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Halamshiral is… well, it’s certainly not Val Royeaux.
Josephine can still play The Game, certainly (and the Orlesians are oh so fond of underestimating anyone with a different accent, it’s no wonder she’s never lost a game of Wicked Grace), but she doesn’t delight in it anymore. She does, however, find a bit of joy in seeing Leliana in her element, suddenly a decade younger and not half as cynical as she is back at Skyhold. Tonight, they all follow Leliana’s lead, Inquisitor included, and her reputation as a dancer is well-earned.
Josephine considers Leliana an old friend- a good one too; Leliana is the person she’s closest to in the Inquisition by a very long shot. Leliana has always held all the power in their relationship. In Josephine’s youth, it had been through her much more extensive experience, and now, she manipulates through her secrecy. Josephine got out of the Game early, and has found strategic honesty a much stronger weapon in diplomacy than subterfuge. Leliana, however, holds the things that could hurt her very close to her chest, indeed. The Divine knew her deeply, but the Divine is gone, and Leliana remains, inscrutable.
Were she not so fundamentally fond of Leliana, Josephine would wield the excess vehemence in her voice as she speaks on Empress Celene’s Arcane Advisor as a weapon against her. Whatever the intimacies of their prior relationship, it’s clear (to a keen observer, at least) that the mysterious woman gets under Leliana’s skin. Leliana has killed men with her bare hands without so much as a grimace; if Morrigan elicits this much of a reaction she must either be a fearsome enemy or… well it would be untoward for Josephine to speculate any further.
When the night is over, and Morrigan has announced her placement as the liaison to the Inquisition (much to Leliana’s chagrin), Josephine resolves to make her feel most welcome at Skyhold.
In the interests of diplomacy, of course.
_
Leliana has kept tabs on Morrigan’s whereabouts (as much as anyone could; there are years when she’s seemed to vanish from the face of the earth and not even the Maker would’ve known where to find her) since their travels with the Warden. She has for everyone—she tells herself that means that Morrigan isn’t special; just because she’s harder to track than Zevran or Alistair doesn’t mean the extra effort is indicative of any greater significance.
(If the fact that Morrigan and the Warden are only in the same place once in the years since he slew the archdemon fills her with a fleeting, brilliant hope, well that’s between her and the Maker.)
She’d known about Morrigan’s appointment at Celene’s court, but to see her, in the flesh, after all these years… Leliana can only thank Marjolaine’s formative training for her ability to keep her composure.
Had they all somehow found themselves a ball during the Fifth Blight, if Morrigan had been wearing this dress, Leliana would almost certainly have asked her to dance (inevitable rejection be damned); she would’ve delighted in the fact that Morrigan had been listening to her idle fancies of taking her shopping, dressing her to her own tastes.
Leliana can’t tell if Morrigan’s choice of gown is meant to be a cruelty or a kindness; she knows only that it hurts now, to know that she had left some sort of impression on the other woman after all.
She does not ask Morrigan which she intended; she does not speak to her at all.
Is that wisdom, then? To cease picking at a wound which you know will only make you bleed?
_
“What’s the deal with scary and scarier?” Sera mutters, between throwing paper birds fashioned from dirty drawings (proper good ones, too, lucky buggers whoever ends up gettin’ hit in the head with ‘em) off the roof.
“Do you mean Leliana and Morrigan? Or Morrigan and Leliana? I’m not sure who I’m more afraid of,” Inky frowns, dutifully creasing the next cartoon in the stack.
(Sometimes Sera draws her, when she needs the picture to have an extraordinarily spectacular pair of tits.)
“The witch is worse— she’s in love with the old old elfy elves and she messes with all that magic? At least Ginger won’t trap you in the fade,” she shivers. “But back to my point— do you think they used to bone, and it ended all bad, or they really want to bone but they’ve both got sticks so far up their arses they’ll kill each other before they admit it?”
Inky splutters. Andraste’s ass, she’s cute. Soon as these birds all take flight, Sera’s gonna tie her to that big fancy bed of hers. Morale comes first, then comes Inky.
“No way,” Inky shakes her head. “I know they know each other, and there’s a mutual distrust there, but it’s not… sexual,” she blushes.
“Yeah, and you thought there was nothing between Celene and Briala, didn’t trust me on that one, did you? No offense, but you’re thick as when it comes to this stuff.” (She bats her eyelashes, all lady-like, so Inky knows she loves her and all, but she is, in fact, thick as when it comes to this stuff.)
“Regardless… I’m not getting involved.”
“Yeah, best not, right? ‘Sides, I can think of lots better ways for you to spend your time.”
(Next time they do this though, Sera might slip in a sketch of those two goin’ at it, just to keep things interesting.)
_
“All these years at court, and I still haven’t gotten the slightest taste for tea,” Morrigan grimaces, declining Josephine’s offer of a cup.
“Would you prefer something herbal, perhaps? I keep many options available, I wouldn’t want to presume anyone’s preferences.”
Morrigan flinches at Josephine’s double entendre.
“I appreciate your... open-mindedness , Lady Ambassador. If you have elfroot on hand, that would be most appreciated. I’ll have to make sure to bring Kieran with me next time; fortunately the boy is far more suited for Orlesian society than myself.”
“Oh, yes,“ Josephine nods eagerly, “I’ll be getting some imported sweets in next week— perhaps the two of you would care to join me together, then?”
Morrigan nods noncommittally, already regretting agreeing to this first meeting as Josephine busies herself preparing a fresh brew. She couldn’t say why she entertained the invitation, except for wanting Kieran not to be judged too harshly for her own social shortcomings, as Skyhold is a much smaller social circle than the Orlesian court, with a far more accurate rumor mill.
“So. Morrigan,” Josephine smiles, and it’s genuine, but a hint of a threat glints in her eye. Lady Montilyet is not one to be underestimated, and so, Morrigan shall not. “I believe we have a common acquaintance in the Inquisition’s Spymaster.”
Morrigan sips her tea, not wishing to convey anything nearing interest or excitement with her response.
“‘Tis true that Leliana and I traveled together with the Hero of Ferelden, though I would hazard a guess that you and she have a more amicable relationship.”
“Leliana is a dear friend, that is true,” Josephine nods, “but I did not meet her until well after the blight. We may be closer, but perhaps you know her better ?”
Morrigan snorts. Of course Leliana would be taken with someone so transparent.
“The Leliana I knew was obsequiously devout when it served her, and as wicked as anyone else in Thedas when it didn’t. Given her role in this theocratic assemblage, and the means she takes to achieve her ends, I don’t see how that’s changed.”
Josephine smirks.
“You two sound well-matched. Why, then, all the animosity?”
Morrigan scoffs.
“I found her tiresome and she found me cruel. ‘Tis not as if we are sworn enemies, mind you. And as to why she holds the grudge against me rather than the Hero of Ferelden for spurning her, well, that’s her business.”
“Funny, how all the stories about the Fifth Blight make no note of a love triangle. Cassandra would love to hear that plot twist…” Josephine trails off. “But I digress. I meant to— well, I guess, if it’s not too much of an overstep—”
“Somehow I don’t think that would stop you,” Morrigan mutters.
“I’ll cut to the chase: I fear that Leliana has lost touch with the softer side of herself, that we both knew in years past.”
“You act as if this were meant to be a bad thing,” Morrigan raises an eyebrow.
“Perhaps it is not,” Josephine acquiesces, “Or, at least, perhaps not entirely. But she would dismiss me out of hand, were I to broach the subject. You’re the only other person who knows her so well, for better or for worse, and I know that I have no standing to ask you for any favors in addition to your already invaluable expertise to the Inquisition but—”
“I will take it under advisement,” Morrigan interrupts, unwilling to hear a minute more of the ambassador’s prevaricating.
Josephine pauses, her face somber.
“She hasn’t sung in years.”
Morrigan can’t hide a look of shock from her face— there was a time that the night did not fall without a song from Leliana’s lips, whether anyone wanted to hear it or not.
“I do mean what I speak, Lady Montilyet, and I take your concern to heart.”
“Thank you,” Josephine beams. “And I look forward to meeting Kieran next time!”
_
Leliana’s caught off-guard by a scratchy, high-pitched voice she doesn’t recognize as she leaves her chess game with Cullen (thank the Maker for the Inquisitor stepping in. She hates chess. And Cullen may be an honorable man, but she’d much rather plot invasions with him than chat for pleasure).
“You’re Sister Nightingale.”
She looks down at the boy, and while she’s never seen those golden eyes look at anything with such open curiosity, she’d know them anywhere.
“You’re Kieran.”
They’ve never met before, and yet, the greeting feels like stating the obvious, a recognition so deep it feels as familiar as an old song or a recurring dream.
“Mother used to tell me your stories, when we were hiding from the others,” he states matter-of-factly, as if these circumstances were as mundane as milking the cows each morning or blowing out a candle at the end of the night.
Morrigan joins them, standing behind Kieran and kissing his forehead before placing a hand on his shoulder and drawing him close.
“We’ve talked about not speaking with strangers, child,” she warns, her tone too warm to leave room for any malice.
“She’s not strange,” Kieran insists. “She helped you, once.”
“Is it true, then, that you were listening to all those stories around the campfire, after all?”
Morrigan flushes.
“I wasn’t about to teach him the things which Flemeth forced upon me. And I didn’t relay any blather about your beloved Maker. But yes, some of your tales proved entertaining enough to pass the time. I wonder, did you ever end up composing that Ballad of Redcliffe as I suggested?”
The boy looks between them curiously, before deciding that the plants of the garden are of greater interest than the adults’ interaction.
Morrigan nods to him, with an agreement that he returns to his studies when it’s time, before returning her expectant gaze to Leliana.
“Surely you would’ve heard it, in your years at court?” Leliana smiles coyly.
“One would think,” Morrigan hums. “To hear the Orlesians tell it, you were far too busy doing the… baser duties of a bard in the years following the blight to tell tales of heroic bravery.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “‘Tis good, I think, that you have embraced your true nature.”
Leliana’s expression darkens.
“Ah, Maker forbid that one should keep a pure heart and intention in the midst of war and strife.”
Remorse flashes across Morrigan’s visage.
“I meant only that I am glad that the world seems finally to have realized what a formidable enemy you make.”
Leliana looks away, surveying the horizon.
“I fear I have no choice but to be formidable in such times as these. Funny, isn’t it, how after all this time you and I are once more called to follow another chosen one in search of what, peace? Salvation? Why us, and not the others?”
“Perhaps ‘tis all for your Maker’s entertainment,” Morrigan muses.
“Or your mother’s.”
“In that case, I may become an Andrastian yet.”
_
Morrigan and Kieran are leaving Josephine’s study when Leliana arrives to discuss the implications of her latest scouting reports on their diplomatic relations.
(Josephine’s insistent, unsubtle meddling would be almost charming if they weren’t currently dealing with a world quite literally falling apart at the seams.)
The boy says hello, while his mother merely nods in acknowledgment. Leliana waits for them to be out of earshot before shutting the door behind her.
“Don’t let the maternal act fool you, Morrigan is dangerous,” she chides, as Josephine rolls her eyes.
“And I am far more capable of looking after myself than you would have anyone else believe.”
“I have never known her to do anything that didn’t ultimately serve herself,” Leliana warns.
“This is true of everyone in Orlais and almost everyone in the rest of Thedas,” Josephine scoffs. “For now, our fortunes are aligned with hers, and it’s in everyone’s interest for her to feel welcome here. And since you seem so determined to prevent that, I needed to step in.”
“I’m perfectly civil,” Leliana pouts.
“You’re hardly the ray of sunshine that greeted her the first time you met.”
Leliana looks towards the heavens in supplication.
“Do I want to know what stories you finagled out of her?”
“Probably not,” Josephine smirks. “Besides, you and I have legitimate business to attend to— kindly give me your reports on the Nevarran ambassador.”
_
The rookery is quiet this time of night, even more so than usual, the only sound the intermittent rustle of feathers as Leliana’s birds shuffle their wings, making themselves more comfortable. Save for one, remarkably still as it watches over her, ignoring the other ravens.
“If you have something to say, get on with it, Morrigan,” Leliana mutters over her letters, studiously avoiding her scrutiny (the idea of staring into a bird’s eyes is humiliating, no matter if it’s a shapeshifter).
The shadow in her periphery grows larger, as Morrigan returns to human form.
“Pray tell, is the Inquisition’s Spymaster so important she can’t be bothered to join her colleagues for their weekly card game? Which, mind you , even the Inquisitor herself attends.”
“Ah, yes, but the Inquisitor doesn’t win every hand. Besides, distance serves my position better than hers.” Leliana looks Morrigan up and down, slowly, in the manner that usually causes her reports to tremble in their boots. “You’re not playing either.”
Morrigan shrugs.
“Little boys still need a consistent bedtime, holes in the sky be damned.” She smiles fondly at the mention of her sleeping son. “You underestimate Lady Montilyet, I think. You’d only win half the time.”
“Ah, but then I might appear fallible,” Leliana laughs, before warning colors her voice. “You have been spending a great deal of time with our ambassador lately, I’ve noticed.”
Morrigan snorts.
“If you mean to accuse me of something, kindly do so directly.”
“You have a history of… manipulating others’ romantic interest in you for your own gains. I wouldn’t have you leveraging Josephine’s diplomatic influence merely because she fancies you.”
“ Lady Montilyet ,” Morrigan rolls her eyes, “Is too busy pining after the Seeker to notice any romantic intentions on my part, if there were any. Although surly warriors were always more your type— I hope you’re not as envious of Lady Montilyet as you were of me,” Morrigan scoffs, every bit as haughty as she was ten years ago, mocking Leliana’s boyish frame and her hopeful heart.
Leliana is older now; better skilled in not rising to the bait, keeping her composure under all circumstances.
“Cassandra is too… pious for my tastes,” Leliana winks. “There’s no challenge in courting one of the faithful.”
She raises her chin and meets Morrigan’s gaze. Her eyes are somehow as bright as the sun’s golden hour despite the dim candlelight. The pause as they realize the undercurrent of Leliana’s statement as it applies to them is tense, but not unpleasant; the tug of the bowstring against her fingers, ready for a pinning shot.
(And yet, Morrigan evades.)
“Nevertheless, rumours in the Orlesian court abounded… the Divine’s Right and Left Hands, clasped in a clandestine embrace. A pretty picture, isn’t it?”
“And I suspect the rumours of the Empress’s Arcane Advisor offering her expertise in the bedroom as well as the library were just as truthful?”
Morrigan smiles, catlike.
Leliana takes a moment to study her face, cataloguing the changes of the years. Morrigan is softer now, her body gentler even if her tongue is as sharp as ever. Perhaps Leliana has taken on some of her severity; for all that Morrigan insulted her slender body back then, she’d had more weight to spare.
Her appetite for most things has waned in the decade since.
Morrigan seems content with the silence, leaning back against the railing and surveying Leliana with the same curiosity. ( Is it truly the same? Leliana wonders.)
“I dreamed about you once,” Leliana offers, half-accusation, half-invitation.
The flush on Morrigan’s cheeks is fleeting, but a trained eye notices such things. She waits, willing her nostrils to stop flaring and her pallor to return, before answering.
“There were years when I was not in Thedas… It made sense to check in on those I had concern for using whatever means necessary, including the Fade.”
The memory is hazy, as dreams upon waking are, but it occurs to Leliana that the unexpected fondness on Morrigan’s face in this moment had been in her reverie, a single look before Morrigan disappeared once again. The softness stings, and Leliana has the urge to deflect, to find something cutting instead.
“Have you spoken with the Warden?” Leliana doesn’t use his name, doesn’t want to think of him as anyone other than a mythical figure. Her feelings for him are too complex when she thinks of him beyond his title; love and hate and anger and sorrow all at once.
“He knows of Kieran, If that’s what you mean… But he has accommodated my wishes when I’ve asked him to keep his distance.”
“Why bother, then?” Leliana feels her voice rising, feels Morrigan finally getting under her skin despite her own hardening over the years. Morrigan snorts derisively.
“Is it easier for you to think me only a manipulative shrew, seducing the man from under your nose so I could bear his son, then tossing him carelessly aside? ‘Twould be very Orlesian of me to do such a thing, wouldn’t it?”
Leliana glowers, but says nothing.
“I was young then,” Morrigan’s gaze trails off, as if looking back in time. “And more innocent than you would wish to believe me. Whatever choices I have made, they were not done out of cruelty, but necessity.”
She returns her eyes to Leliana’s, an unspoken apology to her as well included in the look.
“Kieran is a lovely boy, regardless,” Leliana murmurs.
“No doubt in spite of my influence,” Morrigan chuckles, love for her son bleeding into her tone. It strikes at the heart of Leliana, memories of her own mother’s affection resurfacing from their long dormant sleep. “I should get back to him, however. He often has difficult dreams.”
“I— thank you,” Leliana sighs, “for the visit. I focus so much on the tasks before me that I sometimes neglect to remember the past. For better or worse, you are a… powerful reminder.”
Morrigan’s eyes widen in surprise, but she takes her leave, her fingers ghosting over Leliana’s shoulder (in what— reassurance? threat?) before she shifts back into bird form, flying out the window across the garden to her and Kieran’s rooms.
_
“Ah, just who I was seeking ,” Varric sidles up to Cassandra at the tavern. She glares at him, but what else is new?
“What do you want, Varric?” She snarls into her drink. Even Ruffles would find the brooding intensity a little much today. But then again, she’s probably the cause of it. It’s a good thing Varric’s an expert at resolving narrative romantic tension, because his friends? Are helpless.
“I thought you might find it interesting that our mysterious new witch friend is the daughter of Flemeth. As in, scary lady who turned into a dragon to save Hawke and company from the darkspawn?”
“You still expect me to believe that’s true?”
“The truth is stranger than fiction. I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of ripping a hole in the sky as a plot device— it’s lazy and contrived. But here we are.”
“All you’ve confirmed is that Morrigan is as dangerous as I feared. I don’t see why this is good news.”
“Even if it’s not, I thought it might be a welcome distraction.”
“Who says I need one?”
“That mean mug of yours.”
She growls, and he raises his hands in surrender.
Well. So much for using a bit of gossip as a way to offer a listening ear without intruding… No, time to up the plot stakes. This calls for a case of good old fashioned manufactured jealousy.
“She seems to be spending a good bit of time with our ambassador… to hear you tell it, she might be a bad influence…”
Cassandra furrows her brow, downs her drink, and storms off in a fury.
“I try and I try, and this is the thanks I get,” Varric sighs, opening his manuscript and beginning work on the next chapter of Swords and Shields.
_
The best thing to do for a meddling ambassador is to disarm her by removing the need for manipulation.
Leliana and Morrigan decide to take tea together with Josephine, and although Morrigan’s simpering niceness is a touch too much, it has the desired effect.
“I must say— you two seem to be… getting along.”
“Oh, you know, it’s easy to put aside differences after so long. I must admit we feel differently about things when we’re older,” Leliana laughs.
“Although given how much Leliana lies about her true age, I very much suspect she has far more wisdom than I,” Morrigan coos, fluttering her lashes (Leliana raises a brow, as if to say really? You can’t even attempt to sell this? ).
“Well, I’m happy to see it… I think,” Josephine furrows her brow.
“We really are lucky to have a mage of Morrigan’s abilities with us,” Leliana clasps Morrigan’s forearm, pinching a bit in retaliation for the dig at her seniority. “Did I ever tell you about how she single handedly saved the Hero of Ferelden from being crushed to death by Golems in the Deep Roads? She—”
The door to Josephine’s office slams open, Cassandra striding in on the warpath.
“Seeker,” Morrigan hums in greeting, more amused at her rage than anything else.
“Lady Montilyet,” Cassandra begins, incensed, before taking in the scene before her in confusion and spluttering.
“May I help you, Seeker Pentaghast?”
Josephine’s cheeks are rosy and her eyes widen at Cassandra’s bravado. Morrigan was right, Leliana concedes.
“I— I fear it may have been a false alarm,” Cassandra stammers.
“Better a false alarm than one raised too late,” Josephine acquiesces. “Would you care to join us, now that you’re here?”
Seeing an out, Leliana interrupts.
“Morrigan and I were just leaving, weren’t we?”
Morrigan shoots her a look but follows her lead.
“Kieran’s meant to show me a few things he’s been working on; I’d hate to disappoint him.”
Her smile is as false as Cassandra’s pretenses for stampeding into their meeting, and far less sincere.
“It’s fun watching them make fools of themselves,” Morrigan pouts, once they’re out in the garden. “You should’ve let me stay.”
“I don’t believe I can make you do anything,” Leliana laughs. “It would appear you have the briefest beginnings of a conscience.”
“Or my impatience outweighs my amusement,” Morrigan hmmphs, but she can’t fully hide the upward turn at the corners of her mouth.
_
Trevelyan isn’t any good at people.
It’s why the whole “ leading the Inquisition ” thing feels more like a cosmic joke than a calling, and why most days she’d prefer to fight through her problems with her sword than with her words.
(It’s why she likes Sera so much— she’s always been straightforward, no games or manipulations— well, not without laying out the parameters to such in advance, and agreeing on a safe word…)
She’s more than happy to delegate those duties to Josephine and Leliana and simply smile and nod whenever her physical presence can’t be avoided, but apparently avoiding Empress Celene’s liaison for several weeks now is “unbecoming of a woman of her stature,” in Josephine’s opinion. Leliana warns her to keep her enemies close, and Cullen merely promises to buy her a pint if she survives the encounter.
(Sera’s right though, she’s scary. )
“What do you wish of me?” Morrigan asks, looking like she revels in the distance Skyhold’s inhabitants keep from her.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re settling in comfortably,” Trevelyan shrugs, before covering her ass with “and to make sure there’s not any… arcane advisement I might need.”
“I find myself far more comfortable here than I was in the imperial court, and I managed there for four years. I shall let you know when you will need my expertise. The time is near, but has not yet arrived.”
Scratch that—she’s more insufferable than scary, the inquisitor thinks to herself.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she nods, mimicking the manners that were instilled to her over the dinner table growing up in Ostwick. “Your son is a bright spot here, I must say. Varric’s always joking about how we don’t have any babies to expect what with all the ladies wooing ladies and boys courting boys…” she trails off, noting Morrigan’s impatient expression. “Nevermind,” she murmurs. “Um, Kieran’s father?”
It’s a question. Kind of. Morrigan at least deems it fit to respond to.
“Exists. He’s not an abomination, borne of nothing, if that’s what you mean,” Morrigan glares.
“Oh, um, no, just wanted to make sure we didn’t need to save any seats at dinner?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Morrigan frowns. “Did you have anything else you needed, or may I return to my studies?”
“Study away,” Trevelyan shrugs, feeling like she properly stepped in it.
_
“Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. She didn’t turn you into a toad or nothin,” Sera snickers, ducking when Trevelyan tosses a heel of bread at her head.
“I have it on good authority her mother’s a dragon,” Varric answers around a mouth of stew, “Sera’s right, you’re not a pile of ashes so I’d say you did alright.”
“Still,” Trevelyan shudders. “I feel like the sooner she’s done what she came here to do, the better off we all are.”
“Unless what she came here to do is turn you into a toad,” The Iron Bull shrugs, downing his tankard in one long gulp.
_
The second time Morrigan flies up to the rookery, she doesn’t wait for an invitation before shapeshifting back to her human form.
“Have you at least brought me something to drink in those talons of yours,” Leliana sighs, finding the irritation in her voice rings hollow to her own ears.
Morrigan uncorks a bottle of mead.
“Cloying and stronger than the first sip would suggest,” Morrigan murmurs, before drinking directly from the bottle. “Seemed appropriate.”
Leliana suppresses a thrill at the feel of the glass against her mouth, knowing her lips cover the impression of Morrigan’s own. It’s the feeling of sneaking sweets from the kitchen as a child, illicit and exciting and ultimately leading to a stomachache.
They drink in companionable silence, Leliana letting her fingers linger on Morrigan’s as they pass the bottle, chasing the warmth of her touch and the alcohol in tandem to keep the cold of the rookery at bay. It’s been years since she’s had a drink her own hand hasn’t poured— she trusts Morrigan implicitly.
That revelation scares her more than the physical reactions she has to Morrigan’s proximity.
(After all, lust can be a tool; trust is little more than a weakness.)
“I stopped drinking after the blight,” Leliana mutters into the quiet. “My liver needed a break after trying to keep up with Oghren all those months.”
Morrigan chuckles.
“The man was a menace, but he knew how to throw a party.”
“It’s hard to believe we were ever that young,” Leliana sighs, finding her tongue heavy and loose. It’s not so much that she’s drunk yet, just… relaxed. She hasn’t been relaxed in years.
“I think the Blight aged us all, more than time itself would have,” Morrigan agrees.
“It’s strange to think the Hero of Ferelden was only as old as the Herald of Andraste.”
“Although he was far more charming to be sure,” Morrigan smirks.
Leliana laughs.
“She’s much more formidable on the battlefield,” Leliana reassures her. “You’ll have a bit more respect once you see her in action, I promise it.”
“The time will come soon enough,” Morrigan agrees.
“It’s nice—” Leliana stops herself, finding her words. “To have a moment of peace amidst the chaos.”
“To moments of peace,” Morrigan raises the bottle, takes a long draught. Leliana eyes the long expanse of her throat, wonders what the skin would taste like there.
“He asked me once if I was jealous.”
Morrigan laughs at the non-sequitur.
“Of course you were. Rare is the man who denies the pleasures of the flesh in lieu of chaste, but divine romance. You never stood a chance, and it killed you. I’m glad to see you’ve finally let that particular grudge go.”
Leliana snorts.
“Not of you, of him .”
Morrigan’s eyes flash from gold to black, then back again, as if it were merely a trick of the light.
“And what of that resentment? Does it linger yet?”
Leliana forces herself to hold Morrigan’s gaze. She feels a surge of want course through her, like she hasn’t in years (a decade if she’s being truthful with herself, remembering nights alone in her tent after exchanging barbs with Morrigan, wishing she had another way to ease the tension between them).
She fights the urge to lunge forward and kiss Morrigan before either of them can think better of it, instead taking a slow, deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is thick with desire.
“I find spite can be a powerful motivator, don’t you?”
Morrigan chuckles, deep and rich, and Leliana feels her body sing in response.
Only now that she hears music again does Leliana realize just how silent her life has been of late. The pain of years of practiced solitude suddenly reverberates, like the echo of the chant in an empty cathedral.
“Go, see to Kieran,” Leliana implores, preferring to send Morrigan away than to hear her say goodbye tonight.
_
It takes Leliana hours to fall asleep (not that her evenings are generally restful, or her slumber deep).
Her dreams are vivid: she is awake in the rookery, and walks towards her writing desk, where she knows instinctively that Morrigan will be waiting.
“Either you are a demon, or you are wasting the Inquisition’s lyrium resources,” Leliana frowns. She finds her speech is more direct in the fade, her practiced crypticism unattainable here.
Morrigan rolls her eyes.
“I’m insulted that you think me merely a mage of average skill. There are other ways to navigate the fade, you know.”
Her utter disinterest in convincing Leliana that she isn’t a demon is all the proof Leliana needs that this Morrigan is the authentic one.
“Why are you here, then?”
“There is no true privacy in Skyhold, you know that as well as I.”
Leliana crosses her arms.
“I would imagine if you wanted to, you could create such circumstances without needing to invade my dreams.”
“It is far easier to meet someone in the Fade when they welcome my presence,” Morrigan smirks. “You are glad to see me again, even if you refuse to say so.”
Leliana doesn’t have the will to argue, her tongue feels heavy and ungovernable, like it will spill forth every secret she’s ever had if she opens her mouth.
“Did you have something you wanted to say to me in private, then?”
Morrigan looks at her with such unguarded affection that Leliana thinks she might actually be a demon after all.
“I never thanked you properly, for killing my mother.”
“According to Varric, we were hardly successful.”
Morrigan looks away, thoughtful.
“Perhaps not in permanently eliminating her, but you gave me— us— time. You kept Kieran safe, even if you didn’t know that is what you were doing. I will forever owe you a great debt for that.”
“And you killed Marjolaine. I daresay we are even, no?”
Leliana feels her lips pout on the last word, sees Morrigan’s eyes drawn to her mouth.
(If she were a desire demon, this would be the part of the dream where Morrigan offered to repay Leliana’s noble deed with an eternity of debauched sexual favours. Alas.)
“Perhaps.”
“Did you have something else?”
(Leliana can’t keep the annoyance from her voice. Is it so much to want a moment’s rest from this woman?)
“I know—” Morrigan hesitates, and in her moment of uncertainty she looks young again, unsure of what she was allowed to want from the world. (Suddenly, many moments between them during the Fifth Blight gain a new context.) “The warden gave me a mirror once. I know you found it, picked it out for me.”
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop when Morrigan had shared the story with the warden, of Flemeth’s cruelty, her own deprivation of superficial pleasures. But Leliana had understood what it was like to yearn for something beautiful and useless, for blue silk or deep red velvet.
She fights a blush, refuses to feel ashamed for having been kind, once.
“Men do not always recognize the importance of such things.”
Morrigan nods, slowly, solving a puzzle of her own memory.
“I think the perceptiveness of women has caused me to keep my distance from them, for knowledge of how they could use it against me.”
“Men are easier targets,” Leliana agrees. “I think that was why Marjoline delighted in ruining women. It was more of a challenge.”
( You could ruin me, Leliana doesn’t say. You already have. )
“But Kieran… he’s so good. I never thought myself capable of —”
“You love him very much,” Leliana smiles.
Morrigan nods, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.
As if summoned, the boy appears.
“Mother? You’re not usually in my dreams. Why is Sister Nightingale here?”
“I needed to tell her something,” Morrigan shushes, absentmindedly stroking Kieran’s hair.
“Will you sing me a song?” Kieran asks, like he’s not requesting Leliana split her heart right open for them both to see, like the three of them belong here, together, in the Fade.
Who is she to refuse?
_
Morrigan hears whispers in the courtyard of Leliana’s pending departure for Valence, sees Sera making a point to kiss the inquisitor in full view of everyone, staking her claim and making promises for a safe return.
She’d been like that once, not caring who saw her embraces of the warden, relishing in the fact that she had something the others hadn’t. Delighting in the having more than the thing itself, if she’s being truthful..
Something deep and twisted in her gut tells her to fly to the rookery, to wish Leliana well on her journey… the compulsion to make the overture immediately fills her with dread. She’s done enough reaching out. She won’t be humiliated but any more shows of weakness. It will not kill Leliana to leave without a fond farewell.
_
By the third day of Leliana’s absence, Morrigan finds herself getting short with Kieran, has to stop herself from resorting to anger and fear in the way her mother had done.
“I’m sorry, Kieran, I’m just… out of sorts. It’s not your fault, and it was wrong of me to take it out on you.”
Kieran shrugs, empathetic. (He is wiser now than she will ever be; still, it’s hard for her to reconcile this boy whom she adores with the soul of the old god that shares his body.)
“It’s all right. I miss Sister Nightingale, too.”
It does no good to argue with her son, so she merely takes a deep breath and resumes their respective studies.
_
Sera, of all people, is the first besides Kieran to notice Morrigan’s dour mood.
“When I miss Inky, I just make a list of all the things I’m gonna do to her, or make her do to me, when she gets back,” she says with zero introduction, flinging an arrow into a makeshift target on the other side of the garden.
“I could turn you into a spider and squash you under my boot without thinking twice,” Morrigan responds.
Sera shivers, then laughs.
“Nah, Leliana’d be too mad at you about it, you never would actually do. Good threat and all, though.” She hesitates for a moment. “Inky’s all right with her, though, right? I mean, she’s still right scary, but Leliana’s been off the battlefield for a minute, you know?”
Morrigan raises an eyebrow. She has half a mind to tell Sera that Leliana and the Inquisitor are probably dead in a ditch right now, and the world will end as a result of their selfish journey for some hidden divine artifact. Kieran’s taken all the fun out of her cruel streak, however.
“Sister Nightingale is a redoubtable enemy, all the more so for those like you who would misjudge her prowess in combat.”
Sera nods.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, innit?” Then she scampers off, ostensibly to pester someone else who has better things to do with their time.
_
Leliana returns to Skyhold with a lighter heart and a sense of purpose. If she believes the Maker can forgive his creation, then she, too, can forgive herself.
(She can forgive Morrigan.)
The first night she returns, Morrigan is not waiting for her.
The next day, she is suspiciously hard to find.
( The Maker reveals all things in time , Leliana reminds herself, returning to her quarters at the end of the day, and taking a moment to pray to the shrine of Andraste, to ask Justinia for her blessing and thank her for the gift of her release.)
When she retires to her small cot, hidden away in the rookery, a single raven is perched on the window sill, the fresh air of a young spring filling the room with the smell of new life.
“I was hoping you’d come find me,” Leliana admits, closing the door and taking off her hood, beginning the long process of unbuckling all her armor. “Not that I didn’t look for you first.”
Morrigan remains in her shapeshifted form, silent and studying. It would have infuriated Leliana, before her trip to Valence. But she recognizes now that she’s been forcing Morrigan to lead the dance at every step, holding her own cards close to her chest. It’s only fair that she’s forthcoming now.
“I missed you, you know? Maybe that’s silly— it’s been so many years since we had seen each other, and back then we were hardly friends, but— you’ve changed, Morrigan, and I’ve changed, considerably,… but Justinia made me realize… it is not a weakness to believe in something with all your heart. To remain true in one’s intent.”
The raven stares, stock-still.
Leliana shrugs out of her armor and leggings, slipping under the sheets in her smallclothes. The last of the twilight has faded, and everything is shadow and moonlight, except for the glowing gold of the bird’s eyes.
“Some of my thoughts on you, though… they haven’t changed,” Leliana sighs, shifting into a more comfortable position.
“You’re beautiful— I know you know this and wield it as a weapon against the world and yet— I find I can’t take my eyes off you whenever you’re in the room, and when I’m away from you, the picture of you remains in my mind.”
She begins running a hand over the bare skin of her stomach, moving under the sheets, so Morrigan has an idea of what’s happening, but not a full view.
“There are so few things that bring joy in these times, don’t you find? I’m tired of being afraid to admit that I want you. I’ve wanted you for years… but now, I think you might want me, too.”
She touches herself in earnest now, giving into the longing that’s been simmering under the surface since the moment she saw Morrigan in that damnable dress, months ago, now.
She turns her head, and feels Morrigan’s gaze piercing her like a shock straight to the very core of her, before she can’t hold her eyes open any longer, and she’s stifling a cry, every nerve in her body calling out in elation.
When she turns her attention to the window again, the raven is gone, and the room is empty.
_
“You seem lighter,” Josephine observes over tea.
“Valence was… illuminating. Even beyond the veil, Justinia is able to remind me of myself, and for that I am grateful.”
Josephine smiles, truly happy to hear the news.
“Is that all, then? Is nothing else bringing you joy right now?”
Her eyes crinkle with mirth, and more than a little teasing.
“That revelation is central to any other happiness I may feel,” is all Leliana gives by way of answer. “But, speaking of,” Leliana smirks, “I seem to see Cassandra leaving this room more and more frequently when I stop by— pray tell, has she finally decided to embrace her unrealized Nevarran political career?”
“No,” Josephine sighs, still disappointed as ever that she can’t leverage Cassandra’s connections in any meaningful way. “But she has become a good friend—”
“You mean while I was off moping,” Leliana chuckles self-deprecatingly.
“One can never have too many friends,” Josephine chides. “And you and Cassandra are hardly alike. You are both invaluable.”
Leliana nods, sipping slowly at her tea to prolong Josephine’s discomfort ever-so-slightly.
“I know Cassandra well. She is fundamentally incapable of dishonesty— reticence, perhaps, but never subterfuge. She is… steadfast.”
“You know, I thought when I first met her that she was just incredibly boring?”
“And now?” Leliana raises an eyebrow.
“Still waters run deep, as they say,” Josephine shrugs. “And she’s so funny . I had no idea!”
“Does Cassandra know that you daydream about her?”
“I don’t— oh, you can turn the conversation away from yourself when you want to, can’t you? Don’t you have a threat to go make?”
Leliana laughs all the way back to the rookery.
_
She runs into Cassandra herself, waiting for her, offering the ravens crumbs from a dinner roll.
“The Inquisitor told me you received a message from the Divine.”
“It was hardly as exceptional as your interaction with her in the Fade, but yes.” Leliana pauses, knowing that Cassandra knows better than most how the work of being the Left Hand has harmed her, but also understanding that she can be prone to riding atop a moral high horse. “She… lifted my burden. The things I did on her behalf were difficult to bear at times, you know this.“
“But you never wavered in your devotion.” (It’s an observation, not a question.)
“Nor did you,” Leliana smiles sadly. “And now we find ourselves somewhat at odds.”
It’s the first time they’ve talked openly about who might be the next Divine, which of them could be at all worthy to succeed Justinia.
“I would serve you faithfully if you asked,” Cassandra answers, and Leliana knows it’s the truth.
“As would I,” Leliana agrees, though she highly doubts Cassandra would employ anyone as ruthless as herself.
“I do worry,” Cassandra’s eyes narrow, “that your… fondness for mages may prove to be a liability with the clerics.”
Leliana blanches— it’s not like Cassandra to make veiled threats (she’s normally very open with her aggressions)— perhaps, then, this is a genuine concern?
“You also advised the Inquisitor to meet with the rebels in Redcliffe,” Leliana frowns.
“I meant— personal fondness.”
Leliana fights the urge to let her indignation play on her face. The presumption is infuriating, more so for its precision.
“I would think the same criticism would still apply to you.”
It’s a low blow, to reference Regalyan, and furthermore, it serves only to underscore the accuracy of Cassandra’s assessment.
“Perhaps we would both do better to focus our sights on Vivienne’s shadow campaign,” Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose.
Leliana nods, clenching her jaw to prevent any more cruelty from slipping out. This is not who she truly is; who Justinia believed her to be.
“Cassandra,” She stops her as she turns to walk away, waiting for the seeker to meet her eyes again.
“Hmm?”
“You know, Josephine is not as dainty as she seems? She would be more than capable of courting you in a manner befitting your innermost desires, if you made your wishes clear.” Leliana smiles affectionately. “She can be quite dashing when she wants to be.”
Cassandra blushes, but doesn’t bother to protest.
“I have not considered this, but it does ring true. Thank you for your insight.”
Leliana remembers now, what it was like to trust Cassandra to be her other half, to move in daylight as she worked in darkness. None of her work for the Divine had been easy, but it would have been immeasurably more difficult without the Seeker.
“We’ve suffered enough, haven’t we?”
Cassandra sighs.
“I do trust you to lead with integrity, Leliana. And I think we share the same beliefs, even if we disagree on how fast we can achieve them.” She studies Leliana, as if searching for any sign of corruption. “I do not begrudge you any happiness, I only ask that you be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?”
_
Morrigan evades her for days, and Leliana thinks she must’ve pushed too hard, been too… wanton (never mind that Morrigan had never been shy about the physical aspects of her relationship with the warden; some women are inexplicably shy when it comes to other women. Morrigan would hardly be unique in this reaction).
There is work to be done, plenty of things to demand her attention and keep her mind busy. It hardly matters if Morrigan returns her affections if the world should be destroyed.
They meet again in the war room, cementing plans for the march on the Arbor Wilds. There is no small talk, no banter. Even Josephine forgoes her usual overtures in the interest of efficiency. The meeting ends late, the sun already set by the time they stand from the table. Morrigan says nothing, but looks at Leliana with a sharp, fleeting intensity before following the Inquisitor from the room.
Leliana wills herself to slow down, pays extra attention to Josephine’s opinions about how best to ensure their allies send troops promptly to the Wilds.
Back in her quarters, she finds herself too restless to sleep, but eventually fatigue wins out over days of pent up energy.
_
“You know, it’s considered rude to avoid someone after watching her experience le petit mort ,” Leliana teases, seeing Morrigan leaning expectantly against the banister (she wonders idly, what would happen if one fell from this height in the Fade— tranquility? A headache upon waking?).
“You know quite well I’ve never been bound by politesse.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve also never known you to be a coward,” Leliana taunts, feeling, for the first time in a long while, incensed on her own behalf.
“You would be wise to watch your tongue,” Morrigan glares.
Leliana laughs acridly.
“Where have I lied, Morrigan? I don’t know what you want with me, but I think we’d both be better served if you made up your Maker-forsaken mind.”
“Oh, would you shut up ,” Morrigan snarls, before grabbing Leliana by her shoulders and kissing her. Her gloves are cold and smooth against Leliana’s bare shoulders, her lips chapped from being worried between her teeth endlessly.
Leliana takes control, moves Morrigan as they kiss until she’s leaning against the altar of Andraste, and Leliana is on her knees.
(It occurs to her that her subconscious is being less than subtle here, but there are more pressing needs at the moment than psychoanalyzing the significance of this metaphor.)
Morrigan grabs her by the hair and moves against her mouth, and Leliana has not felt such divine light within her soul in years, if ever.
The sting in her knees is euphoric, the ache in her jaw, beatific. The hand that guides her chin to look up, up, up may as well be that of the Maker himself.
She wakes in a cold sweat, with a racing heart and an endless list of things to be done, thinking or feeling not among them.
_
There’s a nervous thrum that rings through the Inquisition’s forces as they set camp, aiming to march on the Wilds in the morning. Some of Leliana’s scouts have gone ahead, but Leliana is not among them. For once, she will be beside her comrades, not behind or above them.
Even so, seniority engenders small perks; Leliana’s tent is both more spacious and more secluded than the soldiers’. She would protest, but her presence near their bedrolls would likely prevent them from a much-needed nights’ rest.
Morrigan has been even more reserved than usual, speaking only to the Inquisitor, and then only advising her on what they may encounter tomorrow. She retires early, leaving the others to the fire and their pre-battle rituals.
Leliana slips away unnoticed.
“It’s considered rude to not announce one’s presence,” Morrigan mocks, but Leliana has learned to hear the affection buried deep beneath her scorn.
“You’re always coming to me, it seemed only fair that I return the favour.”
“Is it? A favour?” Morrigan looks up at her from her bedroll, and it’s all the invitation Leliana needs to sit beside her, leaning back to stare at the grey canvas, imagining the stars that shine above them.
“I think so, yes.” Leliana rolls her wrists, stretches her legs, notes the crick in her neck from too many days spent in the saddle after so many months out of practice. “This is the entire reason why you agreed— or was it engineered— to liaise with the Inquisition, isn’t it?”
“Many things may be correct, simultaneously. ‘Tis true that I have searched for the Temple of Mythal for many years. ‘Tis also true that if Corypheus reaches the altar before me— before us — all is more lost than you previously thought.”
“Maker forbid that you don’t find a way to get what you want out of an imminent apocalypse.”
Morrigan turns on her side to study Leliana, her answer more sorrowful than angry.
“I do not think you realize how selfish your wishes of me are.”
“I have not wanted anything you did not also want.” Leliana forces her voice not to quaver, knows that in this, she is right.
“I have never been free to choose my path based on wants alone,” Morrigan admits, and it doesn’t surprise Leliana, but it does twist like a dull knife in her gut.
Leliana props herself up on an elbow, pushes the fringe away from Morrigan’s eyes so she can see her fully, open and vulnerable, perhaps for the first time.
“There will be time enough for duty in the morning.” She runs the backs of her fingers against the strong line of Morrigans jaw, across the corner of her mouth to the soft plane of her cheek, stroking a thumb there, imbuing the digit with every ounce of feeling she has in her body. “Would you like for me to go?”
Morrigan leans into the touch, closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of Leliana.
“I would have you stay.”
_
Morrigan can’t breathe, can’t think, can scarcely move when she and Kieran come back through the eluvian, save to hug him tightly, doing her best to stave off the flood of tears that threatens to overwhelm her.
She vaguely registers the Inquisitor speaking with Leliana, their voices hushed and serious. It’s hard to make out over the noise of the Well’s voices in her head and her own conscience berating her for her foolishness.
“I’m tired, mother,” Kieran murmurs against her, and she shakes herself out of her stupor, accompanying him back to their quarters.
In a few years, he will be too old for her to hold while he sleeps, he will want to make his own way, as young men do.
He no longer has a destiny, and will be free to create one.
She watches him rest, reminding herself that for now, he is safe.
The voices of the Well quiet; Mythal was a mother, too, they reassure her.
She’s not sure how much time passes, only that it is dark when a hand raps at her door.
“I have no need for company,” Morrigan protests, her voice ragged and harsh.
“The kitchen has closed for the evening. I thought you might be hungry,” Leliana explains.
Morrigan opens the door slowly, so as not to wake Kieran.
“The Inquisitor told me what happened. The boy is well?” Concern paints her face, and the gentleness of it stings.
Morrigan wants to slam the door in her face, to send her away for tonight and forever, but she finds herself stepping aside, welcoming Leliana in.
(Is this the will of Mythal, or some other nefarious force?)
“He is unharmed, though not for any lack of trying on Flemeth’s part.”
“I am glad you both are safe.” Leliana sets down the provisions, pours Morrigan a flagon of watered wine. She cannot bring herself to eat right now, but she sips, slowly.
Leliana waits, patient.
(Morrigan had never known the woman to be silent during the Fifth Blight; if not telling a story, she was insistent on singing through all hours of the night, striking up inane conversation for no purpose, or, worst of all, reciting the blighted Chant.)
“He was only meant to be a means to an end,” Morrigan whispers. “I could not— I did not know how much I would love him. How unimportant my plans would become in the face of his future.”
“What are your plans, now?”
They’re none of Leliana’s concern, for one.
“I will see this through, that has not changed, but then…” She looks at Kieran, still fast asleep, peaceful and dreamless. “He is an ordinary boy. He can live whatever life he chooses, and I will do what I can to ensure that.”
“Val Royeaux is full of opportunities for a bright young man like Kieran. If he— I would call in any favour, if that is what you wished.”
“I know.”
And Morrigan does; she knows that Leliana would not use her kindness as a means of leverage, would move in silence and make no mention of her actions. She knows that without asking, any door in the city would be opened to Kieran.
“Are you… disappointed?”
“For him?” Morrigan laughs. “I don’t think I could be happier. For myself…”
“I would kill her again if I could.”
Morrigan shakes her head.
“‘Twould be a waste. Everything that happened today has been set in motion long before any of us were born. I understand now, just how futile all our efforts are, how little free will exists.”
Morrigan turns her gaze away from Kieran to look at Leliana.
“I wonder if you were meant only as a distraction, to weaken my resolve and leave me vulnerable for Flemeth to strike once again.”
A shadow crosses Leliana’s face, but she does not protest. (Leliana is many things, but foolish is no longer one of them.)
“I’ll leave the two of you to your rest,” she offers, before parting, presumably to return to her rookery and weep.
Morrigan cares not; ‘tis none of her concern.
_
Morrigan does not hide away from Skyhold forever; it would hardly make Kieran feel safe for them to return to seclusion, so she continues to hold court in the garden, continues to encourage the boy to be inquisitive and bright and friendly.
Leliana is perhaps the only one to notice a difference; she thinks Morrigan might outright ignore her if she attempted to speak with her. As it stands they merely observe each other at a cool distance, though Leliana’s eyes linger far longer than Morrigan’s fleeting glances, stolen against her better instincts.
The final preparations keep Leliana busy enough that she doesn’t let herself feel the bitter sting of disappointment; without any visitors in her dreams she sleeps deeply, albeit shortly.
The day before the Inquisitor begins her return to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Morrigan seeks out Leliana, pulling her aside from a conversation with Cassandra in the courtyard.
“Well?”
(It’s not so much that Leliana is meaning to be rude; if she speaks more than a few words she’s likely to do something stupid like confessing her love or abandoning the Maker.)
“You know that I will be using Mythal’s… gift… in the battle tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“I—” she wrings her hands, looks anywhere but at Leliana. “Should anything happen, I would trust Kieran to you.”
Leliana nods solemnly.
“We will await your return together. May the Maker guide you.”
Morrigan rolls her eyes.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
_
The waiting is impossible.
It takes two days for the Inquisition to make the trip back to Haven; Leliana tells Kieran every story she knows, shows him her birds, and all the secret passages in Skyhold to distract them both from his mother’s absence. The first bird arrives the morning of the third day with news of victory, but even so, Leliana finds herself holding her breath until she can see Morrigan the Inquisition with her own eyes.
It is a long procession through the gates of Skyhold, the Inquisitor at its lead (immediately ambushed by Sera, who leaps up and throws her legs around Trevelyan’s waist). For a moment, Leliana thinks that Morrigan has used the battle as an opportunity to flee once again, family be damned, before she sees her, weakly propped up on the back of the last horse.
Kieran is off and running, and it takes every last bit of Leliana’s stamina to catch up with him.
“Mother, are you hurt?”
Morrigan grimaces as a footman helps her off the horse and onto the ground. She sways slightly, and Leliana steps in to support her before Morrigan can argue.
“I’m a little banged up, but nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix,” she bends to kiss the boy on his head, and Leliana wraps the arm around her waist tighter.
“Let’s get you to your rooms, then.”
Morrigan struggles more than she lets on (Leliana has often wondered what happens if she’s hurt in shapeshifted form— to hear reports, the fall she took from the sky would have easily killed a human, so perhaps she’s fortunate to have merely a weak constitution and a few broken ribs), but they make it back to her and Kieran’s quarters without incident. Morrigan doesn’t quite collapse on the bed, but it’s a close thing.
“May I go get dinner?” Kieran asks, satisfied that all is well, and eager to hear from the boots on the ground all about his mother’s heroism.
Morrigan nods.
“Bring your mother back some broth, if you could,” Leliana requests, before turning her attention fully to Morrigan. “How bad is it, really?”
“Nothing a healer can’t fix, now that we’re out of the line of fire. It’s not so dire as some of the others, I knew I could make the journey back.”
“It almost makes you miss Wynne, doesn’t it?”
Morrigan snorts.
“I would rather bear my physical pain than suffer her moralizing monologues, ‘tis no question.”
Morrigan closes her eyes, and Leliana takes the opportunity to memorize her face as it is now; faint lines across her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, dark circles under her eyes, and altogether more peace than Leliana thinks she has ever seen from her.
“I am glad you are unharmed.”
“As am I,” Morrigan mutters, her dark lashes fluttering but her eyes remaining closed. “I will not have my son raised a Chantry altar boy.”
“We can rule out brain injury; your personality is perfectly intact.”
“You have done what I asked you,” Morrigan opens her eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“I do not care— if it is the will of Mythal, or the Maker, if I am a pawn in the schemes of gods and beings more powerful than myself. That does not change my feelings towards you.”
“Devoted annoyance?”
“At this moment, yes,” Leliana retorts. “And still I would stay by your side until your departure, knowing even that you will be on your way before the sun sets tomorrow.”
With great effort, Morrigan props herself up to a seated position.
“You will get no tearful joining, no passionate embrace.”
Leliana raises an eyebrow.
“Desire may be one manifestation of the Maker’s love, but there are many others. Patience high among them, in my esteem.”
Kieran returns from the mess with the broth and a plate of bread and cheese for Leliana.
“Are you staying with us?”
“Just to make sure I’m alright, until I can see the healer tomorrow,” Morrigan explains, before Leliana can ask for her blessing.
He nods, and, after asking his mother a few more questions about what it feels like to be a dragon, retires to his own bed.
Morrigan is weary, and Leliana is not so self-centered as to keep her awake. After she eats, she helps her change out of her dirty clothes and to get into bed, tucking her in the way she remembers Lady Cecile doing when she’d had an especially hard day.
Morrigan sleeps deeply, Leliana content to sit beside her and pray (albeit silently.) As the first rays of daylight begin to creep beneath the door, Leliana stirs from having dozed off.
“ Je t’aime ,” she presses a gentle kiss to Morrigan’s forehead.
“You are aware,” Morrigan yawns, “that I lived in Orlais for years, and as such, have fluent comprehension of the language?”
“ Bien sûr ,” Leliana whispers, kissing Morrigan’s cheeks in turn before meeting her lips. She’s weak still, but Morrigan wraps an arm around her neck and pulls her in closer, turning the kiss into something fierce and incontrovertible.
“I cannot bring myself to regret having met you again,” Morrigan husks, her voice rough with sorrow. “But I am sorry that we do not live in simpler times.”
Leliana smiles ruefully.
“We would not be who we are if we did.”
_
“You know this is supposed to be a party, right?” Varric gestures at the throngs of dancers throughout the hall, the couples giggling together, the jesters juggling.
“And you know it is not in my nature to… cavort,” Leliana sighs, though she’s well aware that she’s usually better at faking it where formal occasions are concerned. “Don’t mind me, enjoy the celebration.”
“Ah, but then how would I observe it? Someone has to write the story of how we closed a hole in the sky!”
“You’re right. It’s perhaps too long for a bard to fit in one song alone. A novel would be best.”
“Don’t worry, Red, you won’t be in it much. I can handle many things, but tragedy isn’t really one of them.”
Leliana isn’t sure whether to be offended or grateful, so she settles for deadpan.
“I’ll look forward to reading your finished work.”
“If you do get the Divine gig and you wanted to write a blurb…”
“Don’t push your luck, Varric.”
_
On the day of Leliana’s Inauguration as Divine Victoria, a single black raven perches in the middle of Val Royeaux for the entirety of the ceremony.
Victoria’s detractors claim the bird is an omen of evil, a warning of the dangers of altering the order of things so drastically.
Her supporters see something resolute and strong in the bird, that reminds them to keep the faith when their hope for change wears thin.
The irreverent among the Andrastrians speculate on whether it is more difficult for the Grand Cathedral’s staff to clean bird droppings or nug dung off of various surfaces, given the new Divine’s fondness for the Maker’s creatures.