Z is for Zygote
So few days since Redcliffe, since the ritual. Only because of the ritual itself was she even certain that something had occurred; otherwise it would be weeks yet before the absence of her monthly courses made it clear that anything had indeed happened. But the ritual had worked, and because of that there was something inside her now; something that partook of both her and of Arren. That combined them into a new thing, that some nine months from now would be a new person.
She stood and leaned on her staff, gasping for breath as she watched the Archdemon writhing on the roof; crippled, half-dead but still alive, still vile and dangerous. She watched as Arren began to run toward it, catching up a sword sticking up from some poor fool's body on the way, his own massive two-hander having been knocked aside in the final moments of the fight. She stopped breathing for a moment, as he ducked under the ponderous sway of head, and slashed its throat open from jaw to breastbone in a spray of blighted blood.
The head dropped heavily to the roof, the creature, once a thing of grace and noble beauty, before the darkspawn had found it, had woken it and contaminated it, slowly expiring. Arren raised the sword on high, then plunged it downwards, giving the dragon what final mercy he could.
She had not expected to feel anything. But as bright light, blinding in its intensity, enveloped her love and the fallen creature, she felt... something. Fear for him, which she had expected, since even now she was not completely sure the spell would work, would save him from obliteration as the power of what had been a god poured into and through him. Something dark and malignant, corrosive and full of anger, that she had half-expected, but whatever that was went elsewhere, away, though the Veil and into the Fade where it belonged, perhaps.
But something remained. Something lingered. For a moment she had a vivid memory, of a time years before when she had learned some particularly difficult spell on the first try, and Flemeth, standing behind her, had set her hand on her shoulder, and said, voice warm with approval for once, well done, my daughter. The impression was so strong she turned, half-expecting to see Flemeth standing there. But, no... mother was gone, wasn't she. Killed by Arren, at Morrigan's own frightened request.
She glanced back over her shoulder at him, as the light faded, saw him drop limply to lie beside the beast he had slain. Alive or dead, she could not tell from here, but... alive, she hoped. Had to believe. She turned her face away, letting her staff drop to the rooftop, no longer needed. Already she was shifting form, running forward and launching herself off of the roof and into the sky with a jump of thrusting legs that were changing shape and size even as she leapt, arms spreading wide and sprouting feathers to catch the wind that blew up past her as she plummeted downwards. And then she soared, up and away, even as night was falling on the beleaguered city far below. Not raven or hawk this time, but golden-eyed owl, suited to the darkness beyond the fires that dotted the war-torn lands below.
She had a long, weary way to go before she dared rest, and few enough days to do it in before the tiny cluster of cells drifting lose inside her reached their destination, and began to grow in earnest, grounding her in her natural form until the child was born. If all went well. Their child, she thought.
And did not look back, knowing she left her heart behind her.