How fortunate, Morrigan catches herself thinking now and again, that Kieran should look nothing like his father. So many times during the months following the ritual, she had wondered what he might inherit of Alistair - in looks or in personality. But the boy is her spitting image, no more and no less, with only occasional faint glimpses of a man she once knew.
For one, his tact leaves something to be desired."It's hard to see your blood," he'd commented to Cole from their arrival at Skyhold. "You're not like most people, are you?" Such an assessment might have thrilled the spirit, but few others would react the same.
It's shamefully easy to forget sometimes that he is a boy of nine. Easy to end up giving him tasks he isn't able to do, information he isn't prepared to handle. How do you tell a child that others would think him one of the most frightening things in the world, if they knew who and what he truly was? And how do you handle the resulting upset response without being dishonest?
She has made mistakes, certainly. But she will not become her mother. It's all about balance, allowing Kieran to be a child while still giving him what he needs to handle his…unique powers.
Besides, sometimes such a personality is beneficial. There was no worrying about whether he could be trusted to sit quietly in the corner with a book during the Winter Ball, for one. For another, when asked about his mother, he identifies her not by name, but as the inheritor - "she who awaits the next age." Asking about his father earns little more than a shrug and, "I don't rightly know, really." Not to mention -
A voice interrupts her thoughts. "Look, Mother."
And other times, naturally, he most definitely acts his age. Morrigan finds herself hard-pressed not to smile at the sight of him, sprawled out in the tree branches a foot or so above her head. "Is that what you should be working at right now, little man?"
Instead of answering, he stretches out his already-extended arm a little further, pointing with an insistent curiosity. "Out there. Don't you see?"
She responds with a cursory glance into the distance, not bothering to look very hard. "It's a wagon, yes. More travelers come to visit."
"Mother," he says again, with a hint of exasperation in his tone. "Isn't that the king of Ferelden?"
It takes half a glance more to determine his guess as correct.
One sentence tells him to come down from there. A second sends him padding reluctantly off into the courtyard again; she watches to make sure he is gone before heading out towards that wagon.
"I wasn't expecting you," are the first words from her mouth, and Alistair makes a noise of agreement.
"To say the least. You're, ah, working for the Inquisition, then?" He gestures vaguely out at the area.
"Assigned as a liaison to Orlais, yes." She dips her head. "Does Ferelden have no need of you, that you would come here?"
He laughs, the sound nothing like the undignified snort and chuckle of the Alistair she used to know. For a moment, she wonders when it is he aged.
"Not even close. I'm here to make a delivery and call a meeting. Something sensitive I couldn't send a messenger on. Arranging for someone to take my post while I was gone was a task in and of itself, to say the least."
"I can imagine so," she answers dryly.
He clears his throat. "I didn't know you were part of this."
"It is a recent change, as of the Orlesian Winter Ball."
When he glances over her shoulder, straining to see, she winces internally with the question that's coming.
"Does that mean…our…?" He grimaces, sighs, shakes his head. "Our child is here?"
"That is of interest to you, I see." She raises a brow. "I made it clear from the start you would have no part in his life."
"His - " The muscles of Alistair's throat constrict, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "I have a son?"
"So you do."
He takes twenty paces to the wall and back, visibly burning off nervous energy. "Maker, I can't believe I've spent the past ten years wondering. Or that I've spent it not knowing anything about who he is." He gives another laugh, rougher than the first.
"He is nothing like you." She waves a hand dismissively.
"I expected as much, what with - how he was made." The Warden examines his nails. "I couldn't help but wonder, of course. But what could I do? I - I didn't know anything about him, not even a birthday. Not even a name."
Nor does he know yours, she could say if she wished. Not outside the idea of your title. Instead she stops herself with an uninterested shrug, saying nothing until the silence becomes awkward. Then she throws him a bone.
"His name is Kieran."
Such relief floods over his face with that simple sentence. One beat, two, and his brow arches all over again. She saw it coming, of course. Telling him one bit of information naturally leads to wanting more and more. Regrettably, he does not disappoint.
"Can I see him, since we're here? I'll only take a glance, just enough to know what he looks like. I can't stand not knowing."
She pauses and glances out at the fortress, mentally counting the million and one reasons she should tell him no.
"He is waiting in the courtyard," she says instead.
There are boundaries, of course. Without them, Morrigan could never keep things where they are best for everyone. Kieran is not to speak to the king of Ferelden, for no matter how bored he might look or how long he might stand around, he is terribly busy. Alistair is not to even approach the boy, or do anything other than stand and watch.
Whatever dramatic encounter the Witch of the Wilds has pictured (or perhaps feared) does not come to be. As their son finishes up his daily studies, Alistair watches from a distance and speaks not to Kieran, but to his mother, just out of the child's earshot.
"That's him? I thought he'd look…"
She doesn't tense visibly, but nevertheless is ready to strike if the king of Ferelden finishes that sentence. "He is a normal boy, Alistair."
Tucking the book away, Kieran drops to his hands and knees in the grass. He looks like any other nine-year-old boy in this moment, picking at ants, inspecting caterpillars (with occasional curious glances towards where his parents stand). He's going to get stains all over that outfit, and Morrigan finds she can't bring herself to care right now.
"He's changed you," Alistair says, and when she turns to him, she ensures her expression is too much like a scowl to be a smile.
"Don't be absurd."
A hand tugs at her shirt, another extending up towards her face. "I've got you something," Kieran insists. When Morrigan turns to look, she discovers it's impossible not to flinch when a large bug is suddenly only a couple of inches from one's face, no matter how familiar one is with nature.
Alistair laughs again, in that way that sounds nothing like him. But as promised, he says nothing, so the witch pretends not to notice when father and son lock eyes for the briefest moment.
"He's not like the others," Kieran proclaims once they see the wagon rolling away - and the first time, she ignores it.
He says it again over supper, and again she ignores it. Late in the evening he repeats himself a second time, trying to tempt her to answer. "The king of Ferelden - were both of you friends?"
She gives him a sideways glance, presses the flat of her palm against his shoulder. "He is different, shall we say."
"Who is he, then?"
"King Alistair? A hopeless fool, a strong leader, a good man." She shrugs. "I knew him long before you were born, but 'tis a story for another day."
"Mother." He rolls his eyes and sighs childishly. "His blood feels almost like mine. Why does it do that?"
No. No, she will not stiffen, or show her hand by any other method, for that matter. She manages a very droll, "Does it?"
"You're doing that thing again," the child points out, perceptive as always. "What you do when you don't want to tell me something."
"So I am. There are things best to put out of your head, Kieran. Better to wonder, sometimes, than try to know everything."
"But I have to know. What aren't you telling me?"
And she thinks, yes. She will let him wonder. Not forever - at nine he's no longer content with answers that are halfway covered up, and it's rightly all downhill from here - but for now. One day, perhaps, they'll write a letter and stage a meeting and see what certain other parties think of it all. For the moment, there's a war on, and a thousand other more important things to worry about.
"Mother. You haven't answered me."
"Indeed I haven't. And now 'tis past your bedtime, little man."
Kieran whines, but cooperates as well as ever with getting into his nightclothes and under the covers. She tells him little stories, information he needs to retain, until he drops off. And for the moment, the inheritor who awaits the next age lets herself forget the wagon traveling back to Ferelden. Easier to be happy enough where they are.
But it won't last forever. That much is becoming all too clear.