Mommy Morrigan Chapter 1: Part One, a dragon age fanfic

The prompt:

So, Morrigan got her pregnancy like she wanted. Problem is, two kids popped out instead of one. She has twins. I just want to see a Mommy Morrigan putting up with twins. Maybe only one is the Old God, or the soul is split between two. Doesn't matter to me, anons.

Bonus Points:
- If Daddy is around he isn't magical
- The twins are identical and boys

I would even love micro fills for this anons! Just something cute and adorable. A flustered Morrigan. Maybe during her giving birth and realizing

she isn't done yet! What in the Fade is this? or the kids getting in trouble, whatever anons want.

The fill:

'Someone somewhere asked me is there anything in particular I can help you with?

All I ever wanted help with was you'

Myriad Harbor, The New Pornographers

There was no way of her knowing what was to happen. How was she to know that Fate was so cruel, that the Maker was real and having a joke at her, that her mother had somehow managed to get the final laugh? Morrigan could not have changed the future, but she could look back and pinpoint the exact second where things had gone wrong.

It all began to snowball out of control after she'd given birth. Now, after that terrible, neverending night, she could only shake her head at her arrogance. How she'd laid there in her tent, holding the boy wrapped in a blanket after washing him off, smirking. Nearly laughing at the sight of him, the son she'd given birth so easily to. In her hubris, not even noticing clearly what he looked like.

All those screaming women had simply been weak. After all, she'd barely yelled more than once or twice and had cut her own umbilical cord. Without any help, let alone a man to hold her hand and coo uselessly in her ear.

Then the new pain began to set in.

Oh, she'd thought carelessly, this must be the afterbirth.

The agony had been like nothing she'd experienced before. It cut her in half and left her weak in a wave of pain that wiped away all emotions. All she could do again and again was scream. For the first time in her life, she nearly prayed to the Maker. Her child was left to wail besides her, in its own pain and empathy.

When something finally slipped out, Morrigan was not even allowed relief; since when did afterbirth scream like that?

Cutting a second umbilical cord stole away any remaining strength.

All she could do was look at one, then the other. Saw with something not unlike horror that they had the exactly same strawberry blonde hair of their father, the squished faces and mishappen heads and their screams the same exact pitch and tone and volume. It wasn't possible to tell yet since their blind eyes were squeezed shut, but she was sure when they opened they would not be her shade.

And what's more, since they were both rolling in the mud screaming and blanketless, Morrigan couldn't say which one had even been born first.

They were both filthy. In fact, they were all filthy.

As though they belonged together, crying and hurt and stained with blood and mud. Like...a family.

It was the final damning fact that knocked her into unconsciousness and relief.

When she finally came out of a black dreamless sleep, the witch found both of them spooning against her like puppies. Like their father, after they'd created these two and he'd finished weeping.

She had looked up from their dirty heads, she saw that the storm that had haunted her night was over. Not even clouds remained. Dragging herself out of her tent, Morrigan turned her gaze towards the skies and saw a rainbow overhead. As her almost-prayers, this was the first time she'd been able to fully attempt to appreciate such a sight.

Morrigan gathered her children, cleaned them off, and nursed them. And just like their father, they eagerly ate and seemed equally happy to be at someone's breast. But not even after, when she inspected them closely, did they seem to have any physical marks that would let her know which was the Old God. Not a single dot or freckle difference between them.

They both blinked at her, cuddled closer, and slept.

She held them, weighing them, desperate.

One of you, please grow horns and fangs. Say something. Anything.

A baby cuddled closer, and Morrigan took that for a sign. Mentally, she marked that one for the Old God.

Yes, you. You are the One.

But did not mark him physically. So in a half hour when she had to clean them off again, she forgot which was which all over again. In the abandoned woods, only the infants heard her shriek of, "Goddamnit!"

A cry that echoed through her mind for months and months, though one she was only conscious of when she was sure, sure that she knew which one was which. Which one was the Old God.

The one with the cut knee, alright. Yes. That was definitely the one that kept smiling when I said the words. 'Old God.' He was the one.

Then the other baby would slip from its crude bed to join his brother, and she'd stare in disbelief at both pairs of bloody knees.

Was it the one on the right, or the left?

"Goddamnit!"

And both grinned and waggled with delight.

And she'd been so clever with this idea. So smart and pragmatic.

Someone was laughing at her, perhaps her mother, or the Maker or Fate or Wynne or Leliana or maybe it was the Grey Warden. Maybe it was both the Grey Wardens. Toasting one another with mugs of ale, 'haha, yeah, she went right through the mirror and I never say her again. You're so lucky that you never had to help take care of any kids she might have had.' 'Yep. Now I get to be King and never have to chance a diaper in my life!'

Why hadn't she told the Warden about the infants, why hadn't she let him come along, why had she been so convinced even then that she could handle this? At two months old, Morrigan should have known they were going to keep being a pain for her.

Eventually, her calling of 'Old God' became 'Oh God' as she lost her grip on one, then the other. Even after another month passed, neither had a name. She would grab one and stare deep into his eyes that were definitely not her own shade and shape, looking for a flicker, for something. A dark gleam.

Instead, the baby would usually lean forward for a breast or just stare at her, occasionally dripping a fluid out of an orifice. And then Morrigan would hold him and tell him that he should be named after his father, Alistair The Second, how would they like that?

Only to be met with a sigh or more drool. Or worse.

Though both were clumsy as only infants could be, neither was more bruised than the other. Not one of them would end the day with more scratches or bloody noses that could be a subtle hint that this one was more resilient, and therefore the right one. Flemeth's saying of 'Fate watches out for the drunk and the young' had never seemed more accurate. They would both survive the tumbles, and they'd both shriek in the same manner as the other.

Was it possible that the Old God's soul had split into two?

Or was she just being paranoid, or unobservant?

Did this one, the one that preferred bananas, the normal one? Or was the one that usually threw up sooner after drinking goat's milk the normal one? Or...was that the same child?

Even their hair grew in the same manner and length, and when they began babbling, they did it to each other. She would stare and watch them, suspicious turning to wariness over their noises that escaped the mouths that were definitely their father's. They were both needy, desperate children that reached out constantly for their mother, and their first words were, 'Mama,' a term she had never used around them at all.

'Mother' perhaps, but usually in regards to her own supposed parent. And when she referred to herself as a mother, it was usually while screaming at one of them to tipping over a vial or eating one of her rings.

"Do you have any idea how important that is?" Knowing of course that there was no way the child was capable of that amount of intelligence and yet unable to still the words that came spilling from her lips. "Well! I suppose we just have to wait for it to work through your system."

"Do you have any idea how badly you make your mother work? Just sit there and be quiet. Play with the block pieces I made for you, like your brother!

"Your brother...who is eating my necklace! Get away from there!"

"Mama!" The baby would scream, all ecstatic just being alive and having his mother's attention. Her necklace forgotten in his grubby paws.

"Yes, yes. Stop eating everything. Here. Just take this. Take this to chew on."

And this was during a good time, when they were not sneezing and coughing or plain shrieking into her ears as she carried them across another forest, past another clearing, through another swamp, and over another mountain.

"Mama! Mama!"

"Mama! Mama!"

"Yes, yes. I know."

Sometimes, Morrigan would even forget about one of them being the Old God. But then, sometimes she'd forget there had been a time before having these two, a time where she hadn't had any stretch marks or nightmares about an infant falling into a fire and who would fall asleep without any back pain from carrying a pair of babies all day. Or had there truly been a time when her nipples hadn't been so severely chafed and she hadn't traveled around with a goat bought at a town past in an attempt to heal said chafed nipples?

But the babies so loved the goat to tug at and coo over or ride on, while simultaneously hating its milk. Sometimes Morrigan would have dreams of roasting that goat and gorging on the meat that would no longer whine over going over another hill, but then with whom would she have an adult conversation with? The children? All the boys could manage so far was one syllable sentences.

"Goat! Goat!"

"Yes, that's the goat! You see it every day."

"Hungy!"

"Shush. Both of you. Your mother has a headache."

"Mama?"

"Goat?"

"Yes, yes...where is my ring? Did one of you eat it again?"

Even the goat didn't do that.

On the bright side, they both enjoyed picking flowers...whether or not they had any medical properties or not, but you could only expect so much from children. And shared her interest in wildlife, though they had to be held back from going to hug wildcats. Neither showed any magical abilities so far, but she watched carefully for such and spoke to them both about spells and potions, to wide-eyed blinking and then snoring as they grew bored.

And...in weak moments and during a time when they were asleep and helpless, Morrigan would confess to a fondness for them both. Something about the tiny hands and feet would make something in her chest twist and writhe in a painless agony. Yes, they shared their father's appearance, but that could only be held so far against them. And with Alistair's temperament, they were easy enough to scare into obedience.

...though they were impossible to get to follow orders. Even simple reminders not to touch a simple weed that would give them rashes was met with bumpy reddened skin, stained green mouths, and increasingly weak moans for their 'Mama.'

"Oh, fine. But I did warn you. If you two do this again, I will not help you."

But she always would always find herself clearing their airways for them, regardless of her threats.

Eventually, she found herself bundling the twins into matching warm furs and heading back to Amaranthine. She had no idea if Alistair was even going to be there, or if the Warden was there, but it had to be better than her plan right now. The witch wiped snow and sweat from her brow, and remembered telling the leader of their mismatched group that he would never see her again.

But was it still her?

When she caught sight of her reflection in the smooth ice of a new lake they needed to cross, she simply did not recognize herself. Who was this woman, with the hair like a bird was nesting into it, with the gnawed-on jewelry and baby-spat upon clothes? What kind of witch had her staff strapped to a goat behind her? Was the being before her supposed to be herself, Morrigan of the Wild? Because Morrigan the Witch would never be seen holding two struggling infants.

"Mama? Carry?"

"Mama? Goat?"

All her traveling companions would laugh themselves silly over the sight. How Leliana and Zevran and Oghren would mock her. Only Sten would nod in approval. Oh, Maker, if only Sten were here to carry the children and give them cookies and frighten them into silence. She would even take Wynne's condescending and self-righteous remarks in a heartbeat, so long as she took the twins off Morrigan's hands for a day. Anyone. Even Alistair.

Was the Warden even in Amaranthine still? From what she could tell, he was not a man to sit about and let others do the heavy work. He could be anywhere in Fereldon, helping others to rebuild. Or with the foolish elf in warm Antiva, cooing and smiling at one another with no screaming infant in sight. 'Don't you love this temperate climate?' 'Not as much as I love not having children to care for.'

But then she decided, as she watched one of the boys narrowly avoid falling into a hole in the ice, I don't really care. Together, shoving and pulling and tugging the goat along, they made their way across the lake.

"Boys," Morrigan began in her sternest voice. They immediately snapped to attention and look to her with big eyes and ratty hair.

"We are going to possibly see your father."

"Fater?" The two looked at each other in puzzlement. "Fater bad."

"Yes. But we're still going to see him."

They still looked lost. "Not Fater. Nu-uh. Good."

"Oh, I'm not accusing you of being like your father, right now. But we're going to see him."

"Bad?"

"Not bad. Not you two. You two good. Are good. Dammit."

"Good? Boy good?"

"You boys are good. Yes."

"Good!"

They exchanged looks of joy and hugged each other while their mother rolled her eyes. "Yes. Now come along."

They loved the docks of Amaranthine. More than once Morrigan would have to drag one of them away from climbing aboard a ship. Their vocabulary shorted out over all the commotion, leaving them only to squeal and point. Strangers came up to coo over the twins, pinching their cheeks and ruffling their head when the boys reached out and grabbed for their rings and necklaces.

When they would get pulled away by their mother and goat, occasionally they would shove a coin purse or piece of jewelry at their mother, who would tell them that she was not raising a couple of common thieves and so put that away before someone saw and called the guard. Scolded, they winced and nibbled at their new shiny belongings.

Maybe they picked it up from the goat?

Morrigan actually enjoyed having them at her side. Their running around kept her from feeling so nervous about being around so many people after so long a time away from others. She ran a hand through her hair to straighten it, and then over her skirt to attempt to clean it when she caught site of the place they were headed.

"Boys. Stay close."

Like all Fereldon architecture, the Grey Warden's keep was full of statues and pictures of dogs. And griffins. Lots of griffins. The boys were enchanted, and kept reaching out fearlessly for the warriors' swords and weapons. A particularly shiny shield made them both go, "Ooooo! Mama! Mama!"

She left them gazing at an oil painting of a fully armored Warden on the back of a griffin to seek out the man she needed. Someone promised to look after her goat, and she made sure to take note of the man's face and clothes in case he decided to abscond with it.

"Morrigan?"

Two pairs of eyes unlike her sons' stared at her. Seated in a mostly empty room, they sat on roughly hewed furniture with a surprisingly delicate teapot and a scattered teacups resting on a table before them. "What are you doing here?"

The witch was find the right words to explain the situation when the boys padded in after her. In their small, beaten leather boots and stained furs, they fit right in with the rest of the décor.

"Mama?"

One of the twins reached out for one of Zevran's knives, and the elf immediately pulled away. "No, no. That's not safe."

The child just looked up at him, heartbroken.

"Morrigan. Are these yours?"

"Yes, they are."

"So...which one's the, uh..."

"I have no idea. Don't try and eat the teapot." She reached out and pulled the boy away from the table.

"You can't tell them apart either?"

"Look at them. Do you see any vast dissimilarities?"

Zevran eyed them. "Why not just cut one's hair?"

"I've tried that. The other just cut at his own hair with a knife."

"How did one of them get a knife?"

"Well...he grabbed it."

"You keep knives around them. Just lying around?"

"Well, just because they're children doesn't mean they should be left helpless."

The two men looked at her.

"And when one of them tries to cut his own hair, they tend to cut their heads as well. Its bad enough healing them when they fall down all the time."

"Well, I guess if you don't want them...Alistair and Anora need an heir."

Immediately, the boy was torn from the Grey Warden's grasp. "He's not going anywhere. He's not your son. Or their's."

"Maker, Morrigan."

The twins looked at their mother, and at the strangers. "Fater?"

"Fater?"

"Um. What are they saying?"

"No, they're not your father. And they're not being exactly bad."

"Bad?"

"Good?"

"Which one is which, exactly?"

"As I said, I have no idea."

"I mean." The Warden rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortably. He was still visibly having problems comprehending the sight of two infant Alistairs' who clung to Morrigan's skirt. "What're their names?"

"...they don't have any."

"You did not name them?"

"I mean to. After figuring out which one is the Old God."

"And you have no idea which one that is?"

"...No."

"You have to name them, Morrigan. Even the whores would name their children. Even the ones dying of fevers and blood loss."

Morrigan froze the elf with a stare. "I will name them."

"What?"

"I will think of names when the time comes."

"How about 'Aedan'? Huh. You like that name, little guy?" Gently, the Warden poked one of the boys in the stomach. "And maybe your brother would like to be called 'Zevran'?"

The elf was smirking, and trying to be discreet about it. Morrigan was no amused. "Stop it."

"Alistair Junior?"

One of the babies shook his head. "Baaadd."

Her own laughter surprised her, and the children ran to her for celebratory hugs.

"Good!"

"Yes, 'good.'"

Zevran's smirk was more pronounced. "How about naming one of them 'Morry'?"

Aedan's own smile was growing. "And the other can be 'Gan.'"

"Hmmm."

"No, Morrigan. No."

"They are not your children. I will name them whatever I choose to."

"I think you're growing attached to them."

She paused in petting down the twins' hair. "Hmph."

"I guess any name is better than nothing. What do you call them? When you want them to come?"

"I just say 'boys'," Morrigan shrugged easily. The two kids looked up at her, waiting.

"Well. They need names. Good names."

The Grey Warden had a hard time looking away from them. He gave a look to Zevran, who immediately looked alarmed. "Now, Warden, we've had this discussion. Any kids-"

"Look at these two though. They survived wandering around the wilds with Morrigan." He didn't seem to notice the witch's glare.

The blonde elf was shifting around his seat. Gently, he pushed away one of the boys' small hands from a knife on his belt. "That doesn't mean any children we were to take in would be safe."

Aedan was giving him a look like the one Morrigan got when the boys were desperate for healing/more food/a hug. "Just one? Please?"

Zevran crossed his arms. "No."

The woman pulled her kids a little closer. "Well, you're not getting one of these two. I don't think you could even separate them."

"Take one of the urchins in the alleyways," she advised.

"We're not having a child!" The lecherous elf was close to hyperventilating, and rocking back and forth in his chair.

"I thought you wanted one! You said as soon as you came back home-"

"Stop it. Not now."

The Grey Warden stared at him, eyes narrowed. A dangerous look from the man who had killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. A look saying 'oh, we'll seeeee.' "Fine. So, Morrigan?"

She handed over sugar cubes to the boys to lick. "Yes?"

"What are you planning on doing? With the kids?"

"I was hoping to...well, I suppose," Morrigan paused. "I wanted your help to know which one is the Old God."

He watched the boys sucking at sugar. "Is that it?"

"Of course. I need to know which is which."

"And there's no spell to tell you?" Zevran, slowly, partially unsheathed a knife to the boys' coos and cheers.

"If I knew of any spell, I would have already used it."

"-why look who it is!" Someone short entered the room with a laugh. And an odor. "What are you doing here, Morrigan?"

"I don't recall it being any of your business."

The dwarf chuckled at the sight of the boy, who stared at him and completely lost interest in the shiny knife. They rushed to inspect each other.

"Awww. Look at 'em. They take after their father. And what's their names?"

"They don't have any."

"What? That's ridiculous." He grabbed the boy's chins in each hand, turning them this way and that. "You two need names."

"Would everyone stop talking about 'names'! They don't need 'names!' They are perfectly fine, happy, being nameless."

"I know." Oghren poked one of the boys' chest. "You be 'Ali'. And you be 'Stair.'"

"Ali?"

"Stair?"

"Ali!"

"Stair!"

The pointed at each other in recognition, as though never having seen each other before, and then hugged.

"Damn you dwarf."

"They seem to approve." The elf was back to smirking behind his teacup.

"Ali!" Their embrace seemed to tighten. "Stair!"

"I am not having one of my children named after him. Especially 'Stairs.'"

"I dunno." Oghren wiped something from his beard. "They like it, woman."

"You did this." She turned on him, bearing her staff.

The Grey Warden was quick to find a compromise. "Look. Name one 'Ali' and the other 'Morry.'"

"I'm not naming either of them!"

"You have to. They're getting older. They need names."

"Fine! Damn you all." Morrigan turned to inspect the boys. "You will be...Ali. Fine. And you. You will be-"

"Morry? Aedan? Zevran?"

"Oghren?"

"Shut up. You," she turned to the blinking toddler. "Will be Alexandros."

"Eech."

"I think 'Oghren' was better than that. Or 'Stairs.'"

"Bet that one turns out evil," the red-haired dwarf muttered knowingly to the Grey Warden.

Morrigan turned to either curse or beat Oghren to death. "I told you to shut up."

"I guess you can call him Alex, for short."

"Still turning evil."

"Look, Morrigan." Aedan waved gauntleted hands. "It's snowing and getting cold for the winter. Why not stay here?"

Zevran tugged at the heavy fur cape, as though nervous. "For how long?"

"Oh, as long as you guys want." The Warden shrugged. "At least until spring. I insist."

"Wha-"

"Well. If you insist." She stared at her boys, at Alexandros and Ali, who were shoving their little faces with sugar cubes. "I suppose it would be easier to stay here."

"Sure it will! It's be great!" The lanky Warden was jumping out of his seat. "Hey, Ali, Alex, wanna go look at some shiny statues of griffins!"

"Yay! Goat!"

"Yeah. Goats. Okay? I think we can find some of those, too."

Zevran stared at the three wandering off before glaring at Morrigan. "Damn you. He's going to start feeling all 'motherly' and get attached and want ones of his own. Do you realize that?

"Morrigan. I am not prepared to take care of a child."

"How do you think I feel? And I have to live here, with all of you. Pass the teapot."

"So, what will happen if you find out which one is the Old God? And what if it is both of them? And...how will you be able to tell which one is Ali and which is Alex?"

"I don't have to explain my plan to you.

"...But I do need someone to go find my goat..."