Chapter Text
Kieran trails behind her, examining the flowers that line the road as he walks, dragging his feet as he goes, his eyes wandering, examining everything as he goes. Ever since the Fade, he seems to see the world through new eyes, and so Morrigan doesn’t hurry him, although she wants to move as far away from Skyhold as fast as they can. She uses her staff as a walking stick, needing the security that the familiar wood provides. Through Eluvians and Orlesian courts, she has carried it since Denerim—a last gift from her dearest friend.
She has traded her familiar clothes for thick, fuller robes, with a hood that conceals her face. The color is a rich, deep red, and the cloth is soft and warm. On the sleeve, well hidden, is the symbol of the Chantry, one last laugh that Leliana has had through this final present, pressed into her hands as she left Skyhold. “Be careful,” Leliana had whispered, hiding in the shadows as was appropriate for the Left Hand of the Divine.
“Farewell,” she had said. Then, softer, and after a moment, she had added, “Old friend.”
They had parted with the faintest of smiles and the quick brush of hands as the clothes exchanged hands.
It has been two weeks since she left Skyhold. Kieran misses the place, but he understands the need to flee.
The sound of clashing blades and the shouts of combat disrupt her thoughts. Morrigan spins her staff into combat position, calling upon her power to surround and protect her, wrapping the layers of the fade around her like armor. “Stay behind!” She orders Kieran, and charges forward to assist.
Darkspawn fill the road, all attacking a single figure who wields a sword and shield with grace and skill that Morrigan has, over the years, come to recognize and appreciate. Morrigan blasts the Darkspawn with a cone of ice, throwing herself fully into combat, ice and lightning dancing from her fingertips and staff. Soon she is back to back with the warrior, spinning her staff and releasing her mana in deadly waves. The air smells of taint and ozone and blood, and she is reminded of the Fifth Blight again.
The warrior lets out a triumphant cry and shatters the last Hurlock with a slam of the shield and an arc of a shimmering sword. The two of them then turn to face each other, and then both freeze upon making eye contact.
Glistening red hair frames a freckled, noble-bred face. The armor is of Grey Warden make, the griffin sprawled across her chest piece, rampant and triumphant against the silverite. Freckled skin is interrupted by a nasty scar that slashes across her cheek, left by an Archdemon’s claw. A gold ring gleams on her hand, and the crest of Highever gleamed on her shield.
“Morrigan,” the queen and hero of Ferelden, the Lady Rosa Cousland, whispers, staring at Morrigan as if she were a ghost. Morrigan knows she is doing the same—Leliana shared the letter, revealing where their old friend had gone, but she never would have expected to come across her on her journey.
“Your Majesty,” Morrigan says coolly, as the Game has taught her to play, inclining her head slightly. Emotion flickers across the Warden’s face, hurt by Morrigan’s seeming disinterest. “My friend,” she amends, softly, and Rosa—Cousland—smiles at her like she used to when she would tramp up to Morrigan’s fire to ask her questions about whatever topic had struck her curiosity.
Cousland opens her mouth to speak, but she is cut off before she can get the words out.
“Mother?” Kieran calls, and Cousland turns to see him approach, curious. Morrigan has never been more aware of Kieran’s resemblance to Alistair before now, and she knows that her old friend will see the same thing. She doesn’t even think—she moves between Alistair’s wife and his child in a blur of speed, lifting her staff into a defensive position, her heart hammering in her ears as she stares into the amber eyes of her first friend. “Stay away from him,” Morrigan demands, unable to hide her fear. She knows Cousland’s skill—she is unsure if she can defeat her. But she must try. For Kieran.
Hurt flashes across Cousland’s face—raw and undeniable. “I won’t hurt him, Morrigan,” she whispers, her eyes flickering to Kieran, behind Morrigan, before returning to Morrigan.
“Kieran, go back to camp,” Morrigan calls, refusing to take her eyes off Cousland. Thankfully, he is obedient for once, sensing her fear, and turns and runs back to their camp from yesterday, leaving the two women behind.
Morrigan does not shift her stance or her staff, continuing to stare down the Warden with thin lips and a pale face.
“I would never—” Cousland begins earnestly, but Morrigan cuts her off harshly.
“He is a threat, is he not? A threat to Ferelden, to Alistair?”
Cousland was pragmatic, and tolerated no threats to what was hers. Howe had suffered, Loghain had suffered, and the Darkspawn had suffered. Morrigan held know doubts about Kieran and herself and where they stood with Cousland.
“He’s a child,” Cousland says, slowly lowering herself to the ground, setting her sword and shield in the dirt with a reverent care. She expands her hands slowly, raising them up as she straightens to look Morrigan in the eye again. “I would never—”
“He’s Alistair’s child!” Morrigan snaps, raising her staff up further, the blade coming close to Cousland’s neck. Her old friend doesn’t even flinch at the movement. “You cannot tell me that you do not resent that, that you don’t acknowledge that he is a threat!”
“Alistair hasn’t even met him!” Rosa shouts, throwing her arms wide. “It’s not like you’re going to raise an army against us!”
“You can’t tell me that you will just tolerate a bastard—”
“I told Alistair to sleep with you!” Rosa screams, cutting Morrigan off. “I begged him! I begged him to have a bastard, to save his life!” She pauses, breathing heavily, on the verge of tears. “I begged my husband to sleep with my sister, and then she ran away, pregnant and alone, and I couldn’t find her, I couldn’t help her, I lost her. I lost you!” She grabs Morrigan’s staff, her fingers brushing Morrigan’s. “I would never hurt you,” Rosa pleads, her voice shaking, as if it were about to shatter. “Morrigan, please.”
Morrigan’s knees go weak, and she drops the staff to the ground. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her head bowing and her eyes squeezing shut.
Rosa embraces her tightly, dropping her forehead against Morrigan’s shoulder as her arms encircle her. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers into the cloth, and Morrigan thinks she imagines a dampness.
“And… and I you,” Morrigan manages.
They pull apart, and Rosa holds her hand. “Come,” she says, smiling widely. “Introduce me. And then tell me what you’ve been up to, all these years.”
“I must move on in the morning,” Morrigan warns, but she is smiling, despite herself.
“Then one last night then,” Rosa says. “Before I return to my king, and you to your adventures.”
Morrigan threads her arm through her sister’s. “I still can’t believe you married that fool,” she says, and rolls her eyes at the soft expression that appears on Rosa’s face at the mention of Alistair.
“I’m sorry you missed it. I had a bridesmaid dress all set aside for you. Leliana designed it. It had ruffles.”
“I’m glad I missed being there, then,” Morrigan says haughtily, and Rosa laughs as they walk down the road, side by side.