A Thousand Steps

Or, 7 Ways They Are the Same. Just because she's the reincarnated spirit of an Old God doesn't mean she's not mortal. Or exactly like her father. A closer look at Alistair's daughter, mostly from Morrigan's point of view. Very slight Morrigan/Alistair.

A/N: High Dragons, like the archdemon, are typically female. The Archdemon happened to be the Old God of Beauty. Hence a female child. That, and I can't picture Morrigan with a son.

If Morrigan seems too loving, it's because I alternate in believing she's either going to be exactly like Flemeth as a mother, or the exact opposite. This fic explores Morrigan-as-the-opposite-of-Flemeth.


She was such a curious child, wide-eyed and eager to learn about the world around her. Sometimes her curiosity drove Morrigan insane, but more often than not she simply found it endearing.

This was one of those times.

"Mama," the four year old asked one day when they were at the market, eyes wide in amusement. "What's that?"

Morrigan smiled as the girl gawked at the large orange wheel. "Cheese. Would you like to try some?"

"Yes please!"

Morrigan purchased a small slice from the vendor and handed her daughter a chunk.

From the moment the little one tasted the cheese, Morrigan knew it was going to be trouble. Her eyes lit up with childish glee as she quickly engulfed the chunk Morrigan gave her.

"Mama!" She giggled. "It's good!"

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah!" the girl cheered. "Can I have some more? Please?"

So began a life-long obsession for cheese, and it was all Alistair's fault, even if he wasn't there to appreciate it.


"Child," Morrigan called, holding up a pair of lumpy grey items that might have once passed for articles of clothing. "What are these?"

The girl in question blushed. "Oh, that's where I put my socks! Thank you, Mother."

She grabbed the filthy pair from her mother's hand and slid them on her feet gracefully before trotting off, as if unaware of how awful and unclean her socks were.

Morrigan decided that if she ever had the misfortune of meeting Alistair again, she was going to kill him for ruining her child.


They were dolls.

"No they aren't!" The not-so-little-anymore girl argued firmly. "They're figurines!"

"Child," Morrigan argued, slightly exasperated. "You are far too old for such toys. I should get rid of these foolish things."

"Mother!" the girl exclaimed, horrified and clinging to her small collection in fear. "Please don't!"

The part of Morrigan that still held on to a simple hand mirror a friend once gave her relented. "Very well. But if you are going to keep them, at least clean up after yourself!"

The girl never did. But Morrigan could hardly blame her. One day she figured she would just turn around, and Alistair would be standing where her daughter was, and no one would be able to tell the difference.


They lived alone in the wilderness of the mountains, but there was a small village about an hour's walk from their hut. T'would not be uncommon to find Morrigan or her daughter in the village: it was where they gathered most of their supplies and traded potions in exchange for food and clothing.

Still, Morrigan imagined the mayor's son didn't know how to react when her daughter went to him one day and gave him some rather frank romantic advice.

"You're trying to woo Eliza, the weaver's daughter." The teenage-goddess told him charmingly, an all-knowing twinkle in her eye that reminded Morrigan far too much of a certain foolish Templar. "You should try giving her a rose. 'Tis a sweet enough gesture that I suspect she'll appreciate."

Morrigan did not want to know how her daughter knew about that, nor did she ever ask.


There were some things Morrigan would never understand about her daughter.

Her love of splitmail was one of them.

The fact that she wore armor at all was strange enough as is, but splitmail?

"What? It looks good on me!"

Morrigan barely restrained from rolling her eyes. "Most mages don't bother with armor, child."

"That's like asking to get stabbed or shot at. I'd like some protection, please."

"Then why splitmail? There are better armors out there, child."

"But splitmail looks the best on me! The other armors make my shoulders look huge!"

Morrigan would never admit it, but she always thought the splitmail looked best on him, too.


"I want to find my father." The now-grown goddess proclaimed one day, a sack of clothes heaved over her shoulder. "You cannot stop me from meeting him."

No, she couldn't. By now, her daughter was far stronger than Morrigan would ever be. If she wanted to leave, Morrigan would be helpless to stop her.

Still, as she was hugging her child goodbye, she couldn't help but whisper in her ear, "I hope he loves you. And I hope he's everything you want him to be, and more."

Knowing Alistair as she once did, she thinks he will exceed her daughter's expectations, and more.


There is a power in creating a life. In molding it, in shaping.

Still, someā€¦quirks cannot always be explained by reason alone. Like how a father and daughter who have never met can be so similar, even down to the same mannerisms and facial expressions. Or how the Witch of the Wilds could come to love someone so similar to a Templar she once hated.

Morrigan watches with cat eyes as a young woman who looks like her and an older man with a beard share the same smile, laughing at the same cheesy joke, and knows that everything is right in her world.


A/N: I am on a Morrigan/Alistair kick that I cannot explain. Expect more later.