Paradox
Morgan didn't remember much about his father, but he knew that he loved his father deeply. He was in constant awe of his mother, sure, but he found that it also extended to his father. His father, who cracked the oddest jokes and practiced dark magic with ease. His father, who seemed to dance on the battlefield while he was slinging spells at his opponents. His father seemed to have a personal and unique duet going on with his mother on the battlefield. His father, who had a skewed sense of right and wrong. His father, who was so, so amazing with animals, and was especially fond of crows.
His father, who was now lying lifelessly at his feet.
Morgan had seen it. He had seen the moment the enemy's blade emerge from his father's back. He knew that his father was somewhat reckless, but why his father had let the enemy get so close was beyond him. Morgan had screamed and ran towards his father heedlessly, arriving just in time to hear his father mutter something about beauty before letting out his last breath. In the heat of the battle, no one had seen or noticed the event beside him, and, in turn, he had forgotten the battle around him and fell to his knees at his father's side, crying and screaming and shaking the now-lifeless body in an attempt to bring the man back. He didn't know what had happened to the soldier that had stabbed his father—and he didn't care. He didn't care about anything right now but the dead man he was holding onto as his world collapsed on itself.
Morgan didn't resurface from the horrors of his grief until he heard his mother scream. He looked at her in terror and guilt written all over his face and found her expression mirroring his. She collapsed by his father's side, taking his body from his hands as she, in turn, shook him and yelled and screamed before she became overwhelmed by her tears. Morgan had tried to say something, to try and calm her, or condole her, or anything, but his voice refused to work as hiccoughs ravaged his body.
Neither of them moved until Chrom and Lucina pulled them away. Chrom was ever gentle with his mother, cradling her as he pulled her away, trying to soothe her as she soaked his clothes with tears. Lucina was just as kind as her father, holding Morgan until he fell asleep from despair.
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The funeral was held later that evening, as they needed to keep moving. It was a short and heartbreaking affair, as Fredrick and Tharja spoke a few words while he and his mother fought against their tears. The whole camp was there, even the ones who didn't know or liked Henry, but rather come out of respect for his mother. The line of people giving condolences was long, and, once it was over, a few people went away to mourn privately as he and his mother collapsed in their respective tents, crying themselves to sleep.
There was a mercy in the fact that their next march was a few days long, as they tried their hardest to get back to their original routines. There was a gap there, however; where Morgan was used to greeting both of his parents in the morning, he only found his mother picking at her food listlessly. Where he would study with his mother during the mornings, he would instead watch her as she poured her soul into the work in front of her. Where he would have long talks with practically everyone in camp, he instead received pitying and worried looks, and found himself wanting to be alone more often than not. Where he would have a long chat with his parents before going to bed, he instead silently watched his mother practically dig a trench in the sand with her pacing before mumbling his goodnights to her and leaving in tears.
It was so, so hard.
It was on one of those nights of gloomily watching his mother that he noticed something odd—she was leaving a bloody trail behind her. He looked at her fearfully, only to see the bottom half of her clothes soaked in blood, and his mother—his lovely, wonderful, vibrant mother—was so lost in her own mind that she hadn't noticed it yet.
"Mom!" He shrieked fearfully. This made her stop her pacing, but rather than look up, she collapsed. He jumped to her side, screaming for her and reaching for her pulse. She was alive, thankfully, but there was so much blood, and in his panicked state, he couldn't think of anything to do except find Brady.
He ran like the dead were after him to where Brady's tent was, and barged in screaming bloody murder at the sleeping man, who woke up terrified and swung his staff a few times before calming down. He didn't give the man a chance to change as he dragged him to his mother's tent. Disoriented, Brady had blinked at the scene before him before his expression hardened and ordered Morgan to go get Lissa and Maribelle. Morgan dashed out of the tent and would have repeated the same incident with Brady if it wasn't for Fredrick stopping him, sternly asking him why he was about to barge into the ladies' tents unannounced. He blubbered something about his mother and blood and Brady, and Fredrick's expression turned stony as he told him to go back to his mother and took the role of waking the healers.
He had barely entered tent before Lissa and Maribelle barged in behind him and kicked him out. He paced outside for a few minutes before people started to show up in concern for his mother. They kept on gathering until Chrom and Fredrick arrived and ordered everyone back to their tents before they took up vigil outside the tent.
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Morgan didn't know when or how he fell asleep, but he woke up in his own tent with the covers tossed to the side. He instantly stepped out of his own tent to find, to his surprise, Brady awaiting him. The young healer explained that his mother was moved to the medical tent, and that they weren't going anywhere today. Morgan thanked him and hurried to his mother's side, nagging Lissa and Maribelle for details, but the two ladies remained surprisingly tight lipped and insisted he get something to eat first.
When he didn't show any signs of listening to them, Maribelle marched him to the mess tent and forced him to eat. He ate as fast as he could before he raced back to his mother's side, once more nagging the two healers about his mother's condition. They forced him to sit down in a chair, and Lissa then broke the news.
His mother had miscarried. She had been pregnant, but the stress and grief of his father's death caused her to miscarry.
Morgan felt like he had been punched in the gut. He remembered his father—he had that one, single, precious memory of the man, so he knew that the man was his father. And his mother—his mother was pregnant with him, but she had lost the baby. He had died before he was even born.
He didn't exist in this timeline.
He brought his hands to his face and rested his elbows on his knees. He heard Lissa talking, but didn't understand a word she said. The floor had been swiped from underneath him, and nothing he knew was true. He didn't know whether to be afraid or to be horrified, all that he knew was that the woman who lay unconscious before him, the woman he loved dearly, was not his mother.
Yet he was his mother's son. He knew it in his heart to be true, even if this timeline wished to betray him.
But would she see him as her son any longer? Would she hold him dear, now that she knew that there was no way for them to be related by blood?
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She awoke in the late afternoon.
As soon as she sat up, Maribelle ushered him out of the tent as she and Lissa got to work. He didn't go back inside until a while later, when the healers left the tent and told him that he could speak to her now, patting gently on the shoulder and back before departing.
He entered the tent solemnly and was greeted by silent depression. He looked at the sitting woman and the cup of water in her hand and wondered what she was thinking.
"Mother…" he started, but she quickly cut him off.
"I am not your mother." Her tone was firm but lifeless. It was as though she had no more energy in her, and he was sure he sounded about the same.
He walked the meager steps to her side and sat down, sighing heavily. There was a long stretch of silence before he tried to speak again.
"Mother—"
"I am not your mother!" she screamed, tossing the cup of water sideways, where it shattered to a hundred pieces, spilling its contents to the floor.
He watched her cry as he tried to figure out how to approach her. Should he hug her? Would it be appropriate? Would she accept a hug from him?
She solved his dilemma for him as she threw herself into his arms, crying out his father's name in grief. This set him off, and within a few moments, both of them were holding the other person tightly and crying their eyes out. This continued for a while, until they both calmed down to just sniffles.
She pulled away first, wiping her face and looking completely lost. He mirrored her actions and tried to speak again, "Mother? Are you better now?"
"I am not your mother," She answered dully.
"You are," He replied, "I remember you. I have clear memories of our time together while I was growing up. You are my mother."
"How?" She asked, crying once more, "How can I be your mother when I've lost your father? When I've lost you? You are not my son; you're the son of another me from another timeline!"
"Does it matter?" He asked meekly, "I'm here now. I'm not with her. I'm with you. To me, it doesn't matter what timeline you're from or where I'm from. You're my mom."
She didn't reply as she cried harder, burying her face in her hands until she calmed down again. When her hands were back in her lap, Morgan took one of her hands in both of his and said, "Even if you aren't my mom—even if you don't want me to call you mom anymore…You'll always be my mom for me, and I love you."
She pulled her hand away from his, and the next thing he knew was that he was being drawn in a rib crushing hug. She pulled away to arm's length and looked at him hard before she pulled him back into another hug. He hugged her back when he processed what was going on, and tried to commit it to memory, as it might be the last time he ever experienced this gesture with her.
He reluctantly let go when she pulled away and was surprised to see her smiling for the first time in days.
"You're not my son," She started, "you'll never be born in this timeline. But you're right. It doesn't matter what timeline either of us are from, what matters are the bonds we share." She pulled him into another hug, "You'll always be my son, and I love you."
Morgan felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, and it broke open a dam he didn't even know he had. He hugged her back tightly as he cried hysterically, and she joined him in tears.
The sun was setting outside, and Chrom was pacing in front of the tent as he tried his best not to eavesdrop and give them privacy. They were still in the middle of a war, and Grima was somewhere on the horizon of time, but it was going to be okay.
Both had lost someone they loved dearly and found out some harsh, earth-shattering news, but it was going to be okay.
Their bonds would persevere.