I was raised with Flemeth's tales, and those of the Chasind. Tales to curdle the blood in my veins. I know what my mother's use of her tales was. [If it sounds like an old hurt being picked at to see if it still hurts, to see if there's still blood beneath the scab, then it's because it always is. Some part of her will always be a girl staring into a broken golden mirror being swallowed by the mud, Flemeth's furious face and her own tear-streaked one reflected dizzingly back at her.]
My mother's own tale is told the way men and women wish to remember it to frighten a child into obedience. The Chantry wishes all of us to sing the Chant of Light for the Maker to return to look upon us all once again - though I doubt he'd look so favourably upon those in their robes as they think - but part of me...What I have seen, what I have read?
[Well Morrigan doubts it can be only that, and she cares too much for Gwenaëlle to come out and say it in public that way.]
The Dalish tell painful tales. Tales of all their gods being tricked by another. What need is served there? [More to see where this might go, to figure it out when it feels as if her head is already splitting open with this, truth be told.]
no subject
My mother's own tale is told the way men and women wish to remember it to frighten a child into obedience. The Chantry wishes all of us to sing the Chant of Light for the Maker to return to look upon us all once again - though I doubt he'd look so favourably upon those in their robes as they think - but part of me...What I have seen, what I have read?
[Well Morrigan doubts it can be only that, and she cares too much for Gwenaëlle to come out and say it in public that way.]
The Dalish tell painful tales. Tales of all their gods being tricked by another. What need is served there? [More to see where this might go, to figure it out when it feels as if her head is already splitting open with this, truth be told.]