#sorry regin baby i love you but you're so easy to Put Through It

[scvcnofswords]

❛ come to me. ❜ from mythal to Reginleit || @mercysought

It had been a calculated risk, when Regin had made up her mind to drink of the Well of Sorrows. Brilliant and reckless, Regin has always been both, but this had been a moment where she'd weighed the costs and benefits- and for the first time, refused the counsel of her heart.

Regin liked Morrigan fine; for the most part, although there was the prickle of indignation in her bones for the witch's condescension and self-aggrandizing. She was brave, with a good heart, and the love she bore her son was as deep as the sea.

But the Dalish- the remnants of Elvhenan and Arlathan, the ghosts of the Dales whether they wander the wilds or lay down roots within cities... Had lost too much to humans, and it was yet another. She didn't entirely trust Morrigan to share anything it granted, whether it be the language she had fragments of whilst clawing, ever digging, desperate to find more, to know more, to understand.

To find truth, even when that truth was hard and ugly.

So she'd drank from the Well; fully understanding why there was so much panic in Solas' eyes, and praying he can understand the apology, can understand why she'd made this choice. But things had played out as they had.

A murdered goddess' geas. It's a deadline in the same way the Anchor was, a ticking clock over her life and her freedom, though in a different way. The Anchor had stolen her from herself, hurtling her to the figurehead of a faith used to break her people, somehow both less and more of a person to everyone who saw her. The Inquisitor, the Herald; never Regin. And that was without even considering how the thing was slowly killing her.

The geas was a threat of losing herself in an entirely different way, will and identity lost to a mage so powerful she'd been worshipped as a god. True, Mythal had been killed; but beings as powerful as she...

Regin wondered, if such people could ever truly die and stay dead.

Her own power, not an insubstantial thing, had burgeoned, blooming from the Well's knowledge and energy, from the knowledge and resources she's hunted down and studied over too many sleepless nights through her time in the Inquisition; and yet she cannot wrap her mind entirely around the truth of the 'Creators'. The Evanuris. The sheer power, and the scope of it. Creation, destruction, knowledge intertwined and undeniable.

Another thing to lose sleep over.

So she commits everything she learns to ink and parchment; passes it on to those who know how to get them into the correct hands. The knowledge, the power of it- Regin has somehow become more powerful than she'd ever been, and yet at the same time, more vulnerable, more unstable in her position and her own safety.

But her own safety has almost never been one of her priorities. The truth was. Knowledge was. Protecting those that needed her; and those she loved was.

Which is why when that voice whispers in her mind and outside of it in the same moment, when Mythal's gaze finds her in the Crossroads, she doesn't panic, even as she fights the compulsion, as her body turns towards Mythal without her permission, without her decision. Rage and fear both war in her head, a collision of storm fronts, a twisted up cyclone of resignation and defiance, shock and awe alongside indignation and fear. Regin closes her eyes, golden-green gaze hidden from the brilliant gold of the All-mother, justice and vengeance intertwined.

All of the Evanuris were monsters, Regin's memory recalls, as she comes to a halt before the woman with dragon's eyes, biting her tongue so hard she tastes blood. "- Mythal," she says, voice wrenched from her throat, a word she'd not meant to speak, but was helpless not to.

The least terrible of them, according to some, but still one of those ancient powers, one of those who had placed herself at the pinnacle of power.

What a strange thing it is; for there's respect there, truly. Regin cannot and would not deny it. Mythal was a woman who had shaped the ages in so many ways more than even just as one of the eldest and most powerful of her people. Nudging and twisting through tale and history like smoke, lining up dominos for the perfect moment, setting up the endgame of a chess match with which no one could keep up. But the revulsion wars with it, the unease, the anger that feels older than she is.

But she's not a fool, and to let that anger loose; she may as well tie the noose herself, to do such a thing.

Finally, she opens her eyes again, and meets that of the once-spirit, throat gone tight. "- What do you want from me?"