Months ago - and that it has been months still catches her by surprise sometimes, that near half a year has come and gone since she joined the Inquisition, since her and Leliana's lives joined once again - she explained the Fade to a new arrival. The nature of it. Leliana does not need the lesson in the same way but Morrigan has spent so long wondering at how she came to be this way that she will hold her close for as long as she is allowed, because whatever Leliana might throw at her, has she not been through worse? The silence, the possibility of rejection and appearing foolish? That was the terror. It smacked of failure.

Or maybe it felt like fleeing. They're good at being cruel, and that first remark set them on this path where neither could back down without giving ground, without starting to tally victories and defeats.

She wanted this in the eluvian, if she is honest. They were so close there too when Morrigan felt her skin thrumming with the magic. The dungeon isn't a regret but this feels more real, and those are Leliana's hands marked by the bow; it shouldn't affect her but Morrigan is always so bare by choice and all she sees is Leliana's face, ever cast in shadows by that damned hood. Morrigan is always the wild thing, the thing to be chased even as she arches into Leliana's touch with a gasp, eyes half-lidded. Leliana is control as one would expect of a bard and an archer who must pick her shots and breath so carefully, who must focus, but then there is someone with faith and passion beneath all that, someone with fire and a spark. She finds one of Leliana's hands, runs her fingers across her palm to the wrist and allows her magic to flicker over her pulse, almost close enough to kiss but not quite, lips brushing Leliana's as she smirks.