Your stories

So maybe I was a little bit intrigued with you, yes a little bit more intrigued than I should have been. At first I just couldn't get past the fact that you do not believe in our Maker above, and even more so that this does not even seem to bother you. You look for nothing, and you have always reveled in being alone. You said you prefer being alone to my endless chatter.

But instead of retreating like I should have, I let you reel me in without you even knowing. The more you mocked me, teased me and gave me nasty comments, the more I had to talk with you, and I even found myself seeking your company by the fire in camp. I don't know why you sleep so far away from others.

So I continued relentlessly, asking as many questions I could think of. Anything so that I could keep your attention a little while longer, anything so you could answer me in that voice, your voice and with your words. I took up my instruments again, I wanted to write and to sing but all my words seemed void, having been replaced by your words instead.

Then I did the mistake of asking you for stories about your mother, and even though your answer was still said in a mocking tone I could tell by the slight panic in your eyes that you had said more than you wanted. What was it that you said? "My mother's stories curdled my blood and haunted my dreams. No little girl wants to hear about the Wilder men her mother took to her bed, using them until they were spent, then killing them. No little girl wants to be told that this is also expected of her, once she comes of age." The mere thought of you as a child being told this and knowing what your mother was doing made my heart ache, but I could not make my question unsaid. I was at loss; I did not know what to say. I think I mumbled something like "I see." You, who always keep your suspicious gaze on me, looked away, looked away, and said that I really didn't.

I'm still such a silly girl sometimes and it was only a couple of weeks later that I begged you for stories once more. It must have been the mead we had drunk. You offered me horrific stories. I declined. I don't want to hear any more horrific details of your childhood because every time you tell me something new I feel I might break. You see, I've led a wild life that I love, but once upon a time I was a child and I was kept safe in my mother's embrace. I fear this is something you have never had.

I caught you looking at me in the camp; I could feel you looking at me. Your gaze made me uncomfortable, but in a comfortable way. Then when I once more talked with you, you didn't complain. You still acted distant, you still answered in a mocking tone and rolled your eyes with almost every word that passed my lips, but you never again said that you would rather be alone than deal with my talking.

I started noticing you in battle, all forces of nature coming to life just because you will it so. So much power at just the tips of your delicate fingers. Fire, ice, lighting, it seems like you can do anything. I have seen you turn into a bear or a wolf or a spider and I have seen you cause an actual earthquake causing our enemies to fall before you. Now, don't get me wrong, I do all right with my bow and arrow, but when you fight, you are beautiful. I can't say that I was not slightly alarmed when I noticed that I still felt the trembling of your earthquake long after the ground beneath the darkspawn had stopped shaking.

I tried to be brave and teasing. I told you that you are beautiful. I told you what I want you to wear, and managed to throw in a compliment or two about your lovely neck, and your other features. You disappointed me though; you told me that you find me looking at you disturbing. Disturbing. I laughed it off, naturally, exclaiming something about us going shopping or something equally stupid. I can hardly remember anymore.

It doesn't matter anyway, because you came to me tonight. You left the safety of your own little camp to see me, and even if it was awkward and even if it perhaps doesn't mean as much as I want it to mean it made me happy. You finally told me a story, a story of a little girl who grew up in the Korcari wilds, who once cried about a mirror and who sometimes still wonder where she actually cames from. A story about a woman who still prefers the stillness of the woods as an animal than the finest taverns in Denermin, who still does not understand why people shake hands when they meet and who will never, ever understand belief in the Maker.

When you finished talking I didn't know what to say at first. I had no more questions and I was too scared to ask or comment on your disbelief in the chantry. Eventually you lifted your gaze and looked at me. One of your exquisite eyebrows where raised and I did understand why. You had never seen me quiet before. You don't know that I use my chatter as a defense; similar to the way you use your silence, I'm not comfortable with people close either. I just know I want you close. But when I told you that you just shock your head and muttered that you had been afraid of that. I whispered your name. Morrigan. Then I whispered it again and before I knew it, you kissed me.