Chapter 46: Eyes of Wolves - Two Paths

Raviathan suppressed a sigh. “Morrigan, what am I doing wrong?”

The yellow-eyed witch laughed at his consternation. “Nothing,” she said in her sultry voice. “Maybe you just aren’t a bear on the inside. It has been a long time since I learned this skill. I remember little of the struggle. Perhaps it is harder if you change into something with a smaller or larger mass the first time, so try something that is closer to your size. A wild cat maybe.”

That option hadn’t occurred to him as he had been focused on a form to help him fight, but the idea had possibilities. He liked cats, even had a long-haired orange cat as a child, though pets were considered a luxury in the alienage. Dales had been a sweet little beastie, and Raviathan had mourned for his treasured pet when the cat had disappeared during a lean winter. Later Raviathan grew to understand what could drive the other elves to such extremes when the rats started to become less and less available, but he never forgave the nameless elf. His mother had sung to him as he cried, one of the few times when she allowed tears without recrimination.

A cat would be easy. He understood how they moved, their prowl and curiosity. He’d have to see the specifics of a wild one though, and while Nijel had pointed out tracks or kills left in trees, the forest cats had an almost preternatural ability to hide. “It’s hard to find one to study in the wild. They’re pretty crafty.”

“‘Tis true,” Morrigan said. “I have not mastered that form yet myself. They are elusive to me even when I am a bird. Perhaps a wolf would suit you then.”

“Aren’t we hunting those? Besides, they’re awful beasts.”

“Awful? What makes you opine so?”

Nibbling on his lower lip, Raviathan considered her question. At times the differences in their backgrounds amazed him, her way of thinking alien to what he considered common sense. The only thing they had in common was their status as apostates, and even then, she had no notion of the fear that an apostate in the city lived with on a daily basis when templars lurked around every block. In many ways, seeing through her experience rocked his view of the world to the point he needed a few minutes if not days to wrap his mind around the concepts.

“You’ve lived in the Wilds your whole life, so you don’t know what it’s like to have a lot of people in one place where you can’t farm or hunt for your own food. It’s just not possible, so we rely on farmers for our lives. If you’re hunting a deer, a wolf is a competitor, but that’s all. Wolves target farm stock for an easy kill. As a farmer that’s your livelihood, but if you live in the city, there’s nothing to do but starve. As a hunter, you at least have the option of finding something else. And that’s not counting the travelers they attack on the open road.”

A disgusted frown touched Morrigan’s lips. Raviathan had to force away the thought of how full those lips were, how kissable that little pout could be. His fingernails bit into his palm, leaving little white crescents in his flesh. He didn’t even want Morrigan! The old lusts, the ones that had nearly destroyed his standing in the alienage, had gone unsatisfied for too long. The pressure in his groin mirrored the heavy yet hollow feeling in his stomach, the disgust he felt for the unquenchable desires that hounded him. He turned his attention to the leaves rustling in the night wind.

“‘Tis most strange. How you live so dependent upon one another.”

Even with his attention turned elsewhere, Raviathan remained too aware of her skin showing pale in the moonlight, of how easy it would be to take advantage of Morrigan’s offer. How he hated his traitorous body.

“I think your feelings on wolves are perhaps unfair.”

With an effort, Raviathan brought his mind back to the conversation. Surprised by the melancholy turn of his fellow apostate, Raviathan asked gently, “Morrigan?”

She leaned back, her face to the stars. “Nature is savage and unforgiving. It is the way of animals to be hunted as food for others or territory, and this I understand. Even apex predators can be injured and find their end comes early.” She hesitated before adding, “‘Tis unfortunate that these creatures must be hunted for being what they are, not what they provide.”

Well, of course wolves were hunted for what they were, vicious animals that killed, sometimes without eating the livestock they slaughtered. Killing wolves on sight was simple self defense. Raviathan expected that pointing out such a fact would alienate Morrigan, so he decided on tact. “I have heard of nobles who hunt for sport only, kill the animals and leave them. I’ve always found that distasteful. If it’s any consolation, we do try to utilize as much as we can from the animals we’ve killed.” In all honesty he was surprised that Morrigan cared, but then maybe she felt more of a kinship with animals having spent the majority of her time with them rather than humans. “I don’t think a wolf is for me though.”

“I have noticed your fondness for the halla. That might be a good form for you.”

While a halla didn’t have a bear’s size or power, Raviathan had been awed by them from first sight, their delicate grace and noble bearing. With coats as pure as fresh snow and elegantly-twined horns that glowed like coalesced moonlight, the creatures were beyond beautiful, encapsulating all that was perfection in nature. His heart expanded whenever he caught a glimpse of a halla in the wild as if the creatures held the spirit of hope inside them. The problem with Morrigan’s suggestion was that he didn’t feel worthy enough to be one of the revered creatures. They were special, not for him. “What was the first animal you ever turned into?”

“A giant spider. It is still my preferred form though I use others more often. Your first form will always be special, a mark of who you are.”

“A spider?”

Morrigan hesitated, her eyes closed and mouth tense. “At that time, I needed something that set me apart from Mother. In that form, I could distance myself.”

You found a way to not hurt, Raviathan knew. Flemeth could not have been an easy mother, and with no one else in Morrigan’s life to help her through the years, only the old crone, the child must have been desperate to claim a space Flemeth couldn’t touch.

“I understand,” Raviathan said, his voice matching the quiet of the night.

Morrigan made a show of shaking off her mood, but Raviathan could see the pain she couldn’t hide. “I have come to understand more of nature’s ways since that time. The raven, as you know, a woodpecker, raccoon, a snake, and a skunk.”

Though she didn’t look at him, he could tell by her demeanor she was testing him. If Alistair had heard Morrigan could turn into a skunk, he would have laughed his little templar ass off. In truth, Raviathan wanted to tease her, but she didn’t take jests well when she was the focus. As it was, Morrigan had been teaching him how to understand an animal’s essential nature, and mockery in return for that gift would be unchivalrous at best.

In some ways, the form suited her. Skunks had attractive coloration, and Morrigan did love her decorations and stylized rags, a vanity she liked to indulge in more than she let on. Skunks enjoyed the benefit of a reputation in the form of a sharp reply for those who attacked them, a similarity that spoke volumes about Morrigan.

“I can see that.” At her glance, he gave the witch a sly grin. “While admirable from a distance, nobody dares to poke a skunk with a stick.”

A little laugh warmed her countenance. “Am I only admirable from a distance?”

Would a light kiss on her bare shoulder be so bad? No, Rav. You aren’t going to be stupid, and getting involved with her would be stupid. You’re smarter than your damned cock.

Right?

Maker’s ass. She wasn’t even interested in him. Not really. While Raviathan was sure she would receive pleasure from the act, that wasn’t her goal. Bedding him was more for her ego, or in a hope to have some control, but not out of affection or even desire.

Yet he couldn’t get his mind off of sex, a problem made worse around Morrigan’s open display of flesh. Raviathan swallowed down the bitter hollowness that clawed inside him, the dull ache that never left him at peace. The temporary relief he found when alone inevitably made the self disgust worse.

Only with Ness had he felt any peace.

A growl from Raviathan’s stomach gave him the excuse he needed. “I think I should check if dinner is ready.”

She gave him a nod as he took his leave, her own stomach seeming not so hollow as his.

Raviathan made his way through the thick brush to camp. Though the distance from the rest of the party made the two vulnerable to attack, that was the only secure way to discuss magic. With Morrigan’s ability to transform, either for escape or attack, Raviathan wasn’t worried for her safety.

Echos of Raviathan’s nightmares hung in the back of his mind as he walked to camp, dream memories that veiled the forest in sinister shadows. Yet the beauty of the forest couldn’t be denied, even with the horrors and monsters. How strange his life had become in a few short months, by turns terrifying and filled with awe.

As a child, Raviathan had imagined forests as hills with trees on them, a few animals, maybe a river or lake interspersed. All his games with his cousins, when they pretended at being Dalish or woodland bandits, were framed by the mud puddles and shabby apartment constructs of the alienage.

Raviathan’s few experiences outside of Denerim consisted of training in the flat farmlands and tame woods where his aunt taught him herbs or his mother showed him how to use a bow, trips he could count in one hand. He had never seen a waterfall until his trek with Duncan, never seen a real forest or mountain. Words like glen, ravine, canyon, bog, or cliff had been abstractions to be read about, not experienced.

He was completely unprepared for the variety of landscapes, the scents and unexplained noises that came with a true wilderness. He expected the forest floor to be covered in grass or bare earth, not thick ferns and brush that spread out in a lush multitude that made passage impossible.

Raviathan had no idea about the variety of flora he would encounter outside the city walls, how the tiny leafed beech trees fluttered in the wind and turned the light a soft green. In other areas, pine and ironbark were interspersed with mammoth sequoias that dominated the sky like ancient kings. The forest lay thick with hillocks and cliffs, with stone-framed creeks or rushing rivers fed by natural springs. Thorn bushes that would bear small juicy berries in summer lined the rivers in ten foot high growths. Waterfalls born from the spring rains flourished, their crashing babble adding to the constant twitter of dull-colored songbirds and their brightly-hued cousins. Bright purple mushrooms and intense green lichen grew from the decaying corpse of a fallen tree. Even as the violence of the forest overwhelmed him, Raviathan couldn’t help but love it.

If only he could understand the forest as Morrigan did. This might not be her realm as the swamp was, but she had a natural feeling for the place.

Maker’s ass. He wasn’t terrible at magic, was he? All he had to compare to was Solyn. She had been every bit as hard as his mother, but he always got the sense she was impressed with him. Each time he reached for the mana to power the shapeshifting spell, it just fizzled out in a directionless wash of wasted energy, unable to take form because he couldn’t understand how to channel his power.

Understand the soul of the creature, Morrigan had said. The first transformation was one of the most important as it was the deepest echo of your soul. Perhaps that was why he was failing. As she said, he probably wasn’t a bear on the inside. If he turned out to be a rabbit, he might have to murder someone. But what was he missing?

As far as understanding the creature, bears were big and strong. What else was there to understand? They liked to sleep, were protective of their young, enjoyed fruits and fish. He admired their power, their sheer size and force of muscle that made them incredible. Though well-developed compared to his kin, Raviathan would always be weaker than most humans, a fact that tore at his spirit each time he thought of the archdemon waiting for him.

At the camp Sten repaired armor while Leliana searched for more firewood, which left Alistair on cooking duty. The templar tried to remain upright and winced each time he had to bend over to tend the rabbit. He snatched the spit, blowing on the carcass to put out the fire. More charred rabbit. The human hadn’t been kidding about his cooking ability.

To be fair, Raviathan should have done the cooking tonight and let Alistair rest, but lessons with Morrigan were hard to arrange with the constant proximity of the party. Raviathan sat on a rock and put an arm over Venger’s shoulders and spoke to the dog in a low voice. “I don’t suppose you have anything better?”

In response the dog whined in concern. Raviathan scratched the dog’s ears. “Guess I’ll have to make do then. Hope you caught something tasty earlier.”

The angry rumbling of his stomach drove Raviathan to get his portion of food. Some root vegetables Morrigan had been able to scavenge and beans rounded out the meal. The provisions would last for another week before they’d have to head back to restock. Raviathan took the offered hind leg, which was thankfully less charred, while Alistair divided up the rest of the food between himself, Sten, and Leliana. Raviathan never seemed to get enough food lately. He went to devouring his dinner with a fury that outdid the dog.

Alistair sat down on the rock next to Raviathan, his back at an unnatural angle to ease the pain of damaged ribs.

“So. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Morrigan lately.”

Thinking a reply wasn’t required, Raviathan shrugged. He supposed it would be rude to scoot away, let alone leave. Of all his companions, why did Alistair have to sit next to him? Sten was at least quiet if not downright dour but would occasionally say something when prodded. Leliana could prattle on so, and on the most ridiculous subjects, but he didn’t mind. Her chatter gave him a chance to be quiet and reflect.

Alistair and Morrigan never seemed to get tired of bickering, a habit that wore on everyone except the dog. Raviathan nibbled at his lip as he thought about the two. As much as they fought, Alistair hadn’t done anything to her in retaliation. Was Alistair biding his time? Lothering had been chaos, but what would he do to Morrigan when they went to fulfill the mage treaty? What was the man capable of? If he got mad or disapproved of Raviathan’s decisions, what would the templar do?

Solyn had been more than capable of defending herself with magic against almost anyone, anyone except templars. The day Raviathan found her mutilated body continued to burn in his mind like a brand raw to the touch. Never turn your back on a templar. Never think you’re safe from them.

Like so much else in his life, Raviathan felt as if he were scrambling around in the dark. He needed information. Would Alistair tell him the truth? Even lies spoke about a person’s character. He would need to separate fact and fiction, and that would tell him more about Alistair. “I’ve been curious, Alistair. What can a templar do?”

Alistair glanced at him in surprise. “Um. Well, we’re trained to fight. Essentially. But to anyone but a mage, I guess I’m just another guy in a metal suit.”

“Duncan recruited you for a reason. You’re a good enough fighter, but you’re more than that, aren’t you? What kind of training did you get?”

“He thought my templar skills might come in handy against darkspawn magic.” As Raviathan hoped, Alistair perked up with the compliment, and he sounded less glum. “Templars gain a resistance to magic after a time. We’re not immune by any means, but mind magic becomes less of an issue the more discipline we have, and we can disrupt spells and drain mana. Mana is what mages use to power their spells.”

“Mind magic,” said Raviathan. He hadn’t heard of any spells like that. Was that blood magic? Solyn had told him a bit about it, why it was evil, but not much else. “What exactly is that?”

“It’s supposed to be something that was first learned from demons. I’ve never seen it myself, but the other templars talked. Wanted to warn us about what could happen. Maker’s breath, there were so many stories. One was forced to kill his fellow templars. He said they suddenly looked like demons that were taunting him. One of the older templars, oh I can’t remember his name, starts with an H. Henry? Harrold? Anyway, he killed a friend he knew for ten years when under the blood mage’s spell.” Alistair shuddered then winced from jarring his own injuries. “Another said he had no control. The blood in his body forced him to move as if he were a puppet, but he knew everything he was doing and couldn’t stop. He killed his comrades, people he had known for years, his friends, and couldn’t stop. There were so many stories like that.”