Chapter 44: Eyes of Wolves - From All Sides

Ah, to be free again.

She soared through thick boughs of pine, the scent fresh and sharp. Her black wings beat, twisting with her tail to curve her trajectory in an acrobatic dance. Alighting on a high branch, she took a moment to smell the air. Her beak kept her from smiling, but the smile existed nonetheless.

Lothering stretched her tolerance for humans to the breaking point. How she wanted to snap at them, scare them with a bit of spell work until they ran. Their useless lives filled with petty fights and squabbles over a pig or who curried whose favor. These possessive, small-minded peasants could not see how trivial their lives were, no better than ants scurrying over a destroyed hill.

The Chasind knew how to live with the wilds. These northerners though, with their farms and domesticated beasts, spread like a toxin, chewing up old forests and fields, changing the course of rivers or breaking the mountains to build stone houses. Though not as poisonous as the darkspawn, they carried their own form of destruction.

Relief to be in the wilds again scoured her soul clean. She would need to build up her tolerance to humans, but for now, the wilds reminded her of the few times she had been happy.

A memory came unbidden, the moment when she realized she would never have the freedom of simple pleasures again. She had been flying then, too.

Years ago she flew, an escape from her mother, the bitter, dried up tyrant. Flemeth’s last words still stung, following through the miles as Morrigan sought escape. T’was a simple mistake. Morrigan’s control over the Chasind boy was nearly perfect. The boy’s attention drifted, his head dropping before popping back up, only to slide down again as the sleep spell took hold, stealing away his energy. What caused the boy to wake and scream, alerting the rest of the camp, Morrigan could not say.

Now wary of the witches in their presence, Morrigan and Flemeth had little choice but to take to the air. No need to create enmity and force the Chasind into a hopeless battle because the savages felt they were in danger. A missing warrior here, a bit of mischief there, the Chasind could tolerate, but there had been too much of that of late. Best let emotions settle before practicing magic again.

Once the two landed back at the hut, Flemeth’s hand struck out of nowhere. Morrigan staggered back from the force, half from shock as from the blow.

“But Mother...”

“Quiet, Girl! You should have had him by now. How can you still be so clumsy?”

The words continued, each as stinging as the slap. One after another rained down, making Morrigan feel small and incompetent, red with humiliation and frustrated rage. She kept her head down knowing a defiant eye would make the punishment worse. The dirty boy had pimples, a weak chin, and nose that belonged on a buzzard. Of all the people her mother could have chosen to take for practice, why that one? Morrigan crossed her arms, grateful her mother’s chosen target had failed. Just the idea of having to charm the boy’s body into readiness, of having to take that one inside her, filled her with disgust.

Another slap. The biting sting turned into a red ache. Startled, Morrigan met her mother’s eyes.

“Idiot child. Can you not even pay attention? Is all your focus gone? At this rate we’ll have to go back to the rudimentary exercises.”

All the carefully built confidence Morrigan had shredded under Flemeth. She could never be herself, free. Always, her mother stole away the years until Morrigan felt like a girl still ignorant of magic’s touch. “It was just a mistake, Mother.”

A derisive snort met the comment. “Mistakes will kill you, child.” The tirade may be over, but not her mother’s anger. It simmered in her contempt, turned cold and calculating. Two fingers grasped Morrigan’s chin, as bony and strong as a vulture’s claw. “You didn’t like the boy. Is that it?”

Shame flooded Morrigan’s insides with a queer heat. She didn’t want to talk of such intimacies with her mother.

“Don’t bother lying. I already know the answer.” Flemeth released her with a roughness that left an ache in Morrigan’s jaw. “Morrigan. The day will come when all choices come down to a single moment, and if you cannot act, so much will be lost. In those singular moments, you will hold the fate of gods, the fate of history. In a pinprick of time, all our futures, all our fates, come together and that choice will ripple through the ages that have yet to come. Child, weakness will destroy far more than you.”

Lips pursed, Flemeth stared at her.

Why did her mother always talk in riddles so? Morrigan kept back the tears that stung her eyes. What was she supposed to say to that proclamation?

“Go, child. Go to your foolish games and fantasies. With the time we’ve lost, what’s a few more days?” With that, Flemeth turned her back and disappeared into her hut.

Morrigan turned into a raven, flew hard and fast as if space could silence her mother’s words. When Morrigan wanted to play in the trees, a game of speed and agility, a race to escape imaginary templars or darkspawn, Flemeth’s words haunted her. Foolish games. Her mother stole the joy from her games as effectively as shattering a mirror.

Of all the things the old witch could have said, mocking her treasured moments of freedom sliced her at the core. The words invaded her refuge, stole the lightness from her heart, and in its place weighed her down with a mountain of responsibility. Flemeth didn’t need to clip her wings. The crone’s methods chained her daughter more effectively than any cage.

Still, Morrigan beat her wings. A mile, then a second, she flew into the growing dusk. At first she hunted the insects that came out in the gloom, twisting to catch one after another. Necessity forced her into the acrobatic tumbles. Then an extra flap turned her flight into a roll. A small, secret smile opened her heart. She challenged herself, flapping hard to fly over a thick bough without losing speed. A dive, and she snapped a fluttering moth out of air as the wind sluiced by.

Not the same, but she could feel the memory of what was lost, could almost believe in her own child’s magic again, a magic of innocence.

Now, hundreds of miles north of the swamp, Morrigan flew through unfamiliar trees. New scents erased old memories. Fresh breezes of pine, musky redwoods, pollen-heavy oaks, so strange and new, they cleared away the heavy odor of bog that clung to her clothes and skin. Away from the witch. The weight inside her felt distant in these moments. The heavy stone always pulling her down lay far away, almost gone from consciousness.

A cold draft from the south ruffled her feathers, pushing her towards a thicket. She spun in the air, delight breathing new life after the years of study and recriminations. With a few beats of her wings, she turned with the wind, diving to use a cold draft’s momentum and take her deeper into the forest.

Flemeth would not be happy to hear how Morrigan kept picking at the templar. With only two Wardens left, the smart course of action would to befriend both. What if the elf should fall, her mother would warn. Oh how delighted the crone would be to hear how her daughter gleefully burnt her bridges.

Well then. The elf will have to live.

Of all the people she had to deal with, the elf was the least taxing. Still, his inability to learn a form and constant questions made his presence more a pest than peace. At least he knew when to be silent. That red-headed human never knew when to shut her mouth. Foolish girl. She and the templar made good company together, their noise and mindless faith blinded them to so much more.

Morrigan let out a squawk of panic. Her wings beat wildly as she slammed into the ancient wall. Claws scrambled for purchase on climbing vines, the same vines that hampered her wings. She dropped, tail over head, as she tried to right herself. Her chest ached from the blow. A fall at this height would shatter her fragile bones.

One wing didn’t feel right, but it was enough as she leveled. A rough croak erupted from her throat when another wall loomed up in her vision. An arch overhead forced her lower. Arches like giant fingers kept her from open sky. Damnation!

Chest tight and wing sore, Morrigan landed on the stone floor. No creeping vines covered these human-cut stones. Morrigan opened her beak as she sucked in air. Each deep breath caused a sharp pain in her chest. Where did this place come from? The air didn’t smell of forest anymore. Humans, dogs, manure, metal, hay, and a myriad of other scents assaulted her.

Footsteps. The clink of armor. Metal striking stone.

What is this place?

A dog’s snarl caught her attention. The sound echoed off stone, made the threat sound like it came from many directions. The odd shape of walls and echos also distorted distance. Never before had Morrigan been in a place like this. What few buildings remained in the swamps had long ago lost their battle with the elements. Only the ancient fortress at Ostagar stood against the endless barrage of wind and snow, and that relic looked nothing like this.

The scrape of claws on stone joined the growl. From which direction, Morrigan could not guess, but the sounds grew louder.

Morrigan lowered, ready to leap into the air. She braced against the pain she knew would stab in her chest.

Pain flared in her back. Needles, thin and long as swords, drove into her. Morrigan screamed and flailed as more of the needle sharp pins closed around her throat with a crushing pain. Panic overwhelmed pain, making her struggle even as her thrashing caused the needles to rip further into her flesh. Morrigan screamed and twisted, saw the bright yellow-green eye of a grey cat.

The smell of blood. Her blood.

Morrigan screamed, flailed, tried to peck at the cat, felt movement under one claw and tried to scratch at it. The cat’s grip loosened enough that Morrigan shifted, got a wing in between her body and the cat. The needle sharp claws scraped down Morrigan’s skin, leaving deep gouges. Her powerful wing beat against the cat. Each movement caused the needles to rip her more until she thought she was only tatters under her feathers.

Morrigan jumped, screamed when the needles clamped in deeper. She jumped again, beat her wings, screeched when the cat latched onto her tail feathers. Pain shot through her body. The cat had her tail feathers clasped too firmly to shake the creature away. Pain screamed through her body like she was pulling out her own fingernails to escape.

Blood splattered the stone as Morrigan rose. The cat yowled in frustration, an ugly sound that twisted Morrigan’s stomach. The yellow-green eyes watched, angry, then the cat leaped up to grab her. So fast! Panic blinded her for a second, her wings beating frantically, legs pulled tight. Morrigan felt the passage of air from the cat’s outstretched paw.

“She almost got him!” A child’s laugh filled the hall.

Morrigan flew to the roof, circled, unsure of where to go. Window, need a window. Where were the vines that lead back out? Where was her forest?

A stone struck her side, a rib cracking from the blow. Morrigan spied the sling in the child’s hand. The boy fished out another stone from his pocket as she watched.

Have to get out! There must be some way out. Morrigan flew down the corridor, down another hall. Closed doors, more closed doors, no windows. She couldn’t keep flying. Every breath, every flap of wings brought new agony. There! A chandelier. Something to land on far away from the cat.

Guards came to stand below her. They laughed, joked, praised the boy for his shot. One took out a sword, started poking up at her. Morrigan squawked, tried to move away from the knight’s prodding sword. No, not guards! Templars!

No windows. No open doors. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Transform, and they would know her as a witch instead of some confused bird. Risk another flight?

The sword came up again, slicing deep into her leg.

Where to go? Trapped.

Trapped, trapped, trapped!

Morrigan’s eyes opened with a start. She sat up in bed, sweating, breathing as if she would never be able to get enough air.

Disoriented, she looked about. Forest. Tents. The campfire down to embers.

Trembling, she drew her knees up, rested her head on her hands. She wanted to be angry at the world, at the strange places she had been forced out to. Hadn’t she told Flemeth she wasn’t ready?

A few deep breaths calmed her. Think, Morrigan. Dreams are symbols, some inspired by demons if the person was weak. Morrigan’s jaw clenched. She was not weak. In this forest the Veil thinned and fluctuated, unbalanced by centuries of conflict. Blood soaked into the earth, drunk up by the trees.

Though the effects of the dream clung to her, the trembling of her fingers had stopped. She stood, half annoyed to be disturbed by Fade shadows, half fearing their meaning.

The darkness of the sky marked the nearing dawn. Deciding to fight the dream’s hold, Morrigan took to her raven form. Flight at this time had its difficulties. Her raven’s eyes saw well enough, better than her vision in her true form, but ravens did not fly at night as a rule.

Memories of the cat’s needle-like claws haunted her. She could feel them still, the shadow of pain, the sound of her slender bones breaking.

Cursed dreams will not steal this freedom from me!

She flew, beat her wings in defiance, in defiance of the Fade, in old childhood memories, in a mother who was anything but motherly.

She circled over the clearing. The Chantry apologists slept in their tents, her avian vision picking out the heat of their bodies. Sten lay in his bedroll, curled up by the fire, the dog soaking up heat on the other side. The elf must be on duty then, his tent remaining cold. She let the small heat of the fire carry her up. Rising higher, she beat her wings, circling around the camp.

Only the last few stars remained when she spied him. Curious, she alighted on a branch to watch. The elf crouched near a tree, hidden by ferns, his body folded over so she could see little.

She had seen this scene a few times with the Chasind boys who were just beginning their maturity, too young to win a woman’s favor or too young to have the strength to claim one. Some boys hid the act as if it were a shameful thing. Others would stroke their release together, laughing afterwards. Men could be such odd creatures, either overly proud of their little protrusions or shamed by their natural instincts.

His breath hitched, the sigh of a word she could not understand the meaning of, something like a hiss. He stayed hunched over for a few moments as his body shook. After a time, he stood, adjusted his clothing with one hand, and headed to the stream to clean up.

Taking care to be silent, Morrigan landed on a rock not far behind the elf and transformed. “Neglecting your duties?”

Startled, the elf twisted back to see her. His eyes flashed blue-green in the low light. “Were ... were you watching me?”

She had to keep from laughing at his outrage. “And what if we were attacked?”

He shook the water from his hands, his scowl deepening. “If darkspawn were near, I would have sensed them. Venger alerts us to the werewolves.”

“The mutt sleeps.”

“You don’t know dogs, do you?”

“Why should I? Untamed animals of the wild are to my liking. Still, most neglectful of you.”

“Morrigan, do not watch me. That’s incredibly invasive.” Shoulders hunched, he turned back to head to the camp. She didn’t need the telltale heat sense of raven eyes to know his cheeks burned.

The laughter bubbled up despite her efforts. “Oh come now. We are not children or some blushing neophyte. Urges of the body are natural.”

Eyes flashed at her, incredulous. “Natural does not mean open for display.”

“You wish to find an animal form. You will learn they have no need for modesty.”

“Would you strip down and rut in the middle of camp?”

“If it suited me.”

He scoffed.

“Think I wouldn’t?” Of course she wouldn’t, but he proved far too much fun to poke at to let the topic go, and she needed to feel lighter.

“You don’t even liked to be touched. Despite your display,” he motioned at her clothing, “you’re not inviting. I can’t imagine you enjoying anything that would make you sweat. Other than to shock.”

“You believe me to be some blushing virgin?”

“Hardly.” He glanced at her sideways, the flash of his eyes making them unreadable. “But you aren’t as experienced as you would make yourself out to be.”

“What does that mean?” She felt a scowl form despite wanting to remain cool on the topic. “What I have done would shock you, elf.”

“No doubt.”

He was just trying to get to her. “Shall I regale you with stories of what happened to lost Chasind men?”

The corner of his eyebrow raised at her as if she were a demanding child. “Morrigan.”

The tone of patient condescension made her bridle. Two could play this superiority game. “And what do you know of sex?”

He sighed. “More than I care to.”

That made her frown deepen and took all the defensiveness that had been building up. Though she knew little of such things, from what she gathered from the townsfolk at Lothering, most humans viewed elves as untrustworthy but pretty things, and odd combination of hostility, disregard, and lust. Elves were less than humans, to be used as a focus for their anger or wants by turns. Memories of Morrigan’s dream flew back to her, the way her mother wanted her to be able to use men, and in doing so, was using her daughter.

Perhaps she wasn’t alone in such feelings. “Has it been hard for you among humans?”

“I don’t know an elf who hasn’t suffered because of humans. Not a single one.”

“What of the Dalish? Some of them have never even seen a human before we came.”

Muscles in his jaw twitched, and she wondered at his temper. Of course she knew the Dalish suffered, that much was obvious, but she wanted to see his reasoning.

Eyes flashing now with anger, he glared, mouth open, ready to verbally flay her. My, my, but he could be a prickly one. In the end, he merely turned back towards the camp, quick footed and shoulders hunched. Morrigan wondered if she should apologize. Not that she felt regret, but why let bad blood linger between her and the only other person out here whose company she could tolerate?

“You aren’t so ignorant.” He had stopped, head bowed.