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The first time Morrigan had seen Vivienne, she was confused.
Confused because this is not what a Circle mage is supposed to look like. She has seen glimpses of the mages from Montsimmard before, of course. But while covered in fabrics finer than any in Ferelden ever laid eyes upon, they are still obviously and noticeably leashed.
This woman, however, seems to be the one leashing others. Wherever she moves across the ballroom, dozens would follow as if pulled along, utterly entranced. Morrigan, to be quite honest, had thought the woman’s reputation to be nonsense. No mage raised under Chantry supervision would ever have developed such a fearsome bite, or so she had thought.
Yet here Morrigan is, hiding in the shadows again like some scuttling creature afraid of the sun. It is another of the Empress’ supposedly small soirees – Ferelden’s official functions seem utterly dour in comparison to even the most minor of Orlesian occasions – and Morrigan has barely been able to enjoy a single moment of it because of the vulture circling around the room in white silk.
Not that she is afraid of the woman. Oh no, Morrigan did not grow up under the venomous gaze of the crone that was her mother to be afraid of some bejewelled house pet. The horns the mage wears occasionally do, however, remind her too much of Flemeth for her liking.
‘If you keep skulking around in the shadows like that, someone may accidentally tread on you,’ a voice cuts into her thoughts. ‘What a regrettable loss that would be.’
The First Enchanter, who Morrigan is sure had been safely turned away from her some moments ago, throws her a pointed look. ‘Of the poor person’s shoe, naturally. No doubt it costs a good deal more than you yourself are worth.’
‘I didn’t know you would be attending tonight, Enchanter,’ Morrigan says, sidestepping the insult; she must say, even she finds facing the full brunt of Vivienne’s attention rather bruising. ‘’Twas rumoured that your gilded cage is in danger of melting from within, no? One might expect you to return to Montsimmard without delay.’
The mage says nothing, fixing Morrigan with one of those long looks that reminded her too much of Alistair and Leliana in the first few months of travel: silly little wild girl, don’t you know how this game works? Of course, understanding how to make friends with strangers was a trifle less life threatening than dealing with a veteran of the High Court of Orlais – fractionally, of course though.
The tinkling of delicate metal recaptures her attention. Vivienne glides over, gracefully picking up a flute of something from a passing servant. The mage unnervingly continues to say nothing as she draws closer. Soon Morrigan can see the delicate strands of gold, swaying and clinking with each step, hanging from Vivienne’s ears. The mage does not cloud herself in the miasmas of most court ladies, sickly sweet scents or pungently rich odours. Bizarrely, Morrigan thinks she could smell peonies.
‘I knew an archivist at Montsimmard once who made a hobby of collecting various lepidopterans, butterflies and the like,’ Vivienne begins. It is not done in an abrupt manner, the words seemingly coming from a quiet rumination that had finally born fruit. Those who survive long in court tend to excel at those. ‘Above her desk she kept all her entomological specimens pinned like bizarre trophies of war.’
Morrigan, puzzled as she is by this random anecdote, cannot help but sneer. ‘How like your Circles, to spear something beguiling through the heart just to leave it to rot on the wall.’
Vivienne’s painted lips curl into something equally venomous. Morrigan had seen gaping wounds that inspired less bloody terror. ‘I care not for your ill-thought metaphors,’ the mage brushes her words aside – insults, disagreements, mild threats; all these things seem to flit past Vivienne with as little an impression as a spring wind. ‘It is your eyes that reminded me of that collection.’
Morrigan cannot help but frown. ‘Oh?’ she queries. That oddly tight feeling in her chest that has been her constant companion as of late returns. When she’d first arrived at court, Morrigan had thought the games of the nobility childish, foolish, and incredibly simple. And yet here she is, yet again the victim of rules she does not understand. The biting, acerbic words she had mastered as a child, but the structures, the steps to this dance she remains woefully ignorant of. These odd, seemingly inconsequential anecdotes or sayings that courtiers often utilise do more to throw her off balance than the suspected presence of a concealed weapon.
Vivienne hums in confirmation as she lifts her glass to her mouth. The mage does not rush her drink; those in Orlais enjoy nothing more than consumption after all. Only once satisfied does the mage look at her with keen eyes, lips twisting into something that Morrigan has learned to recognise as the harbinger to something cruel.
Before Morrigan can prepare herself, surprisingly strong fingers latch onto her chin, presenting her face up for inspection. Indeed, Vivienne almost nods to herself with some glee. ‘I’m almost certain one of them had a set of bulbous eyes as ridiculously golden as yours,’ she tells Morrigan. The smile deepens. ‘I wonder, when someone thinks to finally pin you, will yours remain as horrendously bright? If we hang you in one of the ballrooms, why, there will be no need for any further lighting. The chamberlain will be most thankful for the reduced expense.’
Morrigan is almost thankful for the way Vivienne’s nails bite into her face. The pain keeps her present, the same way Flemeth’s taunts and punishments had only pushed Morrigan closer to rebellion. But she has had to relearn how to swallow her pride, as bitter as the taste is, and Morrigan says nothing. The animals in this bloody chamber like to play with their food, and would often move on if unamused.
Vivienne’s grip tightens a fraction as she leans in. ‘Spin your web in the shadows, little spider. I’ll unravel it all if need be.’
Morrigan did not shirk away from the mage’s touch. This part she could do: rapacious beast meets snarling beast. ‘Oh Madame,’ she teases, letting her lips draw close to the other woman’s ear, cold metal glancing over her chin. ‘I thought you enjoyed getting caught up in snares. Why, when your Circles fall, I’ll happily weave you a new cage if you find yourself lacking.’
She barely gets a chance to enjoy Vivienne’s look of cold fury. ‘There they are, my two mages!’ A warm voice soars into range, as if the sun had decided to arise early and ascend into the room. Both of them turn instantly, sinking into low curtsies. Morrigan has to concede that Vivienne’s is the more graceful of the two.
Celene looks at them both with a smile that instantly raises the hackles on Morrigan’s neck. She’d seen children look at their two favourite dolls with that same malicious glee, the kind that came from subjecting their creations to some merciless punishment. ‘How delightful to see you both enjoying yourselves! How have you found the evening?’
‘Most enrapturing,’ Vivienne offers dutifully, obviously the first to do so. ‘Your generosity as always knows no bounds.’
’’Twas most enlightening, Your Majesty,’ Morrigan extends meagerly. Celene had chosen to host her well before she’d learnt to coat her words in honey.
Indeed, Celene’s smile deepens – the crimson slash of her mouth widens eerily, stark against the painted white of her skin, the gash splitting gruesomely apart. ‘It is most entertaining to take a small part in your education, Lady Morrigan,’ the woman admits. Her eyes, gleaming as they are, stand out from even the glinting surface of her golden mask as they flick over to the mage standing next to Morrigan. ‘Why, within a year you may navigate our silly little pastime with as much ease as our Enchanter here.’
Morrigan inclines her head. It had less to do with modesty and everything to do with trying to hide a vicious smile of her own. ‘You flatter me.’ She wonders if Vivienne will try and extend her planned death for another hour just for that slight.
Celene offers her one last morbid smile before her gaze returns to Vivienne. Her face hardens, the fresco of a living soul being stripped away to reveal the cold stone beneath. ‘You leave tomorrow then?’ she asks. The woman does not sound pleased by such a thing.
‘All mages are to go to Cumberland, as I informed you,’ Vivienne confirms. The mage sounds equally as frustrated by such a thing – perhaps the woman is more choosy about the owner of her leash than Morrigan had given her credit for. ‘I will do my best to return within the month.’
Celene nods once, a hand affectionately smoothing over Vivienne’s carefully draped sleeve. ‘Do that,’ the empress encourages. That strange, cruel glint that one could initially mistake for warmth returns to her eyes. ‘You’re very dear to me, Vivienne, I simply don’t know how I will console myself in your absence.’ No one in court could have missed just how Celene intended to fill that gap if she so desired.
Morrigan has to give the other mage some credit for how perfectly impassive her face remains. Not the slightest flicker of indignation or wrath starts to smoulder in Vivienne’s eyes before she bows her head. ‘You honour me.’ All three of them know Celene had done anything but that.
The empress leaves them soon after that, a coterie following behind her like flies swarming around fresh pickings. Only once left unattended does Morrigan deign to ask her question: ‘What awaits you in Cumberland?’
Vivienne looks over at her slowly, eyes narrowed. ‘You are determinedly separate from the Circle, witch . Our matters do not concern you.’ Before Morrigan can try to pry further, Vivienne turns on her heel and marches away.
For the first few weeks, Vivienne’s absence feels like the blessing Morrigan had expected it to. The way the pendulum that decided who held the approval of the hour swings often depended more so on the failure of one opponent to return than any ploy of the other player after all. Nobles who had snickered and snubbed Morrigan under Vivienne’s keen eyes soon adopt an affable indifference, the kind that promises to transform into something greater if she endeavoured to earn their favour. Doors did not open fully, but it is as if she finally understands which key fits every lock.
It is Celene, surprisingly and most disappointingly, who Morrigan fails to charm further. At first, a cascade of invitations had come running towards her, the kind Morrigan knows Vivienne normally would attend in her stead. But soon, the limits of her talents reveal themselves. Where Vivienne had managed to charm the nobility into enjoying her presence, Morrigan can barely sustain their tolerance. At each soiree, Celene spends much time soothing over unintended slights and Morrigan’s faux pas as they were described, sending a warning look in Morrigan’s direction each time.
When they had first met, Celene had seemed to delight in her transgressions against the litany of rules Orlesians observed with greater fervour than they did the Chant at times. Morrigan had grown to realise, however, that this was more the amusement of one witnessing a misbehaving child that they simultaneously hoped would eventually settle into the order of things. Celene’s initial tolerance of the most egregious faux pas became a cold boredom, disinterested in Morrigan’s rebellions.
What Morrigan had mistaken for a desire for knowledge long forbidden had been revealed to be the childish want for a glittering toy simply because it is new, rather than for its puzzling nature. Celene had intended to collect her, just as she had collected Vivienne, and Morrigan has never walked willingly into a cage.
‘Mightn’t you try to at least fit the recent fashions, if not outpace them?’ Celene complains one night once they reach her private quarters. The woman is sitting at her dresser, methodically removing the pearl and emeralds pins from her hair. She throws Morrigan a daggered look through the mirror. ‘All that drab offends my eyes sometimes.’
‘It is with your purse that I purchased such drabness,’ Morrigan teases, though her heart is not truly in it. It had been another disappointing evening, one where she could feel Celene’s irritation rolling off her in waves. ‘May I expect further assistance?’
The jest is not well received. Even masked, Celene does little to hide her frustration, pins clattering angrily against the lacquered surface. ‘Vivienne managed to entrance the Orlesian Court with nothing but the stipend of a newly fledged Enchanter.’ Her cold eyes narrow. ‘Perhaps it is not a lack of funds but a quality of taste.’
Something snaps within Morrigan’s stomach, something ugly and feral that she can so rarely indulge these days but remains hungry within her belly. Any mention of her rival tends to provoke it. Oh, Vivienne’s haunting presence never disappears for long, that gleaming spectre always flashing at the corners of her vision, only for it to be just the gilding of the palace corridors. But sometimes, the spectre of Vivienne feels all too real, becoming solid matter within the room, something that drew breath and stole hers.
‘If you wished for another songbird or parlour magician, couldn’t you summon one from the birdcage not far from here?’ she rebuts waspishly, arms folding. Morrigan can imagine the way Vivienne would throw her a look that feels like there’s a talon of a nail being dragged up the lining of her stomach.
The cacophony of pins falls silent. A beat. Celene turns around slowly to meet her gaze properly. ‘‘I enjoy you, Morrigan,’ she says. It sounded as if she did anything but enjoy Morrigan. ‘And I have never claimed to be a kind woman. But I will not hear slights against an ally who has stood strong by my side for nearly twenty years.’
That unsettles her. It had been Celene after all who’d accepted her to court, delighted in each spat between her and Vivienne, showing no regret for destabilising the position of her supposed ally. Perhaps Celene had hoped Morrigan would easily morph into whatever shape Vivienne herself had forced herself into all those years ago. Morrigan cannot help but begin to begrudgingly respect her rival further – somehow Vivienne had learnt to weather the storms of Celene’s tempestuous nature, mastering how to alleviate the worst of her ire while never shrinking back into the shadows as Morrigan finds she must some days.
It is after that night that the haunting truly begins. Her hours become full of the other mage’s ghost, echoes that linger in these golden halls so as to mock her ceaselessly. Sometimes as she sleeps, she thinks she can hear the woman’s laugh tinkling like glasses of poison being clinked together, the sound echoing in Morrigan’s ears even after she has burst awake and is alone, sweating in the dark.
The absent Vivienne somehow becomes a worse torment, the missing presence that still takes up room at each soiree, a silence that threatens to be broken at any moment. Morrigan knows the woman will return one day, but the uncertainty of when she would hangs over Morrigan like a black cloud, following her miserably around, promising to burst without the slightest warning.
One night she cannot help but break into Vivienne’s old quarters. The sight is an eerie one, the abandoned corpse of a room seeming to have stopped breathing only seconds before Morrigan slips inside. Not a single layer of dust lines any surface; a set of jewel encrusted robes lie draped against a chaise longue, ready to be picked up within a moment’s notice. A sprawl of jars and small paint containers spread across a dresser, as if their user would return soon so as to tidy them away yet again.
Something heavy lingers in the air and Morrigan sucks in lungfuls of it, the smell of peonies suddenly assailing her from within, threatening to blossom and take root inside. She has barely taken more than two steps inside.
It is then she sees the portrait hanging above the fireplace, eyes fixed directly on her. The painted Vivienne smiles down at her, a cold thing, skin cracking apart like fractured porcelain. Morrigan, survivor of the Fifth Blight, flees, almost tripping over herself. It had been a mistake, she thinks the next morning, when the dawn had chased the shadows away. Breathing life and power into the ridiculous phantom of her own creation. Perhaps Vivienne would never return and all of this terror is merely of her own making.
Morrigan clings to that belief for some days. She buries herself in her work – one of the few areas she has yet to disappoint Celene – and does not allow herself to even consider her rival’s existence for her own peace of mind. The deception works for a time. She attends Celene’s balls and banquets. She even offers a cruel jest once that has a few senior nobles tittering with laughter.
Morrigan turns to Celene with an expectant smile. Her blood chills.
Celene’s own lips had been pursed before a smile of her own had masked it. But even that smile fails to hide the empress’ revelation. The realisation that one had thrown the better toy away. That even Morrigan’s best pales against Vivienne’s early prime.
Not much more is said between the pair of them, not even as Morrigan accompanies Celene back to her chambers. It is only when she stands up to leave that Celene, finger tracing the rim of her glass, lets out a long sigh. ‘‘How disappointing,’ she says, sounding truly saddened by it. ‘I thought…’
Morrigan cannot work out what part disappoints the empress most. Morrigan’s reluctance and inability to change, or Celene’s failure to mould her regardless. Either way, the woman does not share the truth. She merely shakes her head and drains the last dregs of her wine. ‘It shall have to be both of you then,’ she decrees simply as she stalks into her bedroom and abandons Morrigan wholly.
Morrigan steals into Vivienne’s abandoned quarters again that night. Her illusion of safety shattered, she is too angry to let fear override her this time. The portrait of Vivienne looks down at her expectantly when Morrigan enters.
She says nothing at first. The words choke in her throat each time. Eventually though the blinding arrogance that had been made indelible on the painter’s palette provokes her. ‘You haven’t won yet,’ Morrigan gets out between clenched teeth.
The painted curve of Vivienne’s smile disagrees, that inanimate figure somehow laughing at her. Even after Morrigan has fled back to the safety of her rooms, those eyes bore into her, hungry, ready to devour, and Morrigan has no doubt just who those talons of nails will dig into first.
Morrigan steps through the ivy garlanded door, leaving the Inquisitor on the balcony. A member of their company brushes past her, nodding once to her in recognition, before they step outside.
Morrigan ignores Celene, the bruised empress still trying to hold court as the vultures circle around her. Instead, she makes her way easily enough through the great ballroom, into the vestibule, and then towards one of the many galleries now delightfully empty. Many nobles had fled to lick their wounds in peace and the rest now crowed around the bloody spoils at the centre.
Only those satisfied with their winnings could make a leisurely end to their evening. And Morrigan is more than satisfied. The Inquisition, after all, is a stepping stone to far greater pursuits than Celene’s golden leash would ever have permitted.
An elf, tray empty, rushes past her. Morrigan pays them little attention. She allows herself to meander slowly through the gallery, passing a few smaller rooms all occupied now for the next few hours. She glimpses Duke Cyril’s mask before a curtain is abruptly shut, recognises the ridiculous clattering noise that is Chantral’s nacre mask with black pearls as he jovially pours himself and a few guests a glass or two.
It would be good to leave this place, Morrigan thinks as she nears the end of the gallery. Though she had never allowed herself to be caged, her wings feel clipped all the same. Morrigan cannot help but feel restless almost, wanting to leap out the window she glimpses in the last room that a noble idles in front of, escape into the night itself. Something wild escapes from the outdoors, the scent of lavender, lilacs, peonies, tempting her from here. Soon, Morrigan promises herself, gaze returning back to the archway leading out of the gallery.
She stops. A breath passes. Morrigan takes three steps back. Her heart skips a beat.
There, sitting crowned in candlelight, garbed in panels of shimmering silk and threads of gold, is her revenant.
For the past year, Vivienne had been nothing but an abstract, a formless haunting, a cold smile and the rustle of fabric and the click of heels all forming one unending loop that had never manifested into something more solid. A phantom that curdled one’s blood but had lacked the teeth to draw it. She’d been nothing more than a horrifying, thankfully distant if ever looming nightmare. Until now.
The woman is sitting on a chaise longue, leaning slightly against the high end of the chair as one arm drapes elegantly over it. The other swirls a glass idly, sparks of crimson exploding within the crystal under the candlelight. Her back is to Morrigan. An escape, however dwindling, is still feasible.
Morrigan hesitates. All of her joy has suddenly turned to ash. In the glow of glory, she had overlooked one simple truth that, as ever, threatens to destroy her. She is not the first to reach towards the Inquisition, just as she had not been the first to charm Celene.
Vivienne’s head turns a fraction. ‘Still lurking in the shadows, little spider?’ she calls, rooting Morrigan to the spot. ‘Not yet found something to leech off so as to withstand sunlight?’
Morrigan swallows heavily. ‘‘I do not have your expertise in such matters,’ she manages to get out as she slowly enters the room. ‘From the Empress to the Inquisition, you truly do have a remarkable appetite.’
As she approaches, Morrigan still fails to make out Vivienne’s face. Nevertheless, there’s a small exhale of air, an unimpressed sigh or a noise of vexation no doubt. ‘I doubt you would understand the scope of my desires let alone the nuances of them.’
Morrigan reaches the chaise longue. She dare not walk around it, so she merely settles on the opposite side to Vivienne. ‘It has been some years, Madame,’ she chides with bravado she has managed to conjure from somewhere. Morrigan adjusts her skirts, allowing her to angle herself more towards Vivienne instead of leaving her back exposed. ‘I understand this game better than you may remember after your long absence.’
Vivienne finally deigns to look at her, profile silhouetted by the soft blaze all around them. Morrigan’s breath hitches in her throat. ‘Oh? I highly doubt that,’ she counters leisurely. Morrigan had forgotten how sharp those eyes could be. ‘Celene’s letters gave me the impression of an obstinate child more than anything.’
Morrigan, retort ready on her lips, stills. All this time, she had naively hoped Vivienne had been troubled similarly by her, the unknown piece on the board that Vivienne could not hope to move off while away from court. Morrigan had imagined Vivienne seething quietly in isolation, unable to know whether Morrigan truly held Celene’s ear.
But of course, she knew the real truth. Vivienne’s influence had never left court, despite Morrigan desiring otherwise. But oh how bittersweet to think of Celene writing to the mage, entreating her to come back through her disparaging of Morrigan.
Vivienne smiles lazily, switching her glass to the other hand as she sits up properly for the first time. ‘Oh yes, she wrote to me often. Does that surprise you, little spider?’
Morrigan has little to chance to be when Vivienne’s hand snakes out, finding purchase with her chin yet again. Vivienne’s hand is warm against Morrigan’s chin, no longer that spectral, icy touch that Morrigan had felt around her throat moments before awakening. Vivienne is no longer a distant threat, she is terrifyingly real, close, and Morrigan can barely breath.
Vivienne hums under her breath. ‘Perhaps that is not quite the right name for you,’ she dismisses herself. ‘Spiders spin webs. You just seem to get caught in them, dear.’
Morrigan, she who will never walk into a cage, she who will never allow herself to be leashed, falls into the trap instantly. She lunges forward, trying to claim Vivienne’s lips with her own. Vivienne’s mouth curves against hers, the woman responding in kind only to break away. ‘So keen. So eager to reveal your hand. It is a wonder you have survived this long,’ she mocks, head frustratingly tilting away from Morrigan’s as she speaks.
Her hand, however, draws closer. Unlike Morrigan who had struggled to construct her gown of the night, Vivienne’s hand easily slips past the outerskirts, draws up the crimson damask, and finds its way between Morrigan’s legs.
‘I don’t know if that speaks poorly of the calibre of courtiers these days or the quality of your less natural abilities,’ Vivienne goes on, as if discussing the weather, as if Morrigan isn’t already embarrassingly flushed and leaning into her touch. Her eyes flick across Morrigan’s face, lips twitching a moment, in silent mockery. ‘Most likely the former.’
‘You are infuriating,’ Morrigan spits out, tempted to walk away right there and then, only to bite down a gasp as Vivienne’s hand moves further up, drawing lazy circles that have Morrigan practically tearing holes into the chaise longue.
Vivienne, may any existing god destroy her, takes a long sip of her wine. She raises one brow and fingers suddenly cease their ministrations. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she says. Morrigan cannot help but whine, her legs trying to trap Vivienne’s hand in place, losing all sense of decorum.
The other woman easily extracts it, palm smoothing over the stiff front of Morrigan’s gown. ‘Is there something you want?’ she teasingly asks as her hand skitters across the neckline of the bodice, agonisingly close to Morrigan’s confined chest.
Morrigan knows this is still all part of the game. She knows this is a step closer to defeat. ‘Please,’ she gasps out anyway. She’s never cared for rules, after all.
Vivienne smiles. It is, as always, not a kind thing. ‘‘Do you know, I think that brought me more pleasure than anything else in recent months,’ she croons, words spilling out of a blood red mouth like a morbid lullaby. For once though, Vivienne takes pity on her.
After it is done, Morrigan’s gown wrecked and her lips bitten bloody, Vivienne finally finishes the last dregs of her wine. Morrigan cannot tell which thing Vivienne enjoyed devouring more. ‘Poor thing,’ Vivienne murmurs, fingers wiping themselves on the damask of Morrigan’s skirt.
‘You never stood a chance.’