Warden's Keep

Introduction

SPOILERS abound! Do not read this story if you haven't finished the game. Fair warning.

Clearly, I am not the only one affected by this game. Morrigan, courtesy of excellent writing (thank you, Bioware) and superior voice acting (thank you, Claudia Black), is perhaps the most fascinating, complex character ever to grace a video game. Strong-willed, dangerous, incredibly conflicted, and just as vulnerable, she is a brilliantly drawn product of her Flemeth-driven, sheltered environment. Power and survival are that which matter, all else she holds in contempt, because she has no experience with it, and Flemeth has told her so. Tentatively exploring her newfound freedom, she is equal parts confidence and insecurity, practicality and passion, logic and chaos, cynicism and innocence: struggling to find her own way and, thanks to our Grey Warden, discovering that all is not as Flemeth portrayed it. She is not "good" in the conventional sense, but it is her attempts to reconcile her Flemeth-fed world view with the Warden's more even-handed, less bitter perceptions that make her so much more interesting. Initially a reflection of her sinister mother's sensibilities, she is confused by the Warden's moral compass, yet unwilling to dismiss him. His personal power commands her respect, forcing her to reconsider all she knows. As she grows closer to him, the internal conflict escalates, creating a wonderfully tortured relationship.

Like others, I am compelled by my need for closure and a more satisfying outcome (to me, anyway), and so I write this as a fantasy/romance between the Warden and Morrigan. I tried to stay true to the spirit of the story and characters, if not actual events and authentic dialogue, with some Easter Eggs thrown in. Don't jump me for grammar or punctuation. Just take the story for what it's worth. I'm not an aspiring writer, just did it for fun.

The first part of the story is written as "recaps", introducing my Grey Warden and establishing decisions, events, and the evolution of the relationship as I perceived them (albeit with embellishments and a touch of poetic license). After that, the story continues. But, "Enough of this foolishness! 'Tis a waste of time to prattle on so." as Morrigan would say.

1.

"A Rogue By Any Other Name"

He was not a rogue, at least not as he characterized himself. No, he had never been a rogue… a brazen rascal, a rapscallion, a good-natured scoundrel, perhaps. He considered a rogue a ne'er-do-well, a blackguard intent on getting what he wanted no matter the cost. Often paid assassins and spies thinly veiled as wandering bards, rogues were indiscriminate thieves and devious fighters, preferring the "indirect" (and often poisonous) approach for their combat tactics. They were shadow-mongers, skulkers. He, on the other hand, had always been straightforward, even in his vices, which, he made no pretense about, were many. But he had never set out to hurt anyone intentionally. This was one of the few lessons his parents had taught that he took to heart.

He was an opportunist, to be sure, taking advantage of any favorable circumstance to further his own agenda. On more than one occasion, he had been known to use his nimble fingers to relieve some pompous windbag's chest of its "unnecessary" possessions. It had begun more as a game than a theft, really. Just to see if he could. Now he used his "appropriation" skills to further the war effort. But he never took anything from the poor, as he had no wish to prey on those less fortunate.

Spying was an art he had no interest in. He did not wish to live his life in shadow or at the behest of another. While he had never considered killing another human being for money, he could admit to a fascination with the Antivan Crows, the infamous order of assassins that effectively governed Antiva, if only for their superior fighting ability. Masters of duel weapon-wielding, the Crows had perfected the techniques of handling two weapons, becoming equally adept at attacking and defending, striking with speed and cunning, pinpointing the weakness of the enemy, and dealing mortal blows with precision and maximum efficiency. He admired the skill it took to achieve such deadly grace and set about learning to wield two daggers from an early age. He tried to learn as much as he could about the weaknesses of armor and beasts, kept his mind sharp, and trained with his father's guard until his reflexes were lightning-fast and he had become surprisingly proficient with sword and dagger in either hand. Recognizing the potential need for ranged combat, he also developed a strong affinity for the longbow, and by the time he was a young man, was quite capable of getting himself out of trouble…which he was quite skilled at getting himself into.

"Rogue." Maker knows he had grown sick of the word, given the number of times it had been applied to him. How many times had he been called that by the Highever Chantry priestesses hissing and chiding under their breaths, angry mothers and angrier fathers shouting in righteous indignation over their daughters' infatuations with him (and his attentions towards them.) He could not help it that the Maker had seen fit to grant him a stunningly attractive chiseled face with a strong jaw and intense brown eyes that seemed to devastate every woman who had ever had the misfortune to peer into them too long. His thick, shoulder length hair tumbled casually about his face without intention, stray locks meandering above his brow. His face wore the shadow stubble of a man who could not be bothered to shave regularly. Ryder did not, in fact, seek to be a dangerous sort of handsome, but was. He showed complete indifference to his rakish appearance and commanding physique, yet could not help but be aware that as he passed, the young girls giggled, the older girls whispered, the common women leered, and the old ones clucked their tongues in disapproval of his well-earned reputation. He had an even, easy temperament given to laughter, with a genuine self-deprecating air and clever wit that simultaneously disarmed and captivated those that met him. His confidence was born of success, not position, but unlike many of his station, at no time did it smack of arrogance. It did not hurt that he exuded a rare, persuasive charm which made it impossible to stay angry at him even when the wrath was well-deserved. One flash of his brilliant, mischievous grin melted even the hardest heart and softened the greatest ire.

It had always been that way…his ticket through life, a "free pass" that allowed him to live with the reckless abandon that had always characterized his existence. As a child he had reveled in chaos, pressing every boundary, exploring every forbidden secret, breaking every rule made to protect him. He was Ryder Cousland, the second son of the Couslands of the teyrnir of Highever, the most influential and powerful family in Ferelden after the King. He wanted for nothing, but it wasn't enough. He was not interested in taking the path expected of him as a Teyrn's son. It was not his nature to follow. He had been determined to find his own way and so he had, though he was never sure why he had felt so compelled to be so impossible. Perhaps it was that his older brother Fergus, had always been so good, so well-behaved, the pride of his father and the joy of his mother. He had loved and admired his brother always, but feeling unable and unwilling to compete, the rivalry became a competition for attention with Ryder's share being predominantly negative. It had never been his intention to cause heartache or be an embarrassment to his family, however successful at it he had become. He dearly loved his parents and they him, and in spite of the frequent troubles he had to be extracted from over the years, they always forgave him his transgressions and he always regretted the difficulties it caused them…until the next time something caught his attention that he simply could not refrain from doing. His father preached endlessly to him of responsibility and personal honor. But Ryder wanted no part of the former and found the latter to be too costly. Thus he indulged himself in his own personal gratifications at the expense of the family name. And so it had gone for him…unruly, incorrigible, irresistible, forgiven. Luckily, the Couslands were so well thought of in Highever and Ferelden, in general, that his misadventures were never given any great credence and he escaped any serious punishment. He was, simply, the black sheep of an otherwise well-respected and beloved family. The older son, Fergus, would be their redemption. He would bear the honor of the Couslands and carry on the grand tradition of the family, they whispered with knowing glances.

And that was fine with Ryder for 27 years. Until the day Arl Howe's men stormed his family's castle. Until the moment he was forced to decide whether to stay behind and die defending his parents or leave with Duncan and become a Grey Warden. Until the day everyone he loved was taken from him and everything he knew ended. Until the day he was forced to stop being a spoiled, self-indulgent child and become a man. He had a responsibility now. It was to avenge his family, to see justice done. He would become a Grey Warden and help defeat the Blight of darkspawn…but Howe would pay for what he had done. This he had sworn through gritted teeth and barely-withheld tears as the bitter taste of loss engulfed him. Howe would pay.

"Warden?" the soft sound of her voice pulled him back, snapping him out of his dark thoughts, "'Twas not my desire to anger you." He searched Morrigan's eyes trying to glean intent from her comment. She tended towards the sardonic and her meaning could frequently be construed twofold if one listened carefully enough. He often struggled to read her true design in even the simplest statements.

"I merely meant that your skills were put to good use today. As they are oft associated with the talents of a rogue, I used that term. Your dour look implies you mistake my meaning. I meant no insult," she said so matter-of-factly that he wasn't sure if she cared whether he believed her or not.

But as he sought some sign of deceit in those mesmerizing golden eyes, he decided she wouldn't have bothered if she didn't want him to believe her, and that she had truly meant no offense. When he knew she was being genuine, he felt himself relax, the scowl slowly fading from his features as he looked away for fear of losing himself in her eyes. Those eyes. Beautiful. Hypnotic. Intense. Dangerous.

He shook his head slowly, absolving her of any responsibility for his self-damning memories, "No," he finally blurted. "It's not you, it's me. I have…" he hesitated, debating whether to tell her of the guilt that tore at him every day since he had left his parents behind.

She knew little of his past and he had not felt inclined to tell her more for fear of falling victim to her ridicule. She belittled what she did not understand and there was so much she did not understand of love and family and duty. Lessons he, himself, had learned too late in his life, he thought ruefully. But that was a long time ago…an eternity it seemed, in but two months. Much had changed since then. He had changed much since then. He knew he had no excuse for his earlier shortcomings, but Morrigan…there was something about her that held him. She was incredibly beautiful, incredibly deadly, and, it seemed, incredibly unattainable in any real emotional sense.

-----

She had been raised by Flemeth, the infamous Witch of the Wilds. No one really knew who or what Flemeth was or even how long she had lived, but the stories were harrowing, and he could never get any confirmation from Morrigan that Flemeth was even human, much less her true mother. Such terrible tales were told of Flemeth's exploits that he found it remarkable Morrigan could even function socially at all. The others in the party were put off by her surface incivility and sharp tongue, choosing to see only what she presented to them. But he saw…something more. A vulnerability, maybe even an innocence, belied by her overtly cynical outlook…a longing to be something other than what Flemeth had made her, a yearning to understand what drove others to embrace the things she had always considered weaknesses. She rarely showed it and was quick to conceal it if she thought she had revealed too much, but he saw her conflict, her struggle to maintain her cool, oft-abrasive façade in the face of things she witnessed that challenged her belief system – Flemeth's corrupted view of the world. Morrigan believed in two things: survival and power. All else was folly to her – a waste of time and resources. It came off as callous to others who did not understand her thought processes, but to her it was simply a matter of practical, logical behavior. For reasons he could not yet understand, it was important to him to help her see that there were more rewarding things in life, to help her move past the emotional desert that must have been her childhood. How lonely she must have been.

Unlike the others, he had enjoyed her company all the while, though her demeanor toward him had always seemed less harsh than to the rest. She was clearly highly intelligent, quick-witted and clever in conversation, and always a mystery – one that he realized was too intriguing for his own good. He found he could not wait to speak with her again after each day's travails. It was not that he didn't value the others or find them interesting, and indeed, he looked after their welfare and spoke with them often, but by the Maker, Morrigan was so compelling he found himself nightly trodding the extra 50 yards or so to the campsite that she always set up away from everyone and spending an inordinate amount of time with her (at least as much as her capricious nature let him on any given day.)

He glanced up at her expectant face, she, waiting patiently for him to finish his thought. He swallowed hard and took a leap of faith that she would not heap scorn on his confessions of his own failures. And he told her everything, things he had been unable to speak of before to anyone else, all the while finding it strange that he should choose her, of all people, to bare his soul to – knowing that of all his companions, she was the most likely to crush him with the information. When he had finished, he waited, half expecting to be trampled by her acerbic wit, making light of his struggle with his past. A moment passed and when she spoke, it was not the derisive tone he had become accustomed to hearing when she sought to mock someone, it was gentle and soft and full of thought.

"You are the survivor of a terrible ordeal…a great…loss. It is only natural and expected that you would feel guilt, however undeserved. But I ask you to consider this. Did you think it would serve a purpose for you to stay and die with them? You are needed elsewhere. It would make no sense for you to lay down your life with those who raised you," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "One man against dozens of elite soldiers is a fool's odds, even for one such as you. I…do not pretend to have any experience with what you felt, but surely those you cared for you could not have wished this loyalty from you? Surely they saw the wisdom in preserving your life? I believe this must have been so. And as it is what they wished, then you must not punish yourself for following the only logical course of action. It is not you who killed your parents, it is Arl Howe. And the only possible response to that is to seek retribution for his crimes. I will help you in this, but for now, you must focus your energies on the darkspawn. You are a Grey Warden."

She continued, "As to my use of the word 'rogue', I did not speak it as an insult, nor was it my intent to injure, and you should not take it to mean such. It is but a word, and you are more than that, are you not, my Grey Warden?" She smiled at him now, and he felt something strike a chord deep inside him. "I have heard the word 'witch' hurled at me many times in the most accusatory and vicious manner possible, but it does not mean I am that which they assign to the term. A word does not define me. I am what I am, which is many things, and so are you. Do not let others take away from what you are. Be not afraid of a word. It is you who decides what you are and what you will be." Then she stopped abruptly, as if her own words had revealed something unexpected to her. She looked disconcerted.

The Warden's relief was palpable. He felt suddenly freed of a great burden. Touched by her words and the evident difficulty she had finding them, Ryder looked deep into her eyes and something undeniable passed between them. She flushed and stood, lamely asserting her need to rest before the next day's events. He rose to leave, but as she turned to enter her tent, he grabbed her hand. She turned to face him reluctantly, eyes averted to prevent him from seeing the confused emotions that clouded them. He lifted her chin to force her to look at him and said simply, his voice thick with feeling, "Thank you, Morrigan." Only the hint of fear in her eyes stopped him from kissing her then. He did not want her to withdraw from him, so he released her, and said, "Sleep well."

"I…you are…welcome," she managed weakly.

He turned to walk away, leaving her staring at his back and completely confounded.

He smiled as he strode back to his own tent, thinking, "She is afraid of me - afraid of herself." He had been right about her. Now he was sure of it. Underneath that aloof, confident, cynical exterior was a vulnerable, frightened, insecure young woman, inexperienced with the ways of the world, trying to bluff her way through her life. He would have to be patient with her, but he knew he could help her. He had never wanted a woman so much in his life.

Her pulse racing, Morrigan stumbled back into her tent, furious - furious with herself for losing control of the situation and furious with him for not kissing her. She was not sure which irked her most. "What manner of man is he?" she thought angrily. "'Tis clear he wants me, we have danced around each other for weeks, yet he does nothing! By the Gods!" She wanted him, but he brought up something in her she did not understand, something that made her uneasy. He was a maddening man. Morrigan had always been able to turn her encounters with men to her advantage, but this Warden was different from other men. She had recognized that immediately when she came across him searching for the Grey Warden treaties that fateful day in her beloved Korcari Wilds. He would not be manipulated like the others. Morrigan found herself smiling at this thought, surprised to find that she admired his strength of character, his inability to be manipulated. It would make things more difficult for her, of course, but somehow she didn't mind. It made the game more interesting, more challenging than she had anticipated.

She had found him stimulating company from the first, a worthy verbal sparring partner for her pointed and adversarial banter. The Warden was fair and even-handed in his handling of the group, and he always seemed interested in what she thought. He did not judge her for her views, even though she knew he disagreed often. Most amazingly, this Warden never seemed to care that she was an apostate. He was neither afraid nor contemptuous of her, and he shrugged off the risks he was taking sheltering her. He had told her once that he despised the manner in which the Chantry, Templars, and even the Circle, handled mages. He thought it wrong that a man's freedom should be a function of whether he commanded magic. Certainly mages who had used their skills for evil, calling forth abominations and such, should be dealt with for the safety of all, much as any other who used his abilities for ill. But to treat all mages as though they were criminals before they had ever done anything wrong, taking children from their parents, incarcerating them, hunting them down like animals should they choose not to embrace their imprisonment, turning them into emotionless Tranquils – he could not understand it or condone it. "Apostates were not automatically maleficar," he had insisted. She had been grateful for that, especially since one of his companions was a former Chantry novice and another had been a Templar and still clearly held contempt for her on the basis of her freedom alone. It could have been costly for him to come to her defense, but he did not hesitate to establish her as an equal member of the party and had quickly made it clear to all that the word 'apostate' did not exist in his camp. His companions had acquiesced to his wishes without consequence. Such was the respect he commanded. He was an exceptional leader who had kept them all alive thus far, and though she was loathe to admit it, together, they formed a powerful and effective team against the darkspawn. She had disapproved of his decisions less and less as time had passed, not because she would have acted the same, necessarily, but because she had grown to trust his judgment more. His responsibilities were great and she had decided to add to his burden as little as possible. There was much to admire about this man and she discovered that she genuinely liked her Grey Warden, in spite of her better judgment.

It had stunned her when he revealed himself to her. He must have known the likely response – he knew how she felt about such things…about weakness and emotion. Yet still, he trusted her with his demons. He had given her power over him, to wield as she wished. 'Twas a curious thing. And more curious still, that when she was granted this power, she felt no desire to berate him, to tear him down further. She had only wanted to console him and ease his pain. She was allowing him the very weaknesses she would not brook in herself. Yet, somehow, in him, she did not see these things as weaknesses…but that which made him stronger, that which was part of his makeup, that which made him who he was. 'Twas such a contradiction possible? It was all so…confusing. She had no experience with it.

She lay down in her tent, trying to calm her pounding heart. But try as she might, she could not stop thinking about him. "No, I am being foolish," she told herself angrily. She would have to be careful to protect herself. She could not afford to really care for him.