The brother and sister parted without unnecessary drama. The words that needed to be said had already been spoken. The final stroke was a long, mutual glance and Carver's nod, releasing Bethany and himself into the unknown. Two boats drifted along the same river in opposite directions. One slid effortlessly into the rapids and raced downstream. The other, hugging the shore, began a slow, laborious climb against the current.
The journey back to Lothering took nearly twice as long. Alim worked the pole for most of it, though the passengers took turns giving him brief respites. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, stretching shadows from one bank to the other, the boat finally grounded. The settlement lay hidden beyond a bend in the river and a gentle hill, shielded from casual travelers by a lone, ancient willow and waist-high wildgrass. After hauling the rickety vessel ashore, everyone but Leliana settled in the tree's shade. The 'sister', smoothing and dusting her clothes, locked eyes with Morrigan and said:
— Wait for me at nightfall. I'll return before the fog rolls in.
— If that's the case, there's no need to wait at all.
Leliana nodded, swept her gaze over the others—lingering a heartbeat longer on the elf—and strode across the field toward the settlement. A pair of yellow eyes darted from the retreating figure to the man, but after licking her lips, the girl decided not to needle her companion about his obvious weakness for redheaded beauties. The thoughts plaguing the elf were new to him—and that alone was amusing. The witch harbored a genuine curiosity about how this dance between opposites would unfold. Until now, Alim had been driven by his bond with his sister, a rope woven from affection and duty. But another woman's image was slowly encroaching on untouched territory, seeding doubt in his mind.
Silence settled over the remaining companions, each lost in their own thoughts. Alim sat at the water's edge, scowling at the river's capricious yet unchanging flow. Bethany, eyes closed, lounged comfortably in the grass, clearly trying to think of nothing at all. Morrigan…
Stretched on the ground, her gaze fixed on the swaying weave of branches above, the witch mentally retraced the events of recent days. Amid the straightforward facts, visible only in isolation, lurked oddities that emerged when viewing the bigger picture. In her mind festered the idea of possession—a parasite claiming more and more of her attention. And beyond that, a question: how deeply had these events altered her very self?
It began simply. Morrigan wondered—why had she chosen to pass through Lothering? That decision was the root of all subsequent misfortunes. Had she truly needed respite, a warm bed, food, and comforts? Upon reflection, no. Without undue sacrifice, they could have avoided… all this. Yet she had always regarded Lothering as a focal point for her curiosity. After all, it was the largest settlement in Ferelden within walking distance of her home in the Korcari Wilds. She recalled visits to other outposts on the Wilds' edge, but none had yielded truly memorable adventures.
It started with reckless behavior in Merinwood, a hamlet of a dozen homes. Her "mischief" drew a patrol of Lothering's Templars. Of course, they found no trace of the young mage. But her next visit coincided perfectly with the ill-fated patrol's base. The temple, massive by Korcari standards. The strange mills with their incredible spinning blades. The teeming crowds. These etched themselves into her memory. The girl's sharp eyes immediately fixed on the local attraction—merchant wagons laden with dozens of curios, some of which later found a new owner without anyone's knowledge.
The defining memory of her childhood, however, was an encounter with an unknown aristocrat visiting what northerners would call a backwater. The impressive carriage, the lady's resplendent gown, and the glittering jewels left an indelible mark on the wild girl. Her prize from that meeting was a miniature lady's mirror, framed in gold and lacquered wood—a treasure that became a wellspring of vivid emotions. The triumph of possession, wrapped in girlish daydreams, and the deep, childish resentment when it vanished into the depths of her mother's worn clothing. For a week after, Flemeth called her a foolish magpie, whose nest could be found by the glint of shiny trinkets.
Thus, the girl's interest paved the way to the present, stretching straight from childhood. Absently plucking a blade of grass and pressing it between her full, naturally elegant lips—untouched by cosmetics—Morrigan seized the elusive thought. In her youth, she had indeed been fascinated by bright, glittering adornments. Back then, she couldn't tell the difference between cheap baubles and true treasures—amber or glass beads strung by the Hasind from the Frostback Sea's sandy shores, east of the marshes near Gwaren. Later, it was the gleam of gold, silver, and gemstones that captivated her. But now…
The witch raised a hand to her eyes, studying the scratched gold band on her finger. A strange gift from Flemeth, like everything else tied to that woman. One day, the unremarkable trinket had simply appeared on a cord by her bed. Despite her daughter's delight, Flemeth later ignored all questions about it, as if the ring and the legendary Witch of the Wilds shared no connection. Yet, to Morrigan, it remained precious—both as a memento and as the only real treasure her mother hadn't coveted. Now, the ring evoked only memories. The gold's luster and its material worth no longer stirred her. After some thought, Morrigan concluded she had outgrown that old craving.
She tore free another blade of grass, rolling it between her fingers. The previous thought was supplanted by a new one: had she truly outgrown it? Or merely found a new obsession? Irritated, she watched as the over-twisted stem split, leaving a sticky residue on her skin. Was she still a child, trading one shiny trinket for another? The comparison made her shoulders tense involuntarily. The jab was too accurate. Too… humiliating.
And was this, too, another strangeness? Undoubtedly. Resisting the notion that this change was for the better required focus. Logically, while trapped in dependency, it's hard to imagine one's behavior without it. The reverse holds true as well. Thus, evaluating the pros and cons is easier for others than for oneself. But the fact that this shift hadn't been her choice painted the picture in undeniably grim tones.
Having set aside the question for now and spat out the chewed blade of grass, the witch turned to another topic. Moving deliberately through the torrent of her thoughts, she asked—how had the chain of events led her to the Templars' dungeons? After consideration, Morrigan shook her head. The crux wasn't why. That answer had a solid logical foundation and no contradictions. Who would risk an open confrontation against three Templars in a confined space with only one exit? Especially in a settlement rife with rumors of brutal reprisals against anyone even vaguely resembling an apostate?
What troubled her was something else. How little the dungeon—and the prospect of it—had frightened her. In the past, enclosed spaces had been a source of genuine discomfort. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, sifting through memories of her brief imprisonment. There had been nervousness, fueled by uncertainty. Anxiety… But not a trace of panic at the thought of execution. Carefully sorting through her feelings, Morrigan—first skeptically, then with growing certainty—recognized the obvious. Lurking beneath the surface was an unshakable confidence, just as in Ostagar, that at the last moment, she could "transform". Having experienced the capabilities of that form firsthand, she harbored no doubt about escaping the dungeon. It seemed even Alim had ultimately entertained the same possibility.
Yet, while Morrigan didn't debate the validity of such expectations, her reflections snagged on a subtle inconsistency. Something unsettled her. A dissonance in the natural flow of her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall—what exact conclusions had she reached, time and again, about the spell and the strange new "form"? Day after day. Just as a furrow of tension had etched itself onto her brow, so too had a discrepancy taken shape in her mind—palpable on an instinctual level, yet hidden in her blind spot.
Since the transformation atop Ishal's Tower, Morrigan had faced countless situations, from trivial to dire, where "transformation" could have been invaluable, if not decisive. Yet in each case, she'd rationally weighed the risks and refused to rely on magic whose outcomes were no longer predictable. She'd been lucky once. There was no guarantee a second attempt at body-altering magic would end as harmlessly. Running a hand slowly over her face, as if brushing away an invisible web, Morrigan shuddered inwardly. Despite consciously rejecting the spell, she remained subconsciously convinced of its inevitability in a crisis. Even now, she was prepared to take that step.
Twisting the ring on her finger absently, she added this newfound "mental dissonance" to her growing list of concerns. Her gaze drifted back to the tree branches, bitter epithets and a grim conclusion lingering on her tongue—it seemed the required discipline might even exceed Flemeth's self-control.
With a fleeting glance at Bethany, Morrigan took the next mental step. Why had she followed this girl? The need for transportation sprang to mind first. She clenched her fingers around a willow branch until the bark bit into her skin. Transportation? On second thought, the idea was laughable. She could have stolen horses. Or turned the fool Templars into a smoldering shield while fleeing through the hills. Morrigan abruptly released the branch, studying the red marks left on her palm.
Yet here she was. With her. Her eyes slid to Bethany—to the absurdly tousled chestnut locks, to the fingers nervously crumpling the edge of her cloak. What was so special about her? A foolish girl with a handful of spells barely fit to kill a fly… Then she remembered how the "foolish girl" had behaved in the dungeon. How her eyes had flashed—not with fear, but something else—when she first witnessed "Flaming Hands" in action. Even as a child, drawn to shiny trinkets, Morrigan had at least been honest: "I want this!" Now… Now she hid behind pragmatic lies, as if ashamed of her own desires. Pathetic.
Morrigan inhaled sharply, as if the air had thickened. No. Just… professional curiosity. The young mage's magic was clumsy, unrefined, but… The dark-haired witch caught herself staring at how the sunset played in Bethany's hair and bit her lip hard. Pain brought clarity. And with it, a simple answer: the girl was a walking library of forbidden knowledge. Her father had transcribed formulae. Who knew what other treasures lay hidden there? Irritated, Morrigan realized she was fidgeting with her ring again.
Her lips curled into a greedy smirk—just like when she'd first seen that little mirror. Only now, the prize wasn't a trinket, but… Bethany herself had been the reason. Curiosity. Admitting it made her cheeks flush faintly. For some reason, the thought felt embarrassingly foolish. But Morrigan suspected—nature abhors a vacuum. One obsession inevitably replaced another.
Striving for rationality, she reviewed their encounters since that ill-fated morning at the Grey Wardens' outpost. By her reckoning, not everyone evoked this… interest. Silently mouthing names—Alim, Alistair, Duncan, Bethany… After a pause, Leliana was added with hesitation. In Morrigan's view, all were complex, inside and out. (She wrinkled her nose and made an exception for Alistair, though grudgingly.) Each shared a capacity for hard decisions and single-minded focus. Yet the elf and the young Hawke stood apart intuitively. One might conclude she favored mages, but… Weighing the idea, Morrigan shook her head. Too simplistic. No, it wasn't mages themselves. It was the spells.
Retreating into memory, she recalled how magic had dominated her interests since childhood, rivaled only by mischief and exploration. But new spells had never been objects of possession, of greed. Now? The mere thought of the intricate formula behind Alim's "Repulsion Field" made her pulse quicken. Biting her lower lip, she realized—from this perspective, both the elf and her new companion were merely elegant vessels, holding tantalizing knowledge until the right moment.
And… Cold logic deemed this abnormal. Goosebumps prickled her skin as fear loomed over her emotions. Fear of the growing rift between her memories of herself and her current state. With each revelation, the picture shifted—from circumstances where only some traits or thoughts had changed, to ones where only some had remained unchanged. Rubbing her forehead, Morrigan exhaled slowly, steadying her heartbeat and forcibly subduing the storm of fragmented doubts threatening to drown reason in chaos.
One question remained, one the witch had been avoiding. Acknowledging the cowardice in this, she closed her eyes. Had she truly risked her life only for Alim and Bethany? Memory reminded her: every Templar she'd killed in the past had been on her terms, in her territory, and strictly one at a time. Confronting three head-on in the open was reckless by any measure. Alim, Bethany, and the knowledge they harbored paled in comparison to her own survival. Unless…
Setting the problem aside, she revisited the tactics she'd employed against the Templars. They'd shown a glaring disregard for her own safety. Morrigan tapped a finger against her lips, then shook her head. The physical toll had been mitigated by spells—cold logic and a willingness to step beyond the familiar. Every detail seemed calculated. But could the collateral damage be so easily dismissed?
More than once in her youth, curiosity had led her to fall from great heights. Flemeth, never one for coddling, had once remarked with a smirk: "Pain is the truest teacher." Two broken bones had taught the girl—who'd become the witch—to treat pain with utter seriousness and avoid foolish mistakes. But now… something had changed. Pain no longer seared or clawed at her consciousness. It came—then dissolved, as if filtered through water. As if her body, battered repeatedly, had learned to shut itself off. Or… as if it were someone else's body.
Confronting the facts, she faced the conclusion: her impulsive decision had been made without a trace of fear, as if the instinct itself had been erased. Once, every cut and bruise had forced her to weigh risks instantly. Now, even wounded, she felt no primal dread—only cold calculus, as if her mind had severed from flesh. Worse, that decision had reeked of arrogance, a disregard for her companions' lives…
Morrigan froze, unwilling to scare off a flicker of insight. Whose lives had she disregarded? Who, exactly, had she bound herself to with that spell? Carver, who'd sparked no curiosity in her. And Leliana, whom instinct demanded she distrust. But there'd also been Carver's quiet companion. Morrigan twitched her cheek dismissively, focusing instead on her reaction to Bethany's brother. She'd taken an interest in the young mage first, only learning of him later. Recalling her fleeting irritation—she hadn't liked it… Greed. The realization that her object of interest was tied to another had rankled.
The discovery felt simple and wrong. A wry smile touched her lips as she remembered her own response to the loyalty oath. It seemed hypocritical now, but… The truth was, the oath had always been superficial, insubstantial. Like summer flowers vanishing without trace in autumn.
What, then, of Leliana? Morrigan tilted her head, selecting the aptest words—depth and perception. An unknowable motive force. The fear that the bard might effortlessly read her hidden fears and wield them as weapons.
Rubbing her eyes, Morrigan reached a verdict: in moments of haste, she weighed lives like objects, shedding self-preservation as one might a cloak. And it was beyond her control… Her thoughts flowed like the river—relentless, yet strangely faceless. As if another mind dissected her fears and changes.
One truth remained. No one can lift themselves from a swamp by their own hair—they need at least a branch to grasp. For Morrigan, that branch must be Kinloch Hold's knowledge of possession. And her drive to unravel the problem grew daily, fueled by encroaching dread. As did the problem itself.
The silence between them shattered with a loud, pointed growl—so expressive even the introspective Morrigan couldn't ignore it. She turned slowly to Alim, as if returning from a distant journey through her mind's labyrinth. The elf sat with arms crossed over his stomach, the very picture of a man betrayed by his own body.
— We managed a snack on the way here. Has it truly been so long?
He snorted.
— Stale flatbread—a feast in times of plague. Especially when split between two, and you 'graciously' yielded. You might not need food, but recall—it's been a day since we last ate properly. Amusing. Even during the trek from… Ahem. We fared better then.
— And whose fault is that?
— Yours. Obviously.
She nodded. Rolling onto her side and propping her head on her hands, she said:
— You're right about one thing. Food wouldn't go amiss. And the best way to endure hunger is to sleep.
* * *
— ...an...
— ...gan!
Morrigan's eyes flew open as she gasped sharply for air. A scowling elf crouched beside her, while Bethany peered anxiously over his shoulder from behind. The fading twilight wrapped gently around them, the first impatient stars already dotting the clear sky. Glaring between the two, the witch growled in irritation and rose to her feet.
— Was I thrashing again?
Too matter-of-factly for his own liking, the man confirmed:
— Yes. I thought—
— Thank you.
Striding to the riverbank, she knelt and scooped handfuls of icy dark water to wash away the remnants of sleep. After three splashes, she turned back.
— How long was I out?
— Remarkable—even an innocent question sounds ominous when you say it. Or is that just me? No matter. Three hours, at most.
Her gaze shifted to their new companion, and she sighed.
— This is new to you, I take it? Yes, nightmares plague me sometimes. Strange ones. But pay them no mind.
Alim snorted sarcastically but offered no further comment. After a pause, he asked:
— Remember anything?
— Why the interest?
— A thousand apologies for the intrusion, but if you must know—you were thrashing again. And yes, I'm curious if you recalled anything this time.
Bethany stared at the mage, wide-eyed. Even Morrigan's brows climbed at the uncharacteristic outburst from the usually reserved man. The unexpected turn left her scrambling for a response. Licking her lips, she turned back to the water.
— Well... Hmm. Clever.
— What?
— Have it your way. Fine. It's always the same. A strange forest, as if freshly scorched by fire. Sometimes the plants shift—one moment familiar, the next utterly alien. A haze blurs everything beyond ten paces. Ash falls... except it's not ash. The only change is the... presence. Movement at the edge of vision, growing stronger each time. This time, I almost saw a figure in the mist. No clearer than a silhouette in evening fog.
— That sounds... less than ideal.
— You asked for truth, not comfort. Surprised?
— No... It's not that. I think I understand now why you need the Circle's library.
As he finished, Alim shot Bethany a long, odd look, making her glance away awkwardly. Morrigan didn't miss it. Was there some pact between them, forged behind her back? What were they plotting? Had this entire exchange been staged to pry nightmare details from her? Suppressing the chaotic thoughts, she splashed her face again.
— Bethany. Best occupy that mind of yours. If you're to master your art, I'll need to know what spells you've learned. Unless you object.
The girl flushed but nodded, sitting cross-legged beside her.
— Um... I know 'Flaming Hands.' My father adapted the 'Flaming Weapon' formula so I could use it without burning myself. But... he said it only works safely with a strong predisposition to pyromancy. Which I have. There's also 'Blazing Flash.'
— Rewriting formulae... We've had this conversation before, haven't we? So this is where the true masters hide—on farms, amid fields and hills, avoiding notice. Go on.
Bethany clenched her fists, as if angry with herself:
— That's... all I know. For now.
Alim, leaning against the willow, was little more than a silhouette in the dark. His voice was flat when he remarked:
— Not much.
The young mage nodded, unashamed.
— It isn't.
Morrigan let out a derisive snort.
— And how many spells have you mastered?
The elf raised a hand, starting to count on his fingers.
— Well—
— Exactly. Not many more. Bethany—do anger often grip you? Or do you act rashly, where emotions outweigh logic?
— Hmm... Sometimes. Not often, but in my youth, I'd act on impulse and regret it later. My father made sure I recognized the flaw. I learned to think twice. Why?
— Such traits are common in fire-witches, pyromancers. Mother called them 'rabid bitches.' Yet she never refused to teach them. So—was your decision to join us truly not impulsive?
The young mage shook her head solemnly, then nodded in satisfaction at her "student". The mentor quickly whispered a dozen questions about the runes likely used in the spells Bethany knew. Confirming the girl's solid foundation, she moved to a trickier topic. Clearing a patch of earth between the willow roots where moonlight provided enough illumination, Morrigan snapped off a low-hanging branch. After stripping it of leaves and flexible shoots, she handed the stick to Bethany.
— Can you map the runic structure of 'Flaming Hands'?
— But—
— The structure. Not the runes themselves.
— Oh!
Eagerly, the chestnut-haired girl nodded and began digging small holes in the dirt. They formed a chain that spiraled outward in a square pattern, branching into five or six offshoots at each turn on the final loop. Over sixty rune positions in total. Morrigan squinted at the design and muttered under her breath:
— Overcomplicated. Clumsy. Redundant...
Then, eyeing Bethany—who was unconsciously bending the stick—she clarified:
— This is all of it?
— Yes.
— Six dozen runes?
— Yes.
— But... why single-layered?
Bethany fell silent, bewildered by her own work. Alim, however, stepped forward to examine the diagram.
— I don't see the issue. How else would it look?
Morrigan cleared another patch and swiftly sketched a six-rayed figure with three holes per ray, deliberately making the central and terminal holes larger. A second design followed: three rays connected by a circular band, with the same emphasized points. A third resembled the first but with three elongated rays. Together, they matched the sixty rune positions exactly. The elf scratched his chin, his eyes glinting in the dark as he studied them.
— Three different spells?
— One. 'Disorientation.' A hex. Three-layered. The larger points are interlayer connections.
Alim's brows shot up.
— Three layers? A sixty-rune hex... Remarkable.
Morrigan frowned, glancing at Bethany to confirm this wasn't a jest, then said slowly:
— Correct me if I'm wrong. Is this your first time seeing a multi-layered rune structure with more than one paired connection? Both of you?
Bethany nodded eagerly; Alim, pensively.
— This... is fascinating. The Circle teaches only single-layered arrays—traditional methods for parchment, sand, or wax tablets. Simple, rule-based, meant as a 'foundation'. But foundations shouldn't limit thought. Yet here... no contradictions. The Circle's approach is just a subset of yours. Intentional choice, stupidity... or decay?
Bethany added:
— Father never mentioned this, nor did his occasional guests.
Rubbing her temple, Morrigan sighed.
— Of course. In the Korcari Wilds, we have no parchment or wax tablets—only beeswax in hives. Mother taught me theory with colored pebbles, assembling any pattern needed.
Alim stiffened, gripping his cloak. He shot Bethany a glance—gauging her absorption in the diagrams—then spoke carefully, pausing to let Morrigan interject:
— Hasind magic—
— The Hasind have no art of their own. Those who'd be witches learn from Mother.
A wry smile touched Alim's lips as his gaze flicked to her ring. The name slipped out:
— Flemeth.
Bethany gasped. Morrigan's face twisted into a mask of fury, carved from moonlit marble. She jabbed the mage's shoulder hard, hissing through clenched teeth:
— How long will you pilfer what isn't yours? The worst guest is the welcomed one—who steals first! And stupidity is no excuse!
Alim blinked.
— When was I ever 'welcomed'?
Bethany stepped between them.
— Please, calm down. Alim, she's angry because you mentioned her mother's name without asking. Like when you revealed hers earlier. I think—
— Angry?! Furious!
The elf threw up his hands.
— Bloody Void—what kind of—
Cutting himself off, he rubbed his brow and spoke deliberately:
— Truthfully, this is an odd grievance…
Morrigan jabbed her finger into Alim's chest again, cutting him off mid-sentence.
— You don't see the point of my reaction? Yet you don't rush to share details of your own life. I've never heard you casually drop your sister's name in conversation. But others' secrets? Those you scatter freely. I—
Her fingers dug into her forearms, leaving white streaks under pale skin. Her breath hitched momentarily before steadying—as if an invisible force were squeezing her ribs, wringing out the fury drop by drop. Her face twisted not with anger, but something sharper: the dawning realization that she was losing control of herself, and that frightened her far more than any mention of Flemeth.
When her hands finally unclenched, red crescents marked her skin. She dragged a palm down her face, wiping away emotion like rain from a window. Her voice, when she spoke, was eerily calm—but brittle, like thin ice over black water.
— I'll call this a misunderstanding, not malice. On one condition: it doesn't happen again. Any name or fact tied to me, no matter how freely shared, you'll guard. Not as your secret, but as mine. And I'll reciprocate.
The mage frowned and nodded. But three minutes of silence passed before he replied.
— Very well. My mistake. I judged the value and sensitivity of information solely from my own perspective—showing shortsightedness, not insight. I was no socialite in the Circle, nor an eloquent speaker. Frankly, I sought no company but my sister's. Mentioning names carried no hidden meaning. More jest than manipulation. I apologize.
Morrigan said nothing, but her posture eased. She glanced at Bethany, who nodded back with a crooked smile. Alim licked his lips and cautiously steered the conversation back.
— Now that we've... cleared the air. A question. Are all your spells structured this way?
— Yes. Except the transformation. That one's... different.
— And... you visualize the entire spell at once? All layers, every interlayer connection?
A single nod. The elf's brows shot up. He stared at the diagrams, shook his head in disbelief, then began tracing the patterns in the air—like a novice archer trying to hit a moving target at fifty paces. The principle seemed sound, but success was unlikely. After a minute, he grimaced and dragged a hand through his hair.
— Your mother had good reason to drill incantations into you until they became reflex. It's not just about learning an ancient tongue. They're mnemonic keys—letting you reconstruct a spell's entire three-dimensional structure flawlessly.
Morrigan blinked at the diagrams, silently forming an "Oh".
— Regardless... thank you. This gives me much to ponder.
He retreated to the water's edge, deep in thought.
Bethany seized the pause.
— Could I learn this method too?
— If you can teach a goat to turn a millwheel, why not? The question is how much time you'll invest. But…
Morrigan tapped her lips, considering. Unwittingly, her mind drifted to Flemeth's lessons—discarding the mockery, focusing on the tricks. Meaningless drills had later anchored complex skills. The realization unsettled her. Yet, as ever, she dissected it: Even in rebellion, I reach for her wisdom first.
Shaking her head, she decided: If it serves, why discard it?
— We'll start simple.
She wiped the diagrams clean.
— I'll name the number of runes and connections. You devise possible structures that fit.
Bethany nodded eagerly and began.
* * *
The night passed quicker and more carefree than the travelers had feared, filled with problem-solving and fleeting conversations in which Alim occasionally participated. The only real discomfort—aside from hunger—was the bone-chilling cold.
As the eastern horizon shifted from black to deep indigo, a silvery mist began creeping over the river, ghostly in the moonlight. Conversations died away, replaced by tense anticipation of their final companion's return. The thicker the milky veil grew, swallowing the faint stars, the more impatient Morrigan looked, the more Alim fidgeted, and the more detached Bethany became. They all knew: Lothering would be safer to traverse before dawn. But first, they had to row upstream.
When the eastern sky turned ultramarine—soon to be hidden by the rising fog—rustling grass and footsteps broke the silence. They tensed, ready to leap into the boat, but the lone figure approached openly. Even through the mist, her silhouette was unmistakably feminine.
Morrigan exhaled quietly—whether in relief or regret was unclear—and greeted the arrival:
— How touching. I'd begun to fear you'd changed your mind—run back to your 'Mother'.
The voice that answered held neither joy nor satisfaction:
— Remarkable, isn't it? Even fate grants reprieves sometimes.
Leliana's lips curved into a faint smile, but her eyes were distant. With a precise motion, she shed her cloak like years of pretense. Her fingers found the gambeson's familiar clasps—muscle memory overriding conscious effort. The 'sister' was gone. In her place stood a woman transformed.
Sturdy leather boots—with a slight heel—rose to her knees, paired with dark-green woolen breeches that accentuated her legs. A cream satin shirt peeked from beneath the thigh-length gambeson, its pale green hue matching her eyes. The ensemble was completed by leather gloves, a short woolen cape draped over her left arm, and in her right hand—a well-used longbow (its string removed) and a fishing rod. This was no ornament but a weapon with a weathered grip. A full quiver jutted over her shoulder; a broad-bladed dagger and two pouches hung at her belt. Every trace of meekness had vanished, replaced by confidence edged with gloom.
After stowing her gear in the boat, Leliana sighed audibly—as if unburdening something far heavier than mere objects. Alim shook his head, skeptical but unsurprised. Bethany, however, gaped:
— Sister... You look ready for war, not flight.
The redhead turned, her smile tinged with sadness:
— No need for shock, little Bethany. My distant past was hardly as peaceful as my years in Lothering. Beneath that veneer of warmth lies much... best forgotten.— She touched the girl's shoulder.— But the sister you knew hasn't vanished like morning mist. If you need sunlight or embraces, ask.
When Bethany reached for the new dagger, Leliana caught her wrist—too swiftly for a simple sister.
— Don't.
Her voice stayed gentle, but her grip was iron. Releasing Bethany, she ran a hand along her bow—a gesture as natural as a limb rediscovering its purpose.
Morrigan, already settling in the boat, tossed over her shoulder:
— Focus on training instead.
As they pushed off into the fog-cloaked river, the witch spoke again:
— How went your grand mission? I see no triumph—not even a ghost of satisfaction.
Leliana shrugged, gaze averted:
— I reached the Mother. Her execution left the town buzzing like a stirred hive. At night, amid flames and shouting crowds, it all feels righteous—unifying. But dawn breaks the illusion. People scatter. Alone, watching sleeping children or silent parents... doubts creep in. They want to forget, to scrub the night away. Every reminder repels. Rumors fester. And those who feed on them thrive.
She adjusted her grip on the oar.
— The Mother's act didn't secure power or win hearts. Only fear—and a desperate exodus. The Templars' victory over that bandit band spurred the chaos further. They're too busy herding panicked crowds to hunt us. Slipping into the Mother's chambers was simple. The rest... less so.
Yellow eyes fixed on the storyteller as their owner leaned forward, elbows resting on knees.
— Did expectations shatter against reality's jagged rocks?
— A fitting comparison.— Leliana adjusted her gloves.— The Mother is utterly convinced of her path. To her, awakening from doubt and inaction was a greater sin than... hastier decisions. Especially with the Blight looming. I, of all people, understand such reasoning. But where it leads...— She exhaled.— No argument swayed her. Each was met with pitying smiles that only spurred questions I'd long silenced.
Bethany arched a brow.
— Questions?
— About my past. Who I truly am. Whether I, burdened as I am, have any right to speak on such matters. Whether the Mother ever truly knew me.— Leliana's fingers tightened around her bow.— Every query carried Ser Evou's ghost. And naturally, questions about him followed. Her concern felt performative—but the mere fact they arose hints at suspicions. She knows more than she admits.
A dry chuckle escaped Morrigan:
— Choice is every fool's luxury. Though... half-truths and theatrics—aren't those the hallmarks unifying all faiths?
Leliana winced but nodded.
— True, yet untrue. People aren't so monochrome.— She recited softly, her voice melodic in the fog:
One's but a quarter steeped in grime,
Passes for decent all the time.
Another's drowned up to their hair,
And reeks no matter how they fare.
Meeting Morrigan's gaze sidelong, she added:
— Hardly profound. The Chantry has saints, scoundrels, and mostly mediocrity. But the Mother once commanded respect. Now... even veils of faith offer no armor.
Alim's pole splashed as he interjected:
— A grim topic for a misty river at night.
— Isn't night and mist the best time? Everything feels phantom—even doubts.
— Regardless. Leliana, I'm sorry trust was repaid with indifference.
— What's more regrettable? That, or my blindness? Or the Chantry squandering opportunities with blunt methods?
— Our mage excels at missing cues. Feel free to ignore him.
— Still cross? Very well.— Bethany stifled a giggle as Leliana gestured to her attire.— Ah, this? I've always kept... departure clothes handy. Personal reasons. The fishing rod required creativity, though.— Her smile turned wistful.— Had it been crimson satin with a burgundy jacket and heels, I'd be happier. But no balls await us.
Bethany's eyes sparkled imagining such finery; Morrigan studied Leliana with narrowed eyes.
— One thing gnaws at me,— the witch said.— Why did the Knight-Commander stay so passive? Especially regarding Evou. What restrained him?
Leliana tilted her head back.
— The Order has undercurrents—alliances, debts. Perhaps Evou's advantages were built by another, long before him. But without proof, this is grasping at smoke.
Alim hissed:
— The village approaches. Silence.
The shoreline blurred into dark shapes—a looming temple, orange lantern-glow. Only the lapping of water against the boat broke the quiet... until a dog's frenzied barking erupted. Alim's gaze flicked to Morrigan; she clenched her fists but stayed still. Minutes crawled before the shadows faded behind them.
— The lake,— Alim announced as they passed a crumbling arch.
Leliana nodded.
— The largest of this chain. Though it pales before Calenhad's expanse.
Morrigan stretched like a cat along the boat's length.
— A guide is useful. Water may calm fools' blood, but ours is a fragile vessel. Best hug the shore.
As Alim adjusted course, he couldn't resist:
— Let me guess—Flemeth taught you to swim by throwing you off a cliff?
— Don't be absurd. I'd have drowned.— She smirked.— No, she ensured I swam like an otter—in Korcari's icy marshes. Left me with a lasting distaste for baths.— A pause.— That bow isn't ornamental, is it?
Leliana's chuckle was dark.
— Wait and see. Actions outshine words.
A growling stomach punctuated the statement. With a sigh, Morrigan closed her eyes, determined to sleep through hunger's pangs once more.