Chapter 42: Riding a Whisper

Morrigan

`Tis strange how the tremulous wings of a whisper can set in motion a revolution.

I no longer take for granted that I can sway others. That had been Mother's failing and it had cost her. I had failed once myself in that respect: misjudging the fidelity of the one I called friend and assuming a broken heart would not worry over acts so natural to beasts. A human heart is a curious thing and it still baffles and overturns that which I would order.

Yet she had murdered Mother at my asking.

I wonder at times why she had done it. I could not pay her, except in service, and even that she took advantage of sparingly. She was want to worry for me and was wary about where she sent me, for fear that I should be put in danger or made vulnerable to attack. This was not truly unusual, for she did so for the older Mage. In truth she did it for all of us: the assassin, the bard, the dwarf, the qunari warrior…even the golem. She did not take any of us for granted and would have balked at putting us in needless danger. She always had a plan, a way around so that all could find safety, even to the point of putting herself in jeopardy.

There was that one time…

Strange what the mind recalls when the author of such memories has quit our sight, our presence, our understanding…

We had been ambushed, there was no time for plans, there was no time for strategy, there was only survival by sword or claw or strength of arm. The others were far from me and I was surrounded, the creatures and their stench were overwhelming and my resources were at an end. Their soulless grimacing and their grunting before their frenzied striking surrounded me. I managed to fell some of the immediate threat with a psychic blast, incapacitating their simple minds and some fell to their knees, staggered, but that was not enough.

I remember my idle thoughts, "This is what it is to be swarmed and consumed. This is what it is for the lone wolf with no pack. This is what humans refer to when they speak of futility and hopelessness: without shield or shoulder to offer aid. Was this the legacy that Mother spoke of, either one must stand alone or one must fall alone?"

I would not be missed. Mother, whether deserving of that title or not, would not care if I were gone, save for the inconvenience of finding another to mold and manipulate. The empty-headed Templar would rejoice to be free of me. The others would not care one way or another, though they might shake their head sadly over my broken body and cluck their tongues in pity. I merited not the warmth of mourning or regret.

I had maintained my separation, thinking it had made me superior and then there was no one to stand beside me. There was no one to grip my hand and strive to keep me present as I was swept unwillingly into the Veil.

At that moment there was a roar and the monsters thinned out before her, as she fought through them to reach me. Covered in blood, teeth gritted, blades flashing like lightning strikes, she reminded me of a she-bear protecting her cubs. The beasts seemed in my perspective to become visibly smaller, insignificant in the presence of her petite power, her protective rage. She was soon at my side, forcing the monsters from me and I felt safe.

"Safe."

That is such an odd word for one who has lived as I have. It is even more peculiar to feel it, to experience it when all you have ever known was uncertainty.

When the threat had passed, she sat with me, checked my wounds, and waited until she had satisfied herself that I was well.

Afterwards it was never spoken of, for she required no thanks. She requested no payment or recognition. If anything she seemed far more deferential to me afterwards, though she strove to not make it obvious. Part of me simultaneously resented it and garnered a sense of security from it. I was carried, though I created weight.

Perhaps that is what made her powerful in the end. She carried not only us, but a nation. We were all her Alienage. If we fell her Alienage would fall, and no one would lift a finger to save them, so she included all of us.

My entire life I had assumed that death was a thing unwelcomed, but in her final decision I have come to see that when you carry such a burden, perhaps death is the only rest afforded. It is the final sacrifice that perhaps is not a sacrifice at all.

I had learned from my friend that standing alone can be suicide.

That is why the Avvars cannot stand alone in this endeavor. That is why they needed to act as one. There would be no one to mourn them if they fell.

The knight from Redcliffe turned out to be a boon from some benevolent force. As well as I might arrange things, not even I could have conjured that. Even Flemeth herself might have been hard pressed in her own machinations to produce such violent benevolence in one being. Initially I had my doubts of him, wondering if he would lower himself to champion these people and lead the charge against the Templars, but there is an indignation that he will not speak of that stirs him. The woman, the Fade Walker, she knows of it but will not confide in me.

She is wary and wonderful in her sight. I prefer her caution to the others' superstitious fears. She does not fear me, but she does not take my aid for granted. Unfortunately, perhaps, she will not be maneuvered, she will not be swayed, and she will not be coaxed or prodded against her better judgment. Open eyes and a sharp mind are dangerous things in those who have lived as long as she. She might even have been a rival for Flemeth, though I confess to prefer her to Mother. Flemeth would have liked her and laughed at my squirming. The woman sees far too much for one who looks askance.

What of it if my purpose be self-preservation!

Flemeth is not dead, her bile will not sleep. When she has gathered herself again, she will move against me: I would be a fool if I did not believe that. I was the author of her downfall, though I made no move to strike directly. It was better to destroy her before she destroyed me.

That is what I believe. That is what I am sure of…or so I tell myself.

The one who would have helped willingly is gone. I had no hand in her death, but I feel it far more acutely than the feigned death of the woman I called, "Mother." For all of it, I miss her, not for the fact that she would have helped me, but for the fact that she would have stood with me if I fell, she would have held my hand if I failed in these ends to preserve myself.

She would have mourned me, though that grief was the solitary monument to my life. I would have had worth and would have been remembered.

My struggle is futile, even as the struggle of these people is futile, for the possibility of success is laughable. Even should we win, even if I should maneuver them to obtain what I must to protect my own life, there will always be more shadows. There will always be uncertain threats from the corner of one's eyes where one suspects the blow shall come. I will never be as safe again as I was that one time.

I feel victory in my ability to move us forward, with me riding their backs to my intended destination, and I feel defeat knowing it will never be enough.

It is a tremulous whisper that I ride, and it will not be enough to carry me, though it blows down the entire Chantry of Thedas.

While the knight plays chieftain and the woman plays healer, I am playing scout with the hunters that can be spared from training. The Templars have taken prisoners to their mine for their personal gain. (Odd, how they and I seem to have no qualms using others to meet our ends, though I have stayed my hand from causing harm…as yet.) Their tracks are deep, though we had found signs of a struggle amid one of their camps and the corpses of darkspawn littered the ground.

It is hard to hide the distaste I feel for the creatures in general, but now they represent another threat, a complication to my freshly laid plans. They were another obstacle to an already impossible task. Our army, if it could be called thus, was small enough without having to contend with the beasts further thinning our numbers, though I should not have been surprised. I had a talent for being foisted into impossible causes, though for once I was the one responsible for hurtling myself into this affair.

I brooded over this the entire length of the road ahead, looking for other unwelcome signs, when we happened upon a crossroads and a tree. From the tree a body dangled on a noose, swaying with the stirring breeze.

What I saw was not uncommon for darkspawn to string up their victims like wind chimes or charms against ill-fortune. However something about this sight seemed wrong. There was no blood and the body looked pristine, unmarred by injury. It looked like a thin white waif.

It was puzzling, but what was far more startling was when I heard the thin gasp escape the lips and the eyes fluttered open, focusing on me.

It, or rather she, was still alive.