It's startling on several levels to see Morrigan here - because she's in Orlais, isn't she, they're all in Orlais, because she just sort of melts out of shadow like something barely real and wild, and then because of what she says, words that take a moment to parse for meaning because they don't seem real or right. That she's come for her - walking across a castle is one thing, but to fly in another form across nations - it must be very easy, she supposes, it must be something she does often, it's just.

Gwenaëlle doesn't actually think about what she's doing until she's already buried her face in Morrigan's shoulder, wrapped her arms tight around her waist; because she needs to and because she wants to be sure that she's real and here and that she hasn't misunderstood. (She hasn't, she thinks - she couldn't wishfully think this hard, not even her.) She tries and fails to say - something, anything, to sound clever or interesting or just not trite, but the words stick in her throat and she presses her forehead against Morrigan's collarbones and stops trying, the tension with which she's so carefully folded herself up like a puzzle box a now tangible thing at this sudden lack of distance.

Guenievre, not yet a familiar sight to the witch, had half-risen and now stops, sinks back down, observes without expression how easily (her daughter) reaches for a stranger's comfort.