Chapter 99 — The First Attempt

Arlen and I spent the following days in careful preparation, discussing exactly how a deliberate attempt at communication with Morrigan might unfold, weighing the considerable risks against whatever fragile hope her grief-born humanity might still offer.

"This is different from anything you've attempted before," Arlen cautioned, as we gathered once more in the familiar chapel, Kael and Maren standing watchful guard while Wren and Seraphine waited nearby, included now in every significant step of this long, unfolding war. "Reaching toward an enemy deliberately, rather than simply receiving whatever she chooses to send, carries considerably more risk. If she perceives the contact as aggression, she may respond in kind, regardless of whatever genuine sympathy you intend to offer."

"I understand the risk," I said. "I still believe it's worth attempting."

Kael's hand found mine, steady and grounding. "Whatever happens, we're here," he said simply.

Arlen positioned himself close by, ready to intervene if the connection grew dangerous, while Maren stood watch near the entrance, blade drawn despite the apparent absence of any immediate physical threat. Seraphine and Wren waited at a careful distance, both their faces tight with the particular tension of witnessing something they could not directly participate in but understood, nonetheless, to carry enormous weight.

"Remember what we discussed," Arlen said quietly. "Approach with openness, but maintain your own boundaries clearly. Grief this old can sometimes seek to consume whatever sympathy it encounters, rather than simply accepting it. Protect your own sense of self even as you extend understanding toward hers."

I nodded, grateful for the reminder, and closed my eyes, steadying myself for whatever this unprecedented attempt might ultimately demand of me.

I settled onto the chapel's broken altar stone, the pendant already warm against my palm, and let my breathing slow the way months of careful practice had taught me. This time, rather than simply waiting for the cold presence to reach toward me, or reaching toward Cressida's familiar, friendly channel, I turned my attention outward with deliberate, careful intention, searching for the particular signature I now recognized from our one previous, unplanned contact.

Morrigan, I thought, as clearly and gently as I could manage. I know your name now. I know what happened at Hollowmere. I understand what you lost there, and I'm so sorry for that loss.

The silence that followed stretched long enough that I began to fear the attempt had simply failed, that whatever channel connected us required her own deliberate reaching rather than mine. Then, faint and cautious, a response came — not the cold, patient voice I remembered from our first contact, but something quieter, more uncertain, carrying a vulnerability I hadn't expected.

You went to Hollowmere.

Yes, I thought. I saw what happened there. Your daughter. I'm so sorry, Morrigan. I can't imagine what that loss has cost you, across all these years.

You cannot imagine it, the voice agreed, grief and old fury tangling together in equal measure. No one can imagine it, who hasn't lived it. Two centuries of reaching toward a door that refuses to open fully again, however much power I've gathered, however many careful plans I've laid. You think understanding my grief grants you some claim toward my mercy, girl?

No, I thought honestly. I don't expect mercy. I only wanted you to know that I understand, now, why you've done everything you've done. I wanted to offer you the chance to speak with someone who finally understands, rather than simply fears you.

The silence that followed carried a different quality than before, something less immediately hostile, as though my words had landed somewhere she hadn't expected them to reach. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its earlier sharpness.

No one has offered me understanding in two hundred years, she said slowly. Only fear, or pursuit, or the kind of careful, distant pity that changes nothing about how they treat me. Why would you be different, girl? What do you hope to gain from this strange offer?

I don't know that I hope to gain anything, I admitted. I think I simply couldn't continue fighting you as though you were only a monster, once I understood what you'd lost. I wanted to see whether there was still a person underneath everything the centuries have layered over you. Someone who might still want something other than this endless, grieving war.

You're either very brave, or very foolish, Morrigan said, something that might almost have been reluctant respect threading through the words. Most who oppose me do so from fear, or from duty, or from simple hatred of what I've become. None have approached me this way before. Offering understanding, as though I might still deserve such a thing after everything I've done.

I don't know whether you deserve it, I said honestly. I only know that refusing to offer it, assuming you were beyond reaching entirely, felt like giving up on the possibility of any resolution beyond continued violence. I'd rather try, and fail, than never attempt understanding at all.

The silence that followed carried a weight I couldn't quite interpret, old grief and something that might have been genuine surprise tangled together across whatever strange distance separated us.

You remind me of someone, Morrigan said finally, her voice carrying an unexpected softness. Not in appearance. In manner. The same stubborn insistence on finding good where others would simply see monster. I knew someone like that once, before grief reshaped me into everything I've since become.

Who? I asked, curious despite the strange, suspended tension of the whole exchange.

A friend, Morrigan said, something wistful threading through the admission. Long dead now, by any ordinary measure. Though I sometimes wonder whether she still exists somewhere, in whatever strange way souls persist across broken timelines, watching what I've become with the same mixture of sorrow and stubborn hope you're extending toward me now.

The description settled cold and certain in my chest, and I understood, with sudden clarity, exactly who Morrigan was describing.

Cressida, I said softly.

The silence that answered confirmed it more completely than any words could have.