A/N: Happy New Year! (Okay, it's a little late, but the sentiment still applies). Here's a new chapter to celebrate.
Chapter 28
The Tomorrow With You
"No nap, Momo. No nap!"
His little fists thudded against her clavicle. This exchange had become something of a routine in the wake of the prince's "terrible twos," but time away from his typical nursery in Gormott had found the young royal escaping his governess before naptime on a daily basis. Even as tiny as he was, he'd learned that his sister had a sort of soft spot for him. If anyone would grant him three or four minutes out of bed, it was she.
"Why you dwessed up, Momo?"
Morag looked at her dressing gown and frowned. "Dressed up" wasn't the right term for it; after all, she hadn't even touched her apparel for the evening. But for Niall, who always saw her in pants and a blouse or training clothes, this probably looked almost dressy. Would he even recognize her once preparations were complete?
She gave him a little smile and disentangled his fingers from her collar. "For the same reason you need to take a nap: to be ready for the party tonight."
"What pawty?"
"My birthday party. And because you're my favorite, you're invited."
The prince's eyes widened. "Cake?"
Morag laughed; he was only just beginning to grasp the concept of a birthday, but the sweets that accompanied those celebrations had certainly stuck in his young mind. He was far too young to understand the nuances of tonight's event-her coming-of-age ceremony. For a lady of the royal family with no right to the throne, it was nothing more than a formal recognition as an Ardainian adult.
Cake might just be the highlight of the evening, she realized.
"Yes, you can have cake. But only if you nap like a good little prince first."
He pouted. "Don't wanna nap. I want cake."
At that moment, Niall's governess appeared, whisking the boy out of Morag's arms and apologizing profusely for the interruption.
"I really don't know how he keeps managing to do this, ma'am. I promise I'm watching him like a hawk. So sorry to disturb you like this."
"It's really quite all right," Morag insisted, smoothing out her robe. "Visits from my baby brother will always be my favorite."
Niall grinned. Then, his little mind wrapped around the knowledge that his governess's presence meant he would not get his way after all, and he fussed all over again. Morag ignored his protests this time and dismissed the governess-but not until after she planted a kiss on his forehead. With her room empty once again, she sighed heavily and plopped back into the chair her Blade stood behind. Brighid resumed the task she'd been doing just before Niall's interruption. Her fingers felt warm against Morag's neck as she gently pulled them through her hair. It was soothing, in a way.
"Just the braid we talked about," Morag said at last.
"Of course."
Morag watched with rapt attention as Brighid's fingers caught up wisp after wisp of hair, weaving every stray lock into a perfect, seamless braid. Not for the last time did she wonder how much different this moment would be if Niall had been born a girl. Then she might have chosen a different hairstyle: one that left ample room for a tiara befitting the country's crown princess, not the simple little royal circlet she would wear tonight. But then she might not be leaving for military training the next week, either.
"You're going to miss him, aren't you?" Brighid asked.
That much went without saying. She would be gone for three months. And at his young age, he would probably grow intensely. He'd learn any number of new words. New skills, even. He might even learn how to pronounce the letter 'r' properly. Maybe he wouldn't even have to use the 'Momo' nickname anymore.
"I-I always knew this day would come. But he and I...we'll have to walk different paths in life. There's no reason to keep putting it off."
"The training should go quickly," Brighid commented, tying off the end of the braid with a red ribbon. "And I'm certain you'll excel. With your skills, you ought to be allowed to skip most of it."
Morag turned to face her Blade. "It's a matter of earning the respect of my comrades," she explained simply. "If I don't endure the same training they do, they'll always think I got my position on account of my station. And that simply will not do."
"True."
"I am glad that you'll be coming with me, however," Morag pointed out.
That much was true. Most military cadets entered bootcamp unaccompanied, and interested recruits could attempt to resonate with a Blade during the third week of training. Those few that had Blades, however, were allowed-expected, even-to bring their Blades along. So at least she would have one small aspect of normalcy in her life during the training. That said, the thought of Brighid, the conspicuous and almost legendary Jewel of Mor Ardain, sloughing it in the wilderness with a ragtag band of greenhorn soldiers did make her smirk a bit.
"My only place is at your side, Lady Morag. It always has been, and it always will be."
"How many times must I ask you to simply call me by my name?" Morag asked. "You used to do it all the time. What changed?"
"You are an adult now, my lady. And by all rights, you should be Empress."
"Don't start with that again, Brighid. And anyway, my station-or lack thereof-should make little difference to you. You are my partner and my family, not my servant. You have quite literally seen me at my worst. If anything, it is I who should strive to be worthy of you, not the other way around."
Brighid frowned. "I can think of no better Driver. It is my honor to serve you."
"Our Jewel deserves better than to be a glorified babysitter to a princess and her secret son."
"If I am by your side, then it doesn't matter what I do. If you chose to throw it all away and work at a horse stable, I would toil away in manure to be at your side. I am your Blade, Morag. In good times and bad. And I believe there are good times ahead yet."
The first thing Morag noticed when she opened her eyes was that the voice to her left wasn't Brighid's. No; it was two voices-a still-breaking adolescent male voice and a tempered, soft-spoken female voice. Rex and Pyra, whispering alongside their makeshift fire as they kept watch.
Oh. It had been a dream after all. A vivid one, but nothing more than a memory of days gone past. But why that particular memory? And why now? One glance around the fire reminded her why that scene played in her subconscious mind: her friends, her husband, and her son all slept near her. But one familiar figure was missing.
Brighid. Just how long had they been apart?
She reached through the ether, searching for the Blade's presence as if she were straining to hear a melody far away. And the longer she searched, the bigger the pang of guilt in her gut became. For Brighid to still be so far away didn't bode well. She could be lying in a ditch, unable to climb out on her own.
Brighid could be dying, and I'm here sleeping.
Before she quite knew what she was doing, Morag slipped out from underneath Zeke's arm and stood up. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion clouded her vision, but she blinked it away. Brighid needed her. Of that much she was sure. And after all that her Blade had done for her, she could endure a little discomfort and fatigue. She had to. "I don't trust you" couldn't be the last thing Brighid heard from her.
"Morag? You okay?"
Morag nodded and picked up Brighid's whipswords, sliding them into their customary positions on each hip. "I...I'm worried about Brighid. I'm going to go look for her."
"I'll wake the others, then," Rex volunteered.
"Let them sleep. I can do this alone," she replied.
"It's not safe out there. And you still look exhausted. Somebody should go with you. Pyra?"
The Aegis gave Morag a knowing glance and shook her head.
"Let's wake Zeke, then. He'd help."
"Rex, leave it be. Morag can handle this on her own," Pyra interjected.
"If I'm not back in two hours, go on without me. Get Niall home."
"...Okay?"
Morag nodded gratefully to Pyra and set out. Perhaps Rex was right; maybe it was wiser to bring the Aegis along, but...no. This would have to do.
Brighid's presence was faint. Morag's gut told her that the Blade was a titanped or two away-not a long journey by any means, but far enough that the distance felt daunting. More than once, Morag had to stop short and listen for her ether signature and find her bearings. But each step brought her a little closer. Not that Brighid's presence got any stronger; in fact, it seemed to be weakening. Somehow, though, Morag knew she made progress with each step.
She did not, however, see the Blade until she was right on top of her.
The first glance at the scene made Morag vomit. On one hand, the carnage gave her a sense of relief-or at least the carnage inflicted on one figure did. A ped or two away from Brighid lay a mangled corpse. It could hardly be recognized as a human corpse, really-the burn damage was severe enough, charring away any trace of flesh or hair or facial features. But the fall had wreaked its own havoc, too, wrenching the body into a twisted mass of contorted limbs and scorched bones. The only recognizable feature was the right hand. The two fingers that remained clenched around the handle of a knife. The rest of the weapon seemed to have melted away or broken off.
He was really dead, then. At long last the knot in her heart disentangled itself, leaving behind a sort of emptiness in its wake. She paused. How ironic this was; she ought to feel relieved, thankful that justice had been served. But in that moment, all she could think of was the profound impact this now-crackling corpse had on her life. Much of his influence was terrible-the worst sort, really. So much darkness had come from his actions. And yet, in an ironic, twisted way, so much good had come from it, too. Niall. Taking the roll of Special Inquisitor, a task much better suited to her proficiency on the battlefield. And then, in turn, because she wasn't Empress, she'd been able to travel to Elysium with Rex and the others.
She struggled to come up with the right word for it. "Gratitude" certainly didn't fit. She still wished the hurt in her past could have been avoided...and yet she couldn't imagine being anyone else. For better or worse, Pachnall had changed who she was. Profoundly so.
And now he was dead. That dark chapter of her life could finally be closed for good.
She took a deep, cleansing breath before surveying the rest of the scene.
Morag found the other half of the dagger in the precise position she both expected and dreaded to see it: still stuck in Brighid's chest. The Blade herself looked almost as damaged as her opponent, but instead of burnt skin, she was covered in a slick mess of purplish ichor, rainwater, and mud. The muck dampened Brighid's fires, too; her customary blue glow was gone. And like Pachnall's corpse, Brighid's limbs had the same jumbled look to them. If not for the fact that Brighid still had a recognizable body-she hadn't reverted to her core crystal-Morag might have feared that she was dead.
Morag held her breath and watched for Brighid's. It was subtle, but she saw the rise and fall of Brighid's chest. She fell to her knees beside the Blade, willing her own body to stop shaking. Brighid was all right...for now. But she wouldn't be for long. With the rain and the sheer amount of ether she must have expended to immolate her foe, Brighid's body seemed incapable of healing on her own. If she was healing, it was at an agonizingly slow pace.
And then there was the knife blade stuck in her crystal. Morag pulled it out and tossed it aside, swallowing hard at the blood dripping from it. Even with the weapon fragment gone, she still couldn't quite see the full extent of the damage. Too much blood and dirt got in the way. But she saw enough to know that part of Brighid's core had been damaged. Knowing just how badly would require a cleaner environment, however.
"You damn fool. Where do you get the right to throw yourself out of an airship to protect me?" Morag said aloud.
Here was another person who'd profoundly affected who she was, Morag realized. But for the better, in every sense.
"I knew you'd find me."
Morag stopped short and looked to her Blade. Brighid spoke? But she appeared unconscious, with eyes clamped shut and a pained expression on her face. Had that been a fluke, the ramblings of a person struggling to stay alive? Or was Brighid semi-conscious? Morag waited to hear what the Blade would say next, but she slipped back into that blurred state of inhaling and exhaling over and over in shallow gasps.
Maybe Brighid could just sense her presence. The bond between Driver and Blade always was a curious thing.
"Of course I found you. You promised to be at my side in good times and bad. And I'm not about to let you go back on your word. Now, come with me. Let's go home."
The Blade stayed motionless, leaving Morag with no choice but to carry her. If she didn't get Brighid to Nia soon, then…
Another drop of adrenaline seemed to inject itself into her veins, and Morag sprung into action. She braced herself for the exertion-basic tasks were getting harder already, her fatigue notwithstanding-and dragged the Blade onto her back. Simply keeping a good grip on her legs proved hard enough; the blood and water slickened the other woman's skin. And even though Morag had carried Brighid a handful of times, the Blade had never felt this heavy. But was that the water, her own fatigue, or the fact that Brighid was truly dead weight this time? The next realization frightened Morag further: the figure on her back felt cold. Brighid felt cold. So cold that the chill seeped into her own body. In passing, Morag wondered if Brighid, in a desperate attempt to survive, was pulling ether from the most readily available source: her own Driver. It turned the whole Driver-Blade relationship on its head, of course. But so did this entire situation. A Blade shouldn't be able to sacrifice herself for her Driver. They ought to be immortal. But Brighid seemed to have found a way. And now she was desperately clinging to life, subconsciously grasping at the only ether she could touch. Or was Morag just imagining things? Surely Brighid wouldn't pull at her Driver's own life force. But the cold in Morag's body certainly felt like ether loss. Its effects immediately disoriented her. The icy sensation pulled on the corners of her exhaustion, begging her to set Brighid down, curl up beside her, and go to sleep.
Yes, sleep. Zeke had wanted her to rest, right? And surely Brighid needed rest, too. Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt...
Pull it together, Morag. Follow Aegaeon's ether signature. Don't stop walking!
"Brighid, if you can hear me, I need you to...don't pull ether from me," she gasped. Suddenly even breathing took incredible focus. "I-I can't. Your...your swords. The crystals should have a little ether left in them. Take that instead."
Coming alone had been a very bad idea, she realized. Supporting herself and her growing child was one thing, especially in her rundown state. But supporting Brighid, too-even just her Blade's weight, not to mention the unexpected ether drain-felt like the four corners of the map had grabbed all four of her limbs and pulled in all directions, stretching her out far beyond what her body could handle. Instinct told her to drop Brighid and crawl to get help; if Brighid kept subconsciously pulling on her own ether supply, they'd both end up dead. In passing, Morag wondered if this was how Zeke and Pandoria felt when one of them was injured-a symbiotic relationship gone wrong.
But Morag also knew that if she left Brighid behind and went ahead to get help, they'd return to nothing but a dull core crystal. Maybe she could resonate with it again...if it ever turned blue after the damage it sustained. But even then, it wouldn't be Brighid. Not the Brighid who'd comforted her during nightmares. Who snatched her out of the jaws of Death over and over again. Who hounded her to get adequate rest even before there was a baby in the picture. The Brighid who'd laughed, cried, hoped, mourned, dreamed with her. The only one who truly understood. And now, it seemed, the one who, for better or worse, had shouldered the secret of Pachnall's survival in hopes of helping her heal.
What a heavy burden that must have been all these years, Morag realized.
The same moment she came to that realization, she realized something else: the strain on her arms and muscles didn't feel so bad anymore. Brighid still felt cold, but her body seemed lighter. Somehow, despite her injury-induced delirium, the Blade must have switched her ether source from her Driver to their whipswords. How long that source would hold out was another matter entirely, however.
"Please hold on, Brighid. I don't want to face tomorrow without you. I need you. And I refuse to let you fall in a place like this."
Each footfall came a little easier now, and her pace quickened. Before too long, Morag found herself whispering silent prayers of thanks to the Architect when the camp came into view.
Dead or not, the Architect would never hear those prayers. They were completely overpowered by her companions' outbursts at her return. A lot of things happened at once: Zeke and Rex pulled Brighid off her back (and Zeke proceeded to scold her for venturing off alone). Dromarch summoned an orb of water to clean away the muck and blood; Nia tossed one healing Art after another into the unconscious Blade. Pyra grabbed additional food and water for Morag, and Tora bounced about volunteering to help but not doing a very good job with the few tasks given to him.
"Nia, tell me she'll be alright. You can heal her, right?"
The Gormotti hissed in response, her attention hardly leaving the Blade. Everyone knew what that response meant: shut up if you want her to live. For Nia not to talk mid-healing meant the situation demanded her undivided attention. Few cases ever required such intense focus from her. And so the group's uproar faded into silence almost as quickly as it began. There was a long intense silence as both Nia and Dromarch pushed wave after wave of soothing ether into the Blade.
All the external injuries faded slowly, with one exception: Brighid's core crystal. With the mud and blood washed away, Morag finally got a better look at it. At some point in their midair struggle, Pachnall must have shifted his dagger, likely before Brighid's flames completely overwhelmed him. The knife tore off a fragment of crystal. It was small-not much more than a small splinter-but the sight of it made Nia frown all over again.
"Nia?"
"I...I don't know what to do. Crystals aren't made of cells. I don't know how to make it grow back."
"She'll be okay though, right?" Pyra asked.
"Physically, she's fine now. Her injuries aren't gonna make her curl back into her core crystal or anything. But…" the Gormotti rested two fingers against the crystal. Her eyes closed as she concentrated on Brighid's ether flow. "With her crystal in this state, I don't know if she'll wake up or not."
"Can't you fix it somehow?"
"I'm telling you, I don't know. It's not the same as regenerating tissue or regenerating a Blade weapon. Remember what Klaus told us? Cores are data, not tissue."
"Please try. I-I can't lose her, Nia."
"Wait, Pyra!" Rex exclaimed. "Didn't you heal Jin's core crystal back in Morytha?"
In a burst of ether, Mythra took over. She nodded. "But that was back when I still had the Conduit's power. That energy left with Klaus."
"You might not have the Conduit anymore, but you're still technically the Master Blade, right? The Aegises were made to send data about Blade evolution to the Architect. You've known Brighid for a really long time. Maybe you have some of Brighid's core data stored in your memories!"
"Rex, don't be stupid. That's not-"
Mythra shook her head. "He might be onto something. It's worth a try, anyway. But I'm not sure I can do it here. I'd need a quiet place where I can focus. Without the Conduit I'm going to have to do a lot of thinking to find that data."
"And anyway, Brighid's gonna need constant ether transfusions until her core's fixed," Nia added. "The sooner we get on that, the better."
Zeke finally spoke up. "There's a pretty good sickbay on the flagship. The equipment there should hold her over until we get back to Hardhaigh."
"Then let's get moving."
The hours and days that passed blurred together in a mix of relief and concern, triumph and regret. It wasn't until they reached Hardhaigh that Mythra first attempted to make repairs to Brighid's core crystal. As Nia predicted, the core was damaged enough that the Blade couldn't wake, trapping her in a comatose state. Mythra, however, did manage to transfer missing data into Brighid's core crystal. But to everyone's dismay, the effects were not immediate. Brighid remained unconscious, and the core crystal itself still looked chipped. Perhaps without the Conduit, resupplying data-not completely reassembling a core crystal-was the best the Aegis could do.
"I've done what I can," Mythra had explained. "I think with the data restored, the core might reassemble itself, but it will take some time."
"What do you mean?"
"Look, I'm only guessing here, but I think it's like a dormant core crystal. Used Blades have to stay dormant for a while to reabsorb energy and wipe away the memory data inside them for the next Driver. And if the core sustained any damage, that has to be repaired, too. They can't be reawakened until that process is complete. This isn't exactly the same, but I think there's a good chance she'll reawaken with enough time."
"Reawaken, you say. Does that mean she'll have her memories or not?"
"I think she'll be the old Brighid. After all, she hasn't returned to her crystal. And as far as I can tell, her current memory data is intact. She's got a chance."
She'll pull through. Brighid is a fighter. She's too stubborn to fall like this.
But no matter how many times Morag reassured herself of that fact, another nagging doubt ate away at her: what if her last words to Brighid had destroyed her desire to come back? The look on Brighid's face when she told her to get out of the Palace...not for the last time did Morag curse herself for reacting so rashly. She had to find a way to make it up to her. And so every day, Morag visited her Blade's bedside, sitting and talking for the better part of an hour. She clung to the hope that somehow, Brighid heard her-and that her daily visits would assure her that all had been forgiven.
For weeks, the palace echoed with whispers about how empty the Inquisitor's presence seemed without her Blade. But for the first few days following their return, other gossip accompanied the whispers about Brighid: idle chit-chat about the Emperor's whereabouts. To Morag's relief, none of the whispers contained any information about Niall's true identity. By some last mercy of the Architect, only her companions knew the truth. How it had stayed confidential in spite of everything baffled her. Instead, the gossip stemmed from the fact that the young Emperor had shut himself up in his room. As soon as they returned, Niall told his chamber guards that he should not be disturbed under any circumstances. Then he retreated to his private quarters. The public was told that the Emperor did not feel well; Morag knew differently.
Days went by. Still he did not emerge.
"He's angry with me. Isn't he?" Morag asked Zeke on the third afternoon of Niall's isolationism.
"I dunno if Niall's really the sort of person to get angry. He probably just needs some space to think through everything."
"...I'm going to go talk to him."
"What if he refuses to see you?"
"I don't care anymore. I can't let him stew over this. I have to try to talk to him, at least," Morag sighed. "I-I've already damaged my relationship with Brighid by refusing to talk things over with her. I might never get the chance to fix it. So how could I possibly risk destroying my relationship with Niall, too?"
Zeke shook his head. "You're going to sit by his door until he lets you in, aren't you?"
"If it comes to that."
"I'll take care of your duties in the meantime. And if you're there a while, I'll bring you dinner."
For a few moments on her walk to Niall's suite, Morag wondered if the guards would even let her in. Her military seniority did little good when they received a direct order from the Emperor himself. But to her relief, when she asked for a moment alone with him, they simply nodded and left their posts beside his door. When they were gone, she knocked gently.
"Your Majesty, may I come in?" She paused, waiting for an answer, but heard none. Surely he wouldn't still be in bed at this hour. "Niall, please talk to me. Let me explain."
She thought she heard movement from within the room, but no answer came. He was going to be stubborn, then. Very well. Two could play at that game. She turned around and slid into a seated position with her back against his door.
"I'm not leaving until you talk to me," she called. "And I think we both know that I'm more stubborn than you, so you might as well open the door."
Still no response. Minutes ticked by, and her mind began waltzing through old memories of the boy on the other side of the door. The boy who usually smiled sweetly at everyone, whose mental fortitude and ingenuity more than compensated for his lackluster physical prowess. The boy who'd been forced to shoulder the burden of an entire country at a tender age. And now she managed to throw yet another burden on him.
If only they could go back to the carefree days-to those quiet, intimate moments in the wee hours of the morning when no one else was around. When they didn't need to worry about the outside world that would criticize their complicated relationship. Where they could simply be.
"You know, this reminds me of when you were first born," she said, reminiscing aloud. "At first, you struggled to nurse. You'd fight to take a few swallows and wear yourself out and fall asleep. Sometimes I even had to wake you up so you could finish eating. You hated it when I did that. Even then you had a bit of a stubborn streak. But no matter how many times you fought me at feeding time, no matter how tired I was, I always kept trying because I knew it was what was best for you." She paused. "And eventually, we figured it out. Together. I want to figure this whole affair out together, too. Granted, it's more complicated than nursing, but we can still work through it. But only if you open up and talk to me. Please, Your Majesty."
After what felt like an eternity, the door clicked open.
"I'm not sure I want people calling me 'Majesty' anymore. You least of all."
He said nothing more and merely stepped back into the room, leaving the door open behind him. Morag stood-she noted that it wouldn't be as easy to rise from this position in another few weeks-and followed him in, careful to latch it behind her.
The first thing she noticed was the dilapidated appearance of his apartments. His servants aside (who, in normal circumstances, would clean his chambers multiple times per day), Niall usually preferred to keep his room immaculate. The worst a mess ever got was a pile of paperwork on his desk or half-finished books on end tables within his study. He even made his own bed simply because he detested looking at all the covers turned down. Now, however, the bed remained unmade, a blanket torn off completely and thrown into a corner. Several books lay scattered about on the floor, as if he'd pulled them from the shelves and gotten too lost in thought to actually read them. A tray of food sat on his desk; only two or three bites of the ruskan sandwich were missing. Morag didn't have to touch the full teacup to know that it had cooled completely.
But the room's appearance was nothing compared to his own. Niall sat himself back down in front of the window-not on the sofa right beside it, she noted. And judging by the dent in the carpet, he'd been sitting in that exact spot for hours on end. His hair stuck together in half-greasy, uncombed bunches. Deep-set wrinkles lined his clothes, too-the same ones he wore when he was rescued. And the look in his eyes told her that his appearance was in such disrepair simply because he'd been doing nothing more than sitting and thinking. Maybe he'd slept; maybe he hadn't.
Morag bit back a comment on his appearance and sat down beside him instead.
"You can ask me whatever you want. No questions are off-limits. Not anymore."
He finally made direct eye contact with her, as if studying the truth of her claim to answer anything. Apparently satisfied, he turned his gaze back to the window and spoke.
"Is what that man said really true? Are you really my mother?"
"What exactly did he tell you?"
If Niall seemed bothered that she answered his first question with another question, he didn't show it. His face stuck in its stoic but confused and frustrated expression.
"H-he said that he was your first lover, and that I was the result of your relationship with him," he answered simply.
The words struck her like a stab to the chest. Of course Pachnall had twisted the truth. A liar to the last. And Niall had been left for days to wonder about the truth of his existence. She should have come to talk to him sooner.
"That's not entirely true," she whispered back. "Yes, you were born because of my relationship with him. But it...it was an abusive relationship. He wasn't my lover. He was my private combat instructor, and he took advantage of his position to rape me."
Niall's eyes fell back to his lap. He bit his lip as if he were both relieved and disgusted to hear that answer. "He is-he was my father, then."
"Biologically, yes. But not legally or practically speaking. Emperor Nealon was."
"And you're my mother."
"...Yes."
He twiddled with the corner of his shirttail. "How old were you when I was born?"
"I was your age. A few months younger, if you care to split hairs."
He shook his head. Maybe he was trying to banish the shock of it?
"Then how I became Emperor…"
"Emperor Nealon sent me to live in Gormott before my pregnancy became public knowledge. Then he let everyone believe Lady Annabelle was pregnant. So when you were born, the world thought you were his child, not mine. And since you were a boy, by law, the throne went to you when he died. If I had taken the crown, the truth would have come out."
It was a long time before Niall spoke again.
"After everything that happened to you, you never should have been forced to get married. I shouldn't have let you go through with it."
"You promised you weren't going to worry about that anymore."
"But I didn't know this at the time. You didn't even want to get married, did you?"
"No," she answered honestly. For all her assurances to him to the contrary, at the time, she had been terrified of the arrangement. Only the fact that it was with a friend had made it tolerable. "I went through with the wedding because I wanted to protect you. I was forced to have a baby when technically I was still a child myself. So I couldn't stand by and watch the Senate force you to have a child of your own so young. The thought of watching that was worse than my own fear."
"...Does Zeke know about all this?"
"Yes. He's known for some time now."
"You told him before me?"
There was that stab in the chest again. His eyes looked like daggers lined with icy vestiges of tears. Her own gaze flinched, and now it was her turn to look away.
"I had to tell him, Niall. You're old enough to know how these things work. On our wedding night, we were supposed to consummate the marriage and begin producing an heir for our countries. But when we tried to, the past came rushing back. I panicked, and I had to explain why. Please try to understand the position I was in."
"...You do love Zeke, though." It was a statement, not a question.
"I do. I never expected to fall in love with him, but I did. It happened gradually, of course, but sometimes the best things to happen to us are the things we least expect, the things we never would have asked for." She reached out and stroked his cheek. "You were one of those things, Niall. I didn't ask to be pregnant with you, but you became one of the best things that ever happened to me in all my life. I truly mean that."
"And now Zeke and his baby make that list, too." Niall brought a hand to her belly, brow set in an expression she couldn't quite read. She watched his shaky, ungloved fingers, hardly believing how tiny those hands used to be. "Y-you were never this happy when you were pregnant with me, were you?"
Only once before had his voice sounded so hurt and vulnerable: the day Emperor Nealon died. At the time, Niall believed himself to be newly orphaned. He'd wept for days, questioning the injustice of losing his so-called father so young. Any child would grieve his father, but Morag knew he had wept more bitterly than most. After all, the Emperor's death indirectly did to Niall what Pachnall's abuse had done to her: it pulled away the last remnants of his woefully brief childhood. She would have given anything to restore those last few years of innocence herself. Morag's gut ached terribly back then, and she'd considered telling him the truth-that she understood how it felt to grow up far too fast, what it felt like to fear being so alone in the world-that he wasn't as alone as he thought. But she'd feared that telling him would only worsen his pain, and she kept silent, wallowing in her own sphere of guilt and grief and shame. That same ache hit her now.
"Niall, that's not fair. How can you ask me that?"
"You're right. It isn't fair. None of this is. If life had been fair to you, I would never have been born. I wouldn't exist."
"Please don't say that. What caused your birth doesn't make your existence any less valid. Not to me."
"But I'm a fraud. By all rights, you should have been Empress. Not me."
"Your adoption might have been privileged information, but it was perfectly legitimate. So you have a legal right to the throne."
"I don't care about the legality of it, Morag. But to find out that your entire life has been a lie-do you have any idea how that feels?"
She shook her head. "No. But I do know how it feels to live a lie...Are you angry with me? If you are, I understand. You have a right to be."
He stared out the window for a long moment. "I thought I would be angry. And I was at first. But now that I've thought it over...I'm not. Or at least I'm not completely angry. Damn it, I don't even know how I feel. Maybe we should wait and finish this conversation when I'm less emotional, when I'm ready to talk about it without losing my temper. I don't want to say something we'll both regret," he suggested weakly.
Her hand found his. "No," she insisted. "I kept the truth from you for too long as it is. And now that we've finally begun this conversation, I'm not going to walk away halfway through."
He hugged his knees into his chest with one arm. With his free hand he twiddled with a stray yarn in the carpet, looking the most un-kingly he had in years.
"I think I'm not angry simply because whenever I try to be angry, I feel guilty, too."
"What? Why?"
"Because...when I look past the fact that you never told me, all I can see is the fact that you were always there. You didn't abandon me. Anyone else in your position would have found a way to get rid of me. After all, you were so young. You were supposed to be Empress. A baby was a liability to your future. But you kept me. In the process you gave up everything that should have been yours. And you've always been there for me, never asking for the recognition you deserved.
"In all my best memories, you're there. There are all those times we would shake off the servants and swim at Gormott. My coronation ceremony, you attended, even though it should have been yours. You never missed a single birthday or holiday, no matter how busy your duties kept you. You took a second-rate position at Gormott while Moth-while Annabelle and I lived there just so you could be close to me. You gave up everything for me. You may not have acted as my mother, but you never left. How can I be angry at you for that?" He paused again. "I should be a reminder of all the injustice this world has thrown at you. But despite that you didn't abandon me."
"...The day you were born certainly changed my life," Morag began. "You're right. I wasn't happy while I was pregnant with you. I was scared and ashamed, convinced that somehow it was my fault and that I'd failed the Empire. I wrongly believed that because I was abused, I was damaged. In my darkest moments I thought the world would be better off without me. But when I held you for the first time, all that changed. I still don't understand how it happened, but I fell in love with you. I have always loved you, and I promise I always will."
"I just wish you would have told me. That's all."
"I wanted you to have a good, happy life. I didn't want you to be burdened by my own bad memories, too. It was my burden to bear, not yours."
"I could have handled it, you know. Maybe not when I was very small, but...we could have worked through it. Together, like you said."
She ran a finger through his hair. Without his crown, he looked his age for once.
"Perhaps. To be perfectly honest, I haven't decided if it was right or wrong for me not to tell you. But I am sorry you found out the way you did. You should have heard it from me, not through his twisted version of it."
"There's nothing to be done about it, I suppose. But I'm glad I know now. And I'm glad we've talked about it. Thank you for coming to see me...Mom."
The maternal title sounded so foreign that Morag couldn't help but laugh a little-partly from relief and partly from the sheer novelty of it. She wrapped her arms around him.
"My, that sounds odd. I'm not sure I'm ready to be called that."
He smiled and returned her hug. "I know. But just this once, indulge me. And anyway, before too long, you'll have a little one calling you that constantly."
"Please don't think that this baby will make me love you any less. I promise it doesn't."
"I know...When you first told me you were pregnant, my heart burst with happiness for you. Even before I knew about all this, I felt bad that you'd forced yourself into this arranged marriage. I always knew you did it for my sake. So when I saw the way your face glowed when you told me about the baby, I felt better. And now that I know about your past, I think I'm even happier for you. Because you deserve this happiness."
That was not the reaction she'd expected. She didn't know what she expected: anger, frustration, jealousy, typical teenage angst, even. And he had every right to such emotions after such an extensive alteration to his own personal identity. But here he was, forgiving her shortcomings and wishing for her happiness, too. In the midst of his own hurt, he'd stopped to consider how the circumstances affected her.
It was his empathy that made him such a good ruler, she realized.
"Oh, Niall. You have a sweet, loving heart. Please never change," she whispered, hugging him a little tighter.
After a long sigh, he finally pulled away. "So do you think it's a girl or a boy?"
"I'm not sure. Brighid seemed to think it's a girl. Pandoria says it's a boy. I think Zeke is hoping for a girl."
"What makes you say that?"
"He's been suggesting baby names since the day I told him I was pregnant. Ninety percent of them are girl names...Speaking of names, what do you want us to have the baby call you? Uncle or sibling? I want you to have a say."
Niall bit his lip. "...Uncle, for now. Only a few people know the truth about us as it is. Revealing that information might throw the Empire into chaos. So we'll leave things as they are."
"As things stand, I do think that is the wisest approach. Mor Ardain has had enough chaos as it is."
"I do believe that the Empire should have its rightful ruler, however." He sighed heavily. "I still need to give it some thought, but I'm considering abdicating the throne when your child comes of age."
"You don't have to do that. No one else knows. And if any politicians ever found out, Zeke has offered to adopt you. That would make you a legal heir to the throne. Things don't have to change."
"I think it's the right thing to do. And I've never really liked being Emperor. I never could shake the feeling that I wasn't meant to rule, after all. If I abdicated, the throne would return to its rightful owner. But let me take some time to mull it over. It's not a decision we have to make right now, is it?"
"I suppose not. But no matter what you decide, I'll support you."
"You always have." Niall leaned down so his head was practically in her lap. His voice fell to a whisper. "Hello there, little future Emperor or Empress. You have a very brave mother who's going to take excellent care of you."
He looked up, and his blue eyes met hers. "I should know."
A/N: Couple things here: Yes, I take some liberties with the whole Brighid injury/healing thing. But the canon is pretty vague about how much damage Blades can actually sustain before they bite the dust. And if you look really closely on some in-game footage, you can see what looks like a little crack in a dormant crystal. If that's true, then it is possible for a core crystal to sustain small amounts of damage and repair itself. So I came up with this scenario based on that (and some creative license because hey, why not?)
I originally had just one more chapter planned, but...now I'm toying with the idea of doing one more chapter and then an epilogue. Both would be mostly fluffy (the primary conflict is over, after all). But man this fic has gotten long, too. I'm not sure it needs two more chapters. Somebody convince me one way or another.
