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Andrea sighed. “I suppose I should tell you that I’m sorry,” she said.
Morrigan looked over at her. Her dog, Prince—such a self-important name for such a foolish, thick-skulled beast—was curled up by her side, its head resting on Andrea’s fat thighs. “For what?” Morrigan asked, furrowing her brows.
Earlier that very evening, the round-faced noblewoman had all but crawled back to camp, her usually well-maintained armor coated in stinking, dark blood and her makeup completely washed off from all the sweat and gore. And yet, despite it all, she had made sure to wrap Flemeth’s grimoire three times over in a piece of linen. Her hands were lily-white, scrubbed clean to keep the book from being stained with blood and its pages ruined. She had presented the journal to Morrigan, told her that Flemeth was dead, and sulked off to submerge herself in the pond they had stopped by. Alistair had trailed after her with as much speed as her dog and with the same expression, ready to fret over his blossoming little romance with a woman he had so deeply hated naught but three months ago. Clearly, her swaying hips and heavy chest had won out against her pigheaded personality.
Andrea looked over at Morrigan with rare sympathy in her emerald-green eyes. “I killed your mother, Morrigan.” Morrigan opened her mouth to protest, but, in typical Andrea fashion, she kept talking. “I know you asked me to, and I know she was a dreadful, wicked, air-wasting woman-” Morrigan couldn’t help but smile at the apt description. Andrea didn’t smile back. “But she was still your mother.”
Morrigan frowned. “What, do you believe I should weep for her?” She let out a swift huff of air from her nose. “Should I throw myself to the ground and sob at the world’s unfairness? At the fact that, at my direction, I was robbed of a mother?” She sucked on her teeth. “Be not so childish, Andrea, ‘tis unfitting of a woman as intelligent as yourself.”
Andrea seemed to bristle slightly, her pride successfully prodded at. “I don’t think there’s a creature in all of the Maker’s creations that would shed a tear for that bitch,” she huffed. “It just…” Her face grew soft, then, and her eyes took on a faraway look as she gazed up at the sky. Little sparks from the fire flew up in a vain attempt to join the stars. “It pains me to know that you can hear of your mother being killed and feel nothing but relief.”
“Why?” Morrigan didn’t understand. Ignorance itched like the sting of an insect.
“Because, at least where I come from, every girl deserves to have a mother that loves her,” Andrea said. Her voice was firm, as if she was speaking with the authority of a queen, even if her eyes watered. “Every single one.” She stared dead into Morrigan’s eyes, and Morrigan had to fight the urge to avert her gaze. “The fact that you’re not mourning hurts, not because I think you’re wrong to, but because you were never given a reason to.”
Morrigan scoffed. “Please, this is-”
“Do not dismiss me,” she said, her voice stopping Morrigan’s tongue in its tracks. “I know that you don’t think much of my upbringing, certainly nothing good, but that is not my fault. And it isn’t yours, either.”
“Whose, pray tell, is it, then? Are my opinions not my own?”
“Just like I have my mother’s face, I have a mind like hers. I was born and bred a Cousland, just like you were born and bred a Witch of the Wilds,” she explained. Had she been anyone else, Morrigan would have turned into a spider and ripped out her tongue for speaking to her with such presumptions. And yet she did not. “And yet,” Andrea sighed, looking away, “I have changed. I’m no longer just the girl Mother and Father raised me to be.” Her eyes once again shimmered with tears reflecting the light of the stars and the fire. “I’d like to think they would be proud, at least a little.” She turned to face Morrigan. “Maker’s breath, my mother would have adored you.”
Morrigan crossed her arms and looked away. “Oh, please,” she huffed. “Don’t be foolish.”
“She would have!” There was an undercurrent of laughter in Andrea’s noble voice.
“Even if her breeding would have her brand me a maleficar?”
“Even so,” Andrea nodded. “She’d pray for you to one day accept the Maker into your wicked witch heart, of course,” she said, pretending for a moment to be somber. “But she’s a good enough Andrastian woman to know prayer is nonsense.” She smiled and gave Morrigan a small wink.
“And what traits do you think this mother of yours would approve of?” Morrigan knew Andrea’s mother was dead. And quite brutally so, at that. There was no reason for her to indulge the woman in such chatter. But she was curious.
“Well,” Andrea started, “you’re incredibly headstrong.”
Morrigan barked out a laugh. “And your noble mother would find that charming?” She asked, disbelieving.
“Oh, of course,” Andrea smiled. “She wasn’t born into the nobility, you know. Well, certainly not as you would know it.” Andrea leaned forward a little, giving her hound a few scratches behind the ear as it stirred with the movement. “She was the daughter of Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig, a raider more commonly known as the Storm Giant.” There was an unmistakable pride in her voice. “My mother took down an Orlesian warship at only fifteen.”
If there was one thing Morrigan respected, it was power. Earned power. “‘Tis unlike you to stretch the truth,” she said.
“Which is why I’m not,” Andrea replied. There was unmistakable pride in her voice. “My mother takes-” She stopped herself. “Took, I suppose,” she continued, a small frown on her lips, “great pride in her reputation as a battle maiden.” She leaned back on her hand, wincing slightly. She’d sustained several injuries during her fight with Flemeth, and healing magic can only do so much so quickly. “Mother was not shy about her demands, and she would never budge on anything. Even if you’re only here because your mother sent you, she would admire your refusal to ever truly bend the knee. Especially not to Alistair and I, regardless of our blood.”
Even if you’re only here because your mother sent you. For some odd reason, Morrigan felt herself taking offense at the statement. ‘Tis true, is it not? She asked herself. Far be it from my own will to follow a girl overfed by a silver spoon and a man too stupid to darn his own socks. And yet… Flemeth was dead. Hopefully dead, at least. She had no reason to stay. The idea of going through with the Dark Ritual Flemeth had instructed her to do, especially with a man like Alistair, repulsed her.
“Do you take issue with what I’ve said?” Andrea asked, looking perplexed. Morrigan’s inner thoughts must have shown, somewhat, on her face. “Have you secretly been bending the knee behind my back?” She raised her eyebrows. “Certainly not with Alistair, I presume.” There was a mischievous glint in her eye that made Morrigan’s face heat with slightly embarrassed indignity.
“I would much rather kneel before a toad,” she spat, her venom undercut by the pinkness on her pale face.
“Good,” Andrea laughed softly. “I would hate for jealousy to drive us apart. Especially over him.” She rolled her eyes. Despite playing it off, it was clear she’d grown dangerously fond of the bastard prince.
At least, Morrigan thought, it hadn’t been at the expense of their own… relationship. Their… friendship. It was a foreign thing. Still so new and uncomfortable.
“Perhaps, one day,” Andrea continued, “you could accompany me to Highever.” She looked so hopeful it made a pit open up in Morrigan’s stomach. “Once I… reclaim it, of course.” Andrea held up a small fist that had once been baby-soft. She clenched it, and several joints popped like the logs crackling in the fire. “I would be more than happy to part with some of Mother’s jewelry, if that sweetens the deal for you.”
“Perhaps it does,” Morrigan lied, giving Andrea a small smile.
Andrea smiled back, wide and genuine. “In truth, much of it was various gifts from Father,” she said. “Only sometimes displayed, and only when she felt so compelled to wear it. You, however, are quite the magpie, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” Morrigan asked, knowing full well that the answer was yes. Any piece of silver or gold that Andrea gave her—after being properly appraised by her noble eye, of course—instantly went to adorn Morrigan’s skin. After all, Flemeth was no longer around to snatch it from her hands and shatter it on the ground.
“Most certainly,” Andrea said. “Oh, Father would love to spoil you,” she smiled.
“As he did you, I presume?” As the words left Morrigan’s mouth, she almost felt regret at what could have been an offensive remark.
Before the emotions could properly develop, however, Andrea grinned and nodded. “And why would he not? I was his only daughter.” She tucked a loose lock of her long, silky black hair behind an ear. After her bath, she hadn’t bothered to put it back up in her usual two braided buns. “Mother wanted me to grow tougher, physically, at least, but Father… indulged me, I suppose. Let me play at politics while-” She started to trip on her words. “While Fergus played at being a knight.” She always did that, that stammer, whenever she spoke of her brother or his wife or their son. As if she had yet to learn how to swallow the truth of their butchering. “Perhaps it made me too soft,” she sighed.
“It gave you a sharp mind, if nothing else,” Morrigan said. Even from the start, even at her brattiest and most childish, Andrea had always possessed a keen, strategic mind.
“Thank you, Morrigan.” She gained a soft dusting of pink on her pale cheeks as she smiled. “Though I wonder, sometimes, is it truly such a bad thing to be soft?”
Morrigan blinked at her. The Andrea of three months ago would have never said such a thing about herself. She had been so intent on viewing herself as cold and hard and bitter. And now she spoke of softness. That ludicrous berserker training with the dwarf and her affection for Alistair had changed her. And yet, she was still not unrecognizable. Her softness, outside of her plump physique, somehow complimented her brilliant, wild rage. “Softness is weakness,” Morrigan said, trying to stand firm, even as she sat beneath the stars talking of dead mothers and fathers and jewelry. “‘Twill only leave you unprepared for all life will beat you with.”
Andrea looked at her with those intelligent emerald eyes. She was quiet for a moment as she studied Morrigan’s face. “One day,” she started, her voice sweet and kind, “I hope that you have the privilege of growing a little fat.” She gave her a smile and stood up, disturbing her dog’s rest. “Come along, Prince.” She looked down at Morrigan, that smile still on her lips. “Goodnight, Morrigan.”
Morrigan stared owlishly at her before she remembered herself. “Goodnight, Andrea,” she said, unable to think of a stinging retort.
With one last knowing glance, Andrea turned and walked back toward her tent, her dog trailing after her.
Once again left in the cool night with nothing but the chirping crickets and hooting owls for company, Morrigan did her best not to ponder at the warmness in her chest.
Of all of the things I could have imagined…