Title: Et Deus Homo Factus Est
Notes: This is my godbaby fic, begun in 2010 and probably never finished, especially since Inquisition comes out in twelve days and is practically guaranteed to blow this out of the water. That being said, I think it is worth posting anyway. I hope you forgive me for posting an unfinished work and that you enjoy taking part in this journey anyway.
Thanks to Quark, for listening to me talk about this, and reading at least the first parts.
Part One
I know three things:
1) Mother is human.
2) I am an Old God.
3) Mother is a witch.
I am five years old, and we live in our house in the forest, and Mother calls me "boy." Sometimes Mother calls forth animals for our dinner; sometimes we eat plants from the garden. It is often cold, but our house is formed from one tree and has no cracks, and inside it is warm. I wear clothes because Mother dresses me. The sun rises and sets and the wind blows and I remember a snowfall. I know these words, and words such as "water" and "fire" and "magic" and "book," but there are some words I do not know, and today this bothers me.
I follow Mother around the kitchen with a bucket of water that splashes the floor as my knees bump it, and I almost slip many times, but Mother is walking back and forth and muttering at the flame in the fireplace. She is doing a spell, and she may need the water if it doesn't work. I cannot do spells, but I can hold the bucket.
Mother stops mid-mutter and throws up her hands. "'Tis impossible to name a thing before it exists," she says, and I do not understand but I see her face, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. I hope she is not angry with me. I try to distract her.
"Mother," I say, "what's a name?"
Mother stops and looks at me, her eyes and brow the same and yet different. I cannot describe the difference; I only know she is asking questions, too. "A word," she says. "A word you use to call something. How you call something. What you call something. A name is…a name, child."
"Oh," I say. "Do you have a name, Mother?"
She still frowns at me. "Morrigan," she says at last.
I like the sound of the word, the name, even though she says it slowly, as if it is a word she doesn't know very well. It matches Mother's dark hair and yellow eyes and pale skin and soft-hard voice. "I like it," I tell her.
"Your approval warms my heart," she says in her not-serious voice, but I know she is pleased.
"Is my name Boy?"
She is not pleased. "No," she says, and then she sighs and looks out the window. It is open to the outside, but Mother uses her magic to let the air in and to keep the cold out. "You were once called Urthemiel, if that is of any assistance to you."
It is my turn to frown. "I don't like it," I say. "Can I be Morrigan too?"
She raises an eyebrow. It is a Mother smile. "No, for how would we distinguish between ourselves?"
Mother is right. She is always right. I am only five years old. "May I be Morrin, then?"
She laughs, a short quick hard sound, and says, "Imagine an Old God naming himself after me. 'Tis an honor, one must agree." She looks down at me and says, "Be Morrin, then, Urthemiel, if it pleases you."
"Yes," I say, Morrin says, and I smile.