A Dream Of The Witch
The rain outside the tent droned on, a relentless and steady rhythm, but inside the confines of sleep, Morrigan found no reprieve. The boundaries of the waking world blurred, and she fell into a dream that quickly twisted into a nightmare.
She stood in a clearing, the air thick with a choking fog that clung to her skin like cold fingers. The trees surrounding her were gnarled and lifeless, their bare branches twisted into grotesque shapes. The ground beneath her feet was soft and wet, but it wasn't mud—it was blood, dark and viscous, pooling around her boots with every step she took. The coppery smell filled her nose, making her stomach churn.
"Morrigan," a voice called, faint and melodic, yet unmistakably taunting.
Her breath caught, and she spun around, clutching at her staff—only to find it gone. She was unarmed, exposed. Shadows flickered at the edges of her vision, and the voice came again, closer this time.
"Morrigan, my dear girl. Have you come to see me?"
It was Flemeth. But the voice was not warm, nor even mocking—it was venomous, crawling under her skin like a thousand insects.
"Mother?" Morrigan called, though her voice trembled despite her best efforts. Her chest tightened, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. She felt small, powerless—a sensation she had fought to bury ever since she had left the Wilds.
The fog parted suddenly, and there she was. Flemeth stood before her, larger than life, her features sharper and more terrifying than Morrigan remembered. Her eyes burned with a sickly green light, her hair flowing unnaturally as if caught in a phantom wind. The darkness behind her twisted and shifted, shapes forming and dissipating—ghostly, indistinct figures that seemed to watch Morrigan with hollow eyes.
Morrigan tried to move, but her legs felt rooted in place. "What... what is this?" she stammered, her voice barely audible.
"This," Flemeth said, stepping closer, "is your fate, child." Her voice was both mocking and cruel, each word striking like a blade. "Did you think you could escape it? That you could escape me?"
Morrigan shook her head, trying to summon her usual defiance, but the oppressive weight of the dream crushed her will. "I am not yours to control, Mother," she managed to say, though her voice wavered. "I will not let you take me."
Flemeth's laughter echoed through the clearing, cold and hollow, the sound reverberating in Morrigan's skull. "Take you?" she sneered. "Oh, my darling. I made you. You are mine, in blood and soul, in every way that matters. Do not pretend you are anything more than what I allowed you to be."
Morrigan's breathing quickened, her chest heaving as fear and rage warred within her. "You raised me as a tool, nothing more," she spat, her fists clenched. "You used me!"
Flemeth's expression darkened, her glowing eyes narrowing. "And what of it? Did I not give you everything you needed? Strength, knowledge, power? You should be grateful, child. Without me, you would have been nothing. Another mewling whelp lost in the Wilds."
"I hate you," Morrigan whispered, her voice trembling.
Flemeth smiled at that, a slow, cruel smile. "Do you?" she asked, stepping closer still. "Are you certain? Or are you simply afraid? Afraid that without me, you are nothing."
The ground beneath Morrigan began to shift, the blood rising like a tide around her ankles. She gasped, trying to step back, but her legs wouldn't move. The shadows behind Flemeth crept closer, forming shapes that whispered her name, their hollow voices scratching at her ears.
"I gave you purpose," Flemeth continued, her voice now filling the clearing, overpowering even the whispers. "Without me, you have none. And yet you come for me, thinking yourself brave. Foolish child. You will never be free of me."
"Stop it!" Morrigan shouted, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "You don't know me! I—"
But the words died on her lips as Flemeth's face shifted, transforming. It was no longer the crone she knew—it was her own face staring back at her, twisted into a mocking sneer. "You are me, Morrigan. You always have been. And you always will be."
"No!" Morrigan screamed, thrashing against the unseen force holding her in place. The blood was at her knees now, rising higher, threatening to swallow her whole.
Flemeth—or the version of her wearing Morrigan's face—smiled cruelly, her voice soft and cold. "Come, my darling. Let me show you what lies ahead."
With a sharp motion, she extended her hand, and the darkness surged forward. Morrigan was engulfed, the blood dragging her down as Flemeth's laughter filled her ears.
She woke with a strangled cry, bolting upright in the tent. Her heart raced, her skin clammy with sweat despite the cool air. The rain outside was still falling, its steady rhythm a stark contrast to the chaos of her dream.
"Morrigan?" Wynne's voice came softly from the other side of the tent. "Are you all right?"
Morrigan took a deep, shuddering breath, willing her hands to stop trembling. "It is nothing," she said, though her voice betrayed her unease. "Only a dream."
"A nightmare, more likely," Wynne murmured, sitting up and studying her with a concerned expression.
Morrigan glanced at her briefly before turning away, her golden eyes fixed on the tent's entrance. She could still feel Flemeth's voice in her mind, the weight of her words pressing down on her chest.
She knows we are coming, Morrigan thought, her hands curling into fists. And she waits. But I will not falter. I will not become her.
The rain continued to fall, its rhythm steady and unyielding, as Morrigan sat silently, her mind racing with fear and defiance.