest in my wishes or my life; why start now?"

Why indeed? He should just ignore her. She was trouble on legs; he had no business getting involved with her in any way. He turned back to his work.

"I find your silence most intriguing."

"I don't care!" he said, somewhat defensively.

"Then why, pray tell, did you ask?"

He was honestly not sure. This thing with the book was messing with his head.

It burst out of him. "Why do you hate your mother?"

Again, Morrigan seemed surprised, but the curling smile that lit her face a moment later indicated it was a pleasant one. "Well, now, that is an interesting question. Why don't you hate yours?"

"What?" Percy was so shocked that he forgot his armor altogether. "Because she was my mother! She was always there for me, supporting me when I needed it, and scolding me when I needed that as well."

"Well, suffice to say that mine was not."

"That can't possibly be true."

"Can't it?" Morrigan arched a brow and leaned forward, giving Percival a spectacular view that reminded him of a certain night back in Lothering. He swallowed. "Would your mother have destroyed every trinket or toy you held dear, simply so that she could be the sole recipient of your affections? Would she have kept you in a cottage away from any form of civilization, reliant on her for everything from food to social interactions? Would she have refused to allow you to venture beyond that until such a time as doing so benefited her? Is that the sort of thing a loving, supportive mother would do, Warden?"

Percival was shocked… but that description explained so much. "If you were so aware of what she was doing, why did you stay with her for so long?

"Being aware of her manipulations is not the same thing as being capable of escaping them." Morrigan sat back with a shrug, as if it were nothing, when it was, in fact, everything. "I had no knowledge of the outside world, and I'd met enough Templars who wandered into the Wilds after Mother to know what they would do to me as soon as they suspected what I was."

"But then why did she let you go now? Certainly, traveling with us is teaching you to be self-sufficient. She has to know that you will be able to escape her now."

Morrigan hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps she believes that the risk of my defection is worth it, if I achieve what I set out to do."

"And what would that be?"

A pause, barely detectible. "Why, help stop the Blight, of course."

Percival snorted. "It can't just be that, if she was that obsessed with keeping you leashed"

"It is, as far as you are concerned." Morrigan sighed. "My mother's mind is a strange place. She did not take me in for companionship, as far as I can tell."

"Well, why did she?"

"If I were capable of understanding the twists of her ill mind, I would have gone insane long ago."

"Oh come, it can't be that bad. You grew up with her; you must know her mind on some level."

"Only in that I know it better than any other mere mortal." She threw her hands in the air. "Everything she ever shared with me was on her own terms. What little she has told me of her life may very well be fiction. I've had nothing concrete that she did not spoon-feed me herself, so how am I to know truth from falsity?"

Percival groaned, because it was as if the Maker himself were telling him what to do. It was too much. He turned to Hugo and whispered a short set of orders into the mabari's ear. Hugo stood and took off at a lope toward the other side of the campsite. The others were too caught up in whatever tale Garott was telling to notice.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. "What, pray tell, was that about?" Percival raised his hand in a gesture begging patience.

A moment later, the mabari returned, a big black book clenched firmly in his jaws. Hugo dropped it in Morrigan's lap and panted, looking proud of himself. There was some sort of leaf clipping on his muzzle.

"Ugh… what is it now, you mutt?" Morrigan held the book away from herself so the dog slobber dripped away from her. Then, she blinked and held it closer. "Wait… this is…"

"Flemeth's grimoire," Percival finished quietly. He watched the camp, but no one had taken notice of the mabari going through Felicity's herb bag. Small surprise, with how often the dog was caught with his nose in Morrigan's.

Morrigan held it close to herself and started going through it. "Where on earth…?"

"It was in the Circle Tower, apparently. Felicity was keeping it."

"And she told you about it, it seems," the witch snapped, looking up at him sharply.

"Yes." Percival bowed his head in acceptance of her anger. "I was part of the deception, however small a part, and for that I apologize."

Her angry expression faded to something cool and guarded. "Then why give it to me now?"

"Because it is your right. Whether you get along with her or not, she is your mother. Whatever is done with that book, it should be your decision."

Morrigan ran her hands over the book's cover, the coldness in her expression fading. "But what if there are dark magics in here? Surely your Maker would object to my learning them."

"Possibly, but it is not my place to say."

Morrigan was quiet for a time, and then started going through the book. Percival found himself watching her, marveling at how the slight furrow of concentration on her brow made her seem so much more… human. The way she worried her lip as she flipped through it was the manner of a young woman striving to understand, rather than a witch looking to manipulate.

Manipulation, Percy realized, that she must have picked up from Flemeth. How could she be otherwise, when she knew no other way to be?

One of her long-fingered hands ran along a strange diagram on one page, her lips mouthing words Percival could not guess. Once again, he was reminded what an exotic specimen of woman she was. Crafted by her mother to be irresistible bait, a shrewd assistant, and a cold woman who rejected any attachment out of hand.

But underneath that was curiosity and strength that was fascinating in its draw. His initial attraction to her had been shallow: attracted to her wild beauty and mysterious air. But there was so much more to her than that, and he was shocked to realize that he rather wanted to unwrap this shelled being, to see what sort of creature lay inside.

She glanced up at him, her golden eyes catching his, and he startled as he realized he'd been staring. "You are a very strange man," she said. She turned her head and caught his lips in a swift, blazing kiss. He reached for her, but she was gone before his hands got there; her body and book both disappeared into the cavern darkness in the form of some small furred thing, no doubt to contemplate the tome in solitude.

Percival found himself wishing that the kiss had been longer, and that Morrigan had stayed with him. Never before had sitting alone felt so lonely.