Here there was no dreaming to be had, no fitful fantasies or relived memories, and the only nightmares were the waking ones found in the actions of others. Morrigan awoke from the emptiness behind her eyes, finding herself staring at the hastily repaired ceiling of her tent. Patches of bloodstained cloth were fastened by rough stitching to the tent's interior, blocking the holes caused by bolts loosed from ancient crossbows. The thought of that singular bolt that had stabbed into the ground where her-
"The child?" she breathlessly whispered, yet no answer came.
Any effort to lift a limb gave little more than the shifting of her prone body. How she hated the feeling of being helpless, but her current state was the consequence of taxing her very essence, her very life. As the dead do not dream, nor do they work magic, the connection to the Fade is all but absent, thus lyrium and mana have little purpose. It is blood - life itself that powers every spell and incantation. Here her Child would be safest from Flemeth or others who may seek the power of the Old God for their own purposes, and here is where He will learn the most ancient and basic forms of magic, powered by his ancient essence born into him thanks in part to the desperation of his parents.
"Child?" she called again half expecting a familiar hungry wail.
Instead beside her roused the former King. The very idea of him ruling Ferelden both pleased and disturbed her. He had assumed a leader's role so readily and easily in the quest to end The Blight. Yet again when he doubted both the intentions of the nation's Queen, binding himself in marriage even, despite the relationship he shared with his chasind, arcane lover. Having taken many a man to bed during her womanhood at Flemeth's urging, even the the very thought of him wrapped in Orlesian silks rolling about in the royal bedchamber curdled her blood.
She banished any further thoughts once she felt one of his hands weakly pawed at her stomach.
"Where is he? Our son..."
"Do not know."
"Vaughn?"
"Save your- breath."
The Warden exhaled long and slow, "Ow."
Neither could move more than that, but it felt reassuring to have his calloused hand upon her skin. A pair of misplaced pillows or thick sacks simply placed on their faces with a bit of pressure could turn their child into an orphan. What a pitiful pair they made.
What did she know of being of a Mother, really? Flemeth was no tender nurturer, any gift or nicety was merely a calculated distraction offered to keep her on the correct path. At times she felt little better than a servant but that want of power - the need for control over her own life drove her on.
Is that what she wants to share with her son? Her teachings in the ways of men were simply in pleasure, reproduction, and manipulation. With no intention to bed the child once grown what could she impart to him other than spells and the long storied history from which he comes forth? And his Father? Throwing away position, power, and rite for - love, of all things. What could an Old God possibly want of love? Truly what power is to be found in it? Again she banished her thoughts, her bodily weakness once again clouding her thoughts.
"Morrigan, I'm-"
"Shhh."
"I'm- sorry."
She sighed.
"Sorry... couldn't protect you."
"No", she attempted to be stern with her weak reply.
"Failed you... both. Failed the ones- I love... again."
"Shhh, something comes", she strained her senses as the rustle of the tent flap parted letting in the light of day. Both groaned as its brightness hurt their eyes.
Omen hovered over the pair, "Both awake? Good."
Her hooded robe was absent from her person leaving her as she had been originally found. Morrigan noticed that the demon's once pink hued form was more a deeper purple with touches of reddish ochre that highlighted the varied scars that marred her body. Howe had been the one that decided to take her horns as a prize but when the group had parted after beating her mercilessly, Vaughn had remained behind and did as he wished. Thus the savagery in her defense of the camp came as no surprise.
Omen placed a flask at the prone Witch's lips, the moisture on the opening cracked her parched lips. Small draughts of warm, bitter fluid slid down her tongue and throat. The same was done for the Warden, save for the occasional gasp and choke as he still labored to breathe let alone swallow.
"I have good news. You do not appear to be in any kind of danger of passing as you've both have seemed to have slept past your respective fever and body chill. Aye but you're both far too weakened to be of any use to myself or the Child so I will have to venture out to find anything we can feed or give to you to drink. So I must take the little one with me."
Morrigan's eyes widened and shook her head with all the disapproval she could muster.
"I know, you have worries but rest assured I've no intentions to harm or put him in harms way. This I swear", the former demoness offered with a salute that was markedly Templar in origin. "Besides don't worry any longer about the- unpleasantness from last night. They've all been taken care of."
The Warden gave a questioning grunt, reminiscent of his Mabari's own attempts at speech.
"They can't die but it will take them much time not only to heal but to free themselves - if they are so determined."
The reddish grime and broken blisters on her hands told the rest of the tale as Morrigan watched her gently replaced the cap upon the flask. With that she idled in the tent a moment checking the repairs she had obviously performed on the tent before putting her robe back on. As Omen exited the tent Morrigan noticed ragged tears at the bottom of her meager covering.
