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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.

Chapter Text

Morrigan finds him asleep in a cave, following the trail that the ring he wears leaves in her mind. She can visualize it like a bright golden thread that ties them together, and can follow it anywhere, can find him even past the edge of all that is known.

The cave is well hidden, but Morrigan has learnt all his tricks in their years together, and even taught him many of them. She pushes them aside with ease, Kieran dogging her footsteps with an eager spring in his steps.

He dozes by the dying fire, barely covered by a thin blanket he had sewn himself. He looks peaceful as he sleeps—no Darkspawn dreams for him tonight. Besides him, Tamlen, the old mabari, dozes, huffing softly as he sleeps.

Kieran is delighted to see his father, sitting across from him by the dying embers of his fire, watching him with eager eyes as he waits for him to awaken.

Morrigan stands by the entrance to the cave, her eyes lingering on Jacen’s Vallaslin, inky black against his warm brown skin. The swirls and leaves of the markings identify him as a servant of Mythal, and she bites down on a bitter, hysterical laugh as she examines them with new eyes. No wonder her mother had liked him so—he was bound to her throw his blood markings, just as the Inquisitor now was bound through the Well of Sorrows.

He stirs—the Dalish and the Wardens have both taught him to sleep lightly. On many nights she has been grateful for that trait—he would always awaken quickly to fight threats or to tend to Kieran, even when she still slept.

He suddenly jerks upright, sensing foreign presences near him, and scrambles for his bow.

“Be calm, it is only us,” Morrigan says, and his hand freezes, fingers wrapped around an arrow. His dark brown eyes linger on his face, and a sickeningly sweet expression emerges on his face.

“Ma vhenan,” Jacen whispers, and then the blanket falls to the ground as he scoops Kieran up into his arms, laughing. “Da’len!”

“Father!” Kieran hugs him, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck.

Jacen sets Kieran down gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead before approaching her. “Ma vhenan,” he whispers, the words crossing his lips reverently as he looks up to meet her eyes.

“My love,” she returns. Once, he’d had to coax those words from her with kisses and lingering looks, with gifts and well-timed arrows in the heat of battle, but now, after ten years, the words came as easily to her as breathing.

He kisses her, his hands snaking around her waist, and she runs her fingers through the thick, curly hair of his ponytail, shaking as she thinks of how close she had come to losing him. If the Inquisitor hadn’t insisted on drinking, if he had instead deferred to her as she had requested, she might not be here, kissing Jacen Mahariel, with their son stirring up the coals of the fire.

Jacen Mahariel, who did not know that her mother was an elven god in disguise, who did not know that Kieran has lost the soul of the Old God, who did not know her stories of Orlais and the Game beyond her brief update that she had sent when the Inquisitor and Leliana had asked her to contact him.

He has chased her through an Eluvian, he has followed her to Orlais, he has raised their son with love and kindness, both of them seeking to give Kieran the childhood that they felt that they had missed.

“Vhenan,” he mutters, resting his face against the hollow of her neck. “You came.”

“I did promise,” she says testily.

“You also wished to help the Inquisition,” he says, frowning slightly as he backs away. “Did something happen?”

Her shoulders slump. He knows her too well—he knows that she would not have come to him quite yet unless something was wrong. “Yes.”

He takes her hand and leads her to the fire. “Tell me,” he asks, offering her a smile.

Morrigan fingers the golden rope necklace that she wears whenever she travels, the one that he had given her in Orzammar with a smile, never asking of her more than she was willing to give.

She takes a deep breath, and sits next to him. The smooth wooden ring that he carved for her—a wedding ring, he’d said, although no Chantry or Clan would ever marry them—brushes against his hand as she intertwines their fingers.

All will be well. They are together again.

She begins to tell her story, and he listens. 

Chapter Text

She stands in the garden of Skyhold, listening idly to the chatter of the people around her.

Her wounds from the last battle ache—the healers are stressed and overworked, and so despite their best efforts it will be many days still before she can travel. Kieran is playing chess with the Commander—he has taken a shining to the game, much to Morrigan’s amusement.

“Well hello,” a familiar, Antivan voice says, and she turns. There is Zevran, leaning against one of the pillars of the gazebo, wearing battered leathers, two daggers visible behind him. His hair has now grown to the length that he wears it in a braid.

“What are you doing here?” She demands, bewildered. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping her from doing anything stupid?”

“I go wherever my love requests,” he says, placing a hand over his heart. “Including, as it happens, to serve as a distraction while she sneaks up on you.”

Morrigan rapidly spins around, just in time to spot the Grey Warden. Marsha Tabris stands behind her, grinning from ear to pointed ear.  Her dark hair is still in that series of braids, her skin is still dark and smattered with freckles, and her eyes bright and amber. She now wears a single earring in her left ear—the one that Zevran had given her, all those years ago. One of her daggers is the same—Fang, she recalls Marsha calling it, having belonged to her mother.

“Marsha,” she begins, but Marsha cuts her off by throwing her arms around her in a hug.

“I’ve missed you so much!” Marsha tells her, backing away with a smile. The years have marked her friend—there are lines around her eyes, scars on her cheeks. But her smile is as young as ever, and Morrigan can’t help but smile at the sight. “When Leliana told me you were here, I couldn’t believe it!”

Morrigan laughs, despite herself, caught up in Marsha’s enthusiasm. “Zevran!” Marsha calls, turning to face her lover.

“Coming, amor,” Zevran calls fondly. Marsha holds her hands out, and Zevran produces—a child?

“Morrigan,” Marsha says, cradling the baby in her arms, smiling widely. “Meet my daughter. Adaia Tabris.”

Adaia—that had been her mother’s name, Morrigan remembers.

“You—you had a child?” Morrigan can’t believe it—she knows the odds are slim, for a Grey Warden.

“That was my reaction!” Marsha laughs, but the smile she has is warm and loving—Morrigan wonders if she has ever looked like that, when she thinks of Kieran. “Adaia,” Marsha says, addressing the child, “Meet your Aunt Morrigan,” she then hands the child to Morrigan, who takes her, although she has never held a child other than her own.

The child is small, with Marsha’s eyes and Zevran’s blond hair. Her ears are definitely elven, and she cooes up at Morrigan when she sees her.

“I should call Kieran,” she whispers, as she stares down at the child. “He would love to meet you.”

“And I can’t wait to meet him,” Marsha says, taking Zevran’s hand.

Chapter Text

She finds the Warden in the far west—where the Blight is but a legend, whispered to frighten children who misbehave.  

Tahnen Brosca is in an ancient ruin, lifting a torch to the wall to examine strange markings left by ancients. Her two-handed sword is slung across her back, barely touched in recent days if Morrigan judges it correctly. Her casteless brand scars her face, a reminder of her origins, even ten years later; despite the fact that now, she is called “Paragon” by the very people who once had cast her out. She’s cut her hair—instead of the long braid she wore it in during the Blight, it now hangs just below her ears, muddy brown and thick.

“Morrigan!” Tahnen has spotted her, and jumps toward her, grinning broadly. Her smile is wide and bright and… genuine, no undertone of bitterness or sorrow, not like Morrigan would have expected. A wave of cold hits Morrigan, as she realizes that she doesn’t know. Leliana’s messages have not reached her old friend, telling her of what transpired at Adamant.

“Tahnen,” she whispers, dread creeping through her. She had never thought she would have to be the one to deliver the news—she’d been certain that Leliana’s messages had reached the Hero of Ferelden. She swallows, her throat tight.

The dwarf pauses, angling her head up to look at her. The torch lies, forgotten, on the ground, flickering, sending shadows dancing across the cave walls. “What’s wrong?” She asks, like she had when Morrigan had clutched a grimoire with white-knuckled hands and told the Warden of a fate that Flemeth was preparing for her.

“Tahnen,” she pauses, trying to think of what to say, of how to phrase it—she has no skill for the parsing of words, for gentle tellings. She’s suddenly grateful that she left Kieran at the inn—the two blows might be too much for her oldest and dearest friend. “Tahnen… it’s Alistair.”

Tahnen’s face freezes, understanding. She is a Warden, after all, and she knows the risks that the title implies. “No,” she whispers, blue eyes flickering across Morrigan’s face, as if searching for a way out, an answer. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Morrigan says, hollowly, wishing she could tell a different story. She is no good at this. “It was the Fade. A demon…”

“No!” Tahnen’s voice breaks, and she crumples to the ground, tears flowing freely. Morrigan catches Tahnen in her arms, and cradles her friend, trying to comfort her as best she can.

“We almost were done, Morrigan,” Tahnen whispers. “I’d almost saved us.”

“I know,” Morrigan does her best to soothe, rubbing circles on Tahnen’s back, as she had done for Kieran when he was a babe. “I know.”

The tears continue, and Morrigan holds her, and she curses the fool for not remaining by her side.

Chapter Text

The wind is icy and biting, carrying snow and sleet alike as it blows. Morrigan wraps her cloak around herself, and is grateful for the shelter that the cliff-side offers. The fire crackles, bright and warm, helping her defend against the chill. Kieran, asleep with his head in her lap, is bundled heavily in blankets, sleeping—he is unused to such chills, even if Morrigan recalls far worse ones.

“Hail the camp!” An unfamiliar voice shouts from the road, and two figures emerge from the storm. Snow covers them, but Morrigan makes out a dwarf and an elf, both bundled up heavily. They both appear to be women—the elf bears Vallaslin, while the dwarf wears the markings of the Legion of the Dead, which cause Morrigan to raise an eyebrow—she wasn’t aware that the Legionaries ever went to the surface beyond Blights.

“Hey, mind if we join your camp?” The dwarf woman asks, pleasantly enough. She has an axe and a dagger hanging from her belt. The elf has a long wooden pole with a sharpened blade on the end that some might assume is a spear. Morrigan knows it to be a staff, and the elf a mage. “We’re a pretty large group, but we should all fit, and we’ve got food to share.”

Morrigan thinks of her own lean rations, and of how Kieran misses the company of Skyhold. “Very well,” she says, nodding.

“Great!” The dwarf says, lighting up. “I’ll go get the others!” She disappears into the snow again, the elf trailing behind her, still silent.

First emerges a human man with a bow, his hair dark and long, pulled into a ponytail. Behind him is another man, this one bearing a two-handed sword. Something in his face stirs Morrigan’s memory, but she cannot place it. The symbol of the Grey Wardens is visible beneath their cloaks and layers, and Morrigan relaxes slightly, despite herself. She still has a fondness for the order, even after the mess at Adamant. The elf and the dwarf then reemerge, carrying bags. Behind them emerges a second dwarf, and the minute he speaks, Morrigan freezes.

“Ay, this is why I shoulda never listened to yah and gone to the surface. You know how much booze it’s gonna take to feel warm again?”

Oghren.

“They let you into the Wardens?” She demands as the familiar red beard comes into view. “They really lowered their standards.”

“Hah!” Oghren snorts, although he looks as surprised as she feels. “Well look what the nug dragged in!”

“Morrigan?” Out of the storm steps Veral Amell herself—her hair tinted white with snowflakes, her dark skin chapped by the wind.

“Aren’t you supposed to be several thousand miles to the west?” Morrigan says, irritated despite herself.

“Done with that part of the mission,” Veral says lightly, even as the other Wardens begin to set up camp. “Now I need to Weisshaupt for a while.”

“On your way to Skyhold first, are you, to see someone?” Morrigan says slyly, causing Veral to blush a deep, delightful red.

“Yes,” calls the sword wielding man, who is in the process of unpacking a large bag full of cooking supplies.

“Shut up Carver,” Veral says, still blushing.

“Carver?” Morrigan says, surprised. “Carver Hawke?”

“You know me?” The man says, surprised.

“I know Varric. And I met your sister.”

“You know,” Amell says conversationally, sitting down across from Morrigan. “Had someone told me that I was related to the Champion of Kirkwall a decade ago, I would have laughed at them. But no—meet Cousin Carver, Morrigan. I’m hoping to meet Marian when we get to Weishaupt.”

“There hasn’t been word from her since she left,” Morrigan warns. “No one’s heard anything out of Weishaupt, from what I have heard.”

“I know,” Veral’s face darkens. “I’m going to be asking a great many questions, let me tell you.” Then she shifts slightly, and the mood changes. “Morrigan, I should introduce you to the rest of my companions,” she says. “The man with the bow is Nathaniel Howe—yes, that Howe. Vellana is the Dalish elf—I recruited both of them at Amaranthine, along with Sigrun—she’s the Legionnaire who’s morbidly cheerful—and Oghren.”

“And Ser Carver?” Morrigan asks as the other Wardens settle down around the fire.

“My sister sent me away once all the trouble started,” Carver shrugs. “Met up with Nathaniel here in the Anderfels—he’d gotten separated from this lot. Figured I’d tag along, meet the famous cousin.”

“Is this the kid?” Oghren asks, squinting at Kieran. His flask is out, but, surprisingly, he’s sharing it—Sigrun has a cup out that he’s pouring amber liquid into.

“Yes. This is Kieran, my son.” Clearly, only Veral and Oghren understand what that means.

“Mite small, compared to when I last saw him,” was all Oghren says, shrugging comfortable. Morrigan rolls her eyes, although the others look on, curious.

“Did you hear about Loghain?” She asks, quietly. Veral stills, then nods.

“At least he died a hero,” she says softly, mournfully. “I shall miss him, though.”

Oghren snorts. “He was an ass,” he complains, but there’s something softer and good natured about his words than there would have been, ten years ago. The years have softened him, in a way that is bewildering.

“Where are you headed?” Veral asks, leaning slightly against Nathaniel.

“Away,” Morrigan says, feeling the voices whisper in her ear, reminding her that she can never, truly, be safe, not anywhere—Mythal’s grip is as strong as ever. “Will Leliana join you on your journey to Weishaupt?”

“Depends if she can be spared,” Veral looks wistful, fingering with a golden locket that hangs around her neck. “I know she is very important in the Inquisition.”

“If the Inquisitor can spare Madame Vivienne to become the Divine, I’m sure even Lady Nightingale can be spared,” Morrigan says, and watches as Veral smiles fondly as she thinks of her love—that silly, dreamy look that Morrigan had once teased her for.

“Do all human mages blather this much, or is it just you two and Anders?” Velanna says, squinting at them. “We should start supper—or have you and your boy already eaten?”

“We have not,” Morrigan says truthfully.

“Then let’s eat!” Veral cheers, getting to her feet. “We can talk and eat at the same time.”

Morrigan smiles, and watches as the Wardens bustle about, ignoring the whispers in her ears that remind her that this cannot last.

Chapter Text

She sees him on a mountain top, and her blood turns to ice. The scar on her stomach where his blade cut through her flesh flares up in pain, as if recognizing that he is present.

Alec Aedeucan doesn’t see her, and Morrigan turns herself into a crow to keep it that way.

He passes right by her, sword and shield slung across his back, Zevran by his side, as always.

Why was it that he could forgive an assassin, but her attempts to save his life—his, or Loghain’s—a betrayal?  He had laughed at her, when she had tried to convince him, not caring of the risk. “Let Loghain take the fall,” he had told her, his eyes ice-like. “I don’t need to slay the Archdemon to become a legend.”

And it seems he did not—his name was whispered with reverence everywhere Morrigan went, causing a bitter feeling to rest on her tongue. Leliana was the only one who seemed to understand—had he not left her, bleeding, perhaps even dead, in the Temple of Sacred Ashes?

And then he had tracked her down, to the Eluvian, and stabbed her—he had meant to kill her, she was certain of that. It was only by luck she had survived at all.

She took flight, and hoped she was imagining his eyes on her.

She was alone in the world, taking flight, fleeing from her mother. It had been ten years, but nothing had changed.

Chapter Text

He meets her at the edge of a glade—his staff resting across his knees.

Kieran runs forward to greet him, laughing, and Miles Surana laughs and picks up his son, letting his staff fall to the ground.

Morrigan watches her lover and their son—their beautiful, ordinary, son—as she approaches them.

She had already made it to the mountains when she realized that she was pregnant—that her pleas, her anger, had all been in vain. She had screamed, and cursed, and wept—she had not yet realized that Alistair had made the sacrifice, that Miles still lived.

She had hidden, ran from him and his love, only to find him again at the Eluvian, apologies on both of their lips. And he had followed her into the Eluvian, without fear or hesitation.

Now, he looks at her, and steps toward her, and she touches his face softly. Can he feel the Well of Souls, whirling around her, telling her the secrets of the past?

“Morrigan,” he says, and she pulls him towards her, kissing him.

“Morrigan, what happened?” He says when she pulls away, finally.

“I… I have made a mistake,” she whispers. And she tells him—of Flemeth, of the Inquisition, of the Well, of a soul now bound for eternity. She tells him of dragon wings and red lyrium, of eluvians and ancient elves.

“We can fix this,” he says, clutching her hand in his. “We will fix this.” There is an intensity in his eyes that she has not seen in a long time.

“No!” She cries, alarmed. “The Blight, the Calling—”

“Well wait. I have twenty years yet, Morrigan,” he holds her hand and stares at her. “I won’t let Mythal—Flemeth tear us apart.”

She looks at him, and she realizes he means it—he will put off his quest, his search, to keep their family safe. And she looks at Kieran, and remembers how fiercely he embraced her when she returned from the battlefield, limping and bruised. That can never happen again.

“Very well,” she whispers.

She must hope it will be enough.

Chapter Text

She stops in Ferelden, ever so briefly.

The statue is a crude imitation of her. The hair is wrong, the face is wrong—the sculptor had clearly never seen the face of the real woman. Morrigan swallows bitterly, looking up at the memorial.

“You should have listened to me,” she says to the statue, wishing it was the woman herself. But the woman is dead, her soul shattered, her body ashes, her companions scattered. “I could have saved you.”

“She did not want to be saved, Morrigan,” Leliana says softly. Because of course she was there—clever as ever, she must have realized where Morrigan would go. “She believed—she believed she was doing what was right. And that it was worth her life.”

“It did not have to be this way,” Morrigan replies bitterly, wrapping her arms around herself.

“She did not trust Flemeth—not you,” Leliana tells her. “She told me, after you left—she was scared. Flemeth scared her, even after she killed her.”

“It does not matter,” Morrigan says softly. “She is dead, and we all still live.”

“She probably would have preferred it that way,” Leliana replies, laughing softly.

“’Tis true enough, I suppose,” Morrigan agrees, smiling wryly, looking up at the face of the statue.

“Anora really could have commissioned a better sculptor,” Leliana says, after a long pause. “That grimace.”

Morrigan laughs, startled. “I believe that was the expression she wore when she was near Her Majesty, however.”

“Oh, she didn’t mind Anora that much,” Leliana sits next to her. “You’re projecting.”

“I am not!”

The two of them bicker at the foot of the statue, and for a moment, Morrigan thinks that she sees a flicker of something out of the corner of her eye—a curved bow, a flicker of a braid.

But she turns her head, and there is nothing there.