She startles awake, which is unusual for her.
She is in the forest, where she feels safest. Even now, after everything, the Wilds call to her, stir her magic. Her blood sings when the western wind blows though her hair and she can breathe in the clear quiet.
She never travels too close to the towns she had come across on her journey to nowhere-in-particular. Even so, the townspeople whisper about the mysterious woman round with child that lives in the forest. They fear her because she does not need them. She does not pretend to be a struggling refugee, a fallen woman. She strides through the towns when she needs to, bold as anything. She revels in their disapproval; she delights as that disapproval turns to terror.
Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds-the last Witch of the Wilds if her mother had truly been slain. It is hard to believe that such a thing had come to pass. Her mother had always seemed so indestructible. The memory of her mother makes her feel…strange. If she cared to dwell on the feeling, she might call it longing. But no matter, she had her mother's Grimoire, she had her staff, and she had her wits-she had survived on less.
Her eyes dart around her camp, looking for the source of the disturbance. What, pray tell, has awoken her from her slumber?
At that moment sharp pain, originating in her womb and radiating outwards, strikes her. Morrigan leans back on her elbows, and tilts her head to the night sky. Ah, so here it comes. The child, his child, is about to be born into the world.
Another pain, this one somehow worse than the last. Morrigan struggles to remove her pants and reaches for her staff to light a fire. It wouldn't do for the child to come into the world while she is unprepared.
She thinks of him as the pain radiates through her once more. Daylen Amell. The Circle Mage that had enchanted her. The man who refused to be tamed by the Chantry, despite his upbringing. When she had first beheld him, nearly two years ago now, she had been struck by his confidence, his cool head. She remembers him walking through the Wilds, unconcerned by the Darkspawn that hindered the Grey Warden's path. She remembers her admiration.
They had been drawn to one another instantly. He appreciated her sense of humor and longed to learn more of the magic that he had never been taught. She had liked the way he spoke of magic and the way his brown eyes had lit when he was happy. He smiled with his eyes.
More pain, and this time Morrigan cannot contain her wail. And now, the memories come.
"You there, handsome lad," she calls to the man standing near the back of the party, "tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."
The mage grins at her, and there is something wicked in his eyes, something she likes.
"You may call me Daylen."
The pains come faster now, and she tries to push….
She watches the mage while he sleeps, tends to his wounds. The girl and the annoying one have already awakened, but the mage still slumbers. She wonders if he shall awaken, his injuries were severe. She finds, strangely, that she wants him to awaken. What curious feeling…
Morrigan pants with effort; she never imagined labor like this.
They linger in the Wilds just outside of Lothering. Suddenly, Daylen leans in.
"Care to join me in my tent?"
She finds that she does.
Her howl splits the night air, and for the first time in her life, Morrigan wishes for someone at her side.
They continue whatever it is they have for months. They never define it, they never speak of it. But suddenly, without warning, there is a shift. Lelianna, the girl they picked up in Lothering is suddenly around so much more. Daylen seems protective of her, in a way that he has never been with Morrigan.
Lelianna sings and tells stories of faraway lands. Daylen laughs at her silly jokes and sighs over her pretty tales. He still comes to warm her bed, but it is less often. He no longer lingers.
"Maker!" The god of Ferelden does not answer.
Lelianna turns to face her, pale skin flushed with either anger or embarrassment, "You say that I am the one who tries to be noticed, when it is you. He has ignored your advances, hasn't he?"
"That's what you think." She snaps. She revels in the pain in the girl's eyes.
Morrigan seizes on her uncertainty, "You can't possibly think he would prefer you?"
"Funnily, I was about to say the same thing to you."
She smirks, "And yet he and I have made love. Did you know this?"
The girl hesitates. "I... suspected as much. All the better, as he will soon discover you have nothing else to offer."
"The world of flesh is one of many weird varied delights. What do you think that he will do when he discovers that you offer only frigid incompetence?"
Lelianna rallies, "If we reach that point...if we do... it will be because we love each other."
Morrigan laughs, "And yet love grows rotten on the vine so quickly. A sour fruit that offers only a memory of sweetness, what is it worth, truly?"
"Everything; only a dried up shell of a person would not know that."
Another memory, another pain.
"Do you take me for a fool?" she spits and tries not to flinch when Daylen closes his eyes. He is resolved. "Let's not drag this out any further. I know of Lelianna's ultimatum."
Daylen opens his eyes, and she has to struggle against a sudden swell of emotion.
"To tell it truly, she is far more suited to you." It is a lie, but a necessary one, the girl is no more suited to Daylen then an apostate in a Chantry, "Go." She orders him, "Go and revel in your domesticated bliss."
"I'm sorry." He says.
"Not sorry enough it would appear." She cannot keep the hurt from her voice. She watches him return to the main camp, to the tent he now shares with the usurper. She cannot tell him of the child, not now.
Morrigan is crying now, and she cannot stop the memories from continuing any more then she can keep her child from being born.
She confronts Lelianna one night, she cannot stop herself. "So he has chosen you. You think this is a triumph? Look at him... look at him and know that you will never truly have him."
"Jealousy, Morrigan. Tsk, tsk... it is not becoming—"
"You mock me, but when he is in your arms, in your bed, telling you he loves you, know that there will be moments when he is thinking of me." It takes all her strength not to place her hands over her stomach.
"Andraste forgive me, but you, Morrigan, are a bitch. A cruel, cruel bitch and you will get your comeuppance."
Morrigan lets out a laugh, or perhaps it is a sob. "Perhaps. But even so, you know in your heart that I am right."
She had not told him that she was already with child that night. She had not told him that a life had already flickered into being. She had not told him that to preform her ritual would doom their child, conceived out of love, to become a vessel for an ancient god. She had not told him that she had been willing to sacrifice their child if only he would be saved. She had told him none of that, and he had still refused her.
"Are you insane?" he growled, "Is this your plan? To curse an innocent an protect an archdeamon? I would never do it. You have my answer."
And she had fled. She refused to watch him die, for she knew that he would not allow the lovesick fools to sacrifice themselves so close to taking the throne of Ferelden. She knew that he would strike the killing blow. She knew. And she fled.
The quiet is broken with the sudden shriek of an infant. Morrigan reaches down between her legs and wraps her child-her human, untainted son-in her arms.
"Kieran."