A/N This story really is about Alistair, not the one from the related story "A Black Bargain", but the fun, light-hearted and occasionally adorkable one from the game Dragon Age: Origins. The thing is, it's not JUST about Alistair, quite obviously,and I'm working hard on getting the setting perfect, so thanks for your patience. I promise he'll be around in full force from the next chapter onward!
To clarify things—I goofed when writing this. If your read this story prior to 10/10/2012, Elissa was the name of my Dalish Elf-I loved the name and took it as my playthrough name. I didn't anticipate the confusion my story would cause when I made her an elf instead of the human Noblewoman as the name is used in the game. I apologize for any confusion it caused, but it's all in the past now. The Dalish Elf woman's name is the same as the default name in the game, Lyna.
CHAPTER 1
The instant the Archdemon was slain, Morrigan knew. Her body was filled with a surge of raw power so strong, so intense, that for the first time since she had felt her mage powers manifest at puberty, her spell got away from her. Chain lightning exploded outward from her in an enormous crackling burst that swept over and through both ally and enemy alike. After it finally faded, the air was filled with the scent of charred flesh and hot metal. Even those who had not been hit directly by the bolts twitched violently on the ground, stunned and their hair standing on end.
The ritual had worked.
She felt something twist inside her, something ancient and corrupt and writhing that nearly made her vomit. The Witch looked downward at her flat stomach, resting her hand there for a moment and softly murmured, "Easy, Child," and the sense of the taint faded almost instantly, suppressed by the spirit of the Old God within her. She exhaled a slow even breath, giving those around her, living and dead, an assessing look. Out of preference, she had separated herself from the common troops of Ferelden and waded right in the middle of a group of darkspawn so she would be free to unleash her most powerful magics at will without having to make the effort to avoid hitting allies.
Unfortunately Leliana had been one of the few who had followed her, no doubt intent on helping keep her safe. The bard lay on the ground a short distance behind her, covered with terrible burns but somehow still alive. Morrigan reached down, casting one of her few healing spells on the other woman, and the magic got away from her again. This time, the burst was more focused but no less powerful. Leliana's burns instantly faded to smooth, unblemished skin, the stamped and burned grass beneath her body was restored to brilliant green, complete with flowers and weeds for ten feet around, and two darkspawn who had been all but charred sprang to their feet, fully healed.
The bard still seemed disoriented when her eyes opened—it had all happened so quickly. The regenerated darkspawn recovered their wits much faster after being healed and charged Morrigan, teeth bared. Her lesson learned, the Witch used her staff to stun them and then risked shapeshifting into a wolf, figuring that, at least, would be an internal transformation that would not affect anyone else. The darkspawn gaped when the slim woman in front of them shimmered and changed into an immense, slavering beast twice the size of a bronto. That was all they had time to do before she was on them.
When they were dead, Morrigan shifted back to a woman again and left for the Frostback Mountains without looking back.
It took her nearly two weeks to reach the foothills, and by that time she already hated being pregnant, not for the usual reasons, but because she could not control her magic. She didn't realize how many small things she used it for. Even something as small as lighting a campfire was an impossible task. She nearly started a forest fire the first night lighting one, and called down a blizzard when she tried to put it out. When the protective ward she typically cast around her body knocked over trees in a ten foot radius around her, she gritted her teeth and did not use magic again for anything, not even shapeshifting, until she was through the Frostback Pass and nearly to Orlais. Then she turned south, and headed deep into the rugged mountainous forest that would be her new home.
While looking for an appropriate place to build her new hut, she discovered a long abandoned cabin, or shack, really. The bones of the former resident were scattered on the ground outside, grey with age and decay and some gnawed on by animals. She could find no evidence of why he, or she, had died. A thick layer of dust covered every surface inside the ramshackle structure, disturbed only by her own footprints and those of other, smaller and more verminous residents than herself. But the shack itself was no less sturdy than the hut she'd grown up in and would do as a home. For now, anyway.
After getting settled in and thoroughly learning the area around her new abode, she tried to practice her enhanced magic in an attempt to rein in and control the immense amount of power she now had access too, but found it to be impossible. She could not focus her willpower enough to even shrink her wolf form down to the size of a pony. The Witch found herself releasing too much energy at once, and each time that seemingly endless fountain of magic started, it became harder and harder to stop. Thankfully, the unborn life in her quelled the cankerous stain of the taint, even when she was using magic—outside of that first sickening corruption she felt in her belly when the Archdemon was slain.
The unseen changes in her body made it even harder than normal to concentrate. When she inadvertently set a portion of her shack on fire and again, called down a blizzard to put out the flames that ended up doing more damage than the fire itself, that was the final straw. Outside of the occasional shapeshifting to hunt, she stopped using her magic all together.
The morning sickness started a month later. A short time after that, she began alternating between being so tired that the Witch was certain she'd fallen asleep while standing on at least two separate occasions, having to use the chamber pot every ten minutes, and sudden tear-filled outbursts over the stupidest things, like a golden rope necklace Lyna had given her at one point during their travels. And then there were the swollen feet, her growing stomach and an insatiable craving for cheese that drove her to raid the root cellars of people in the nearest village on more than one occasion—all of this in addition to being forced to curb her magic use.
Morrigan now had a very clear understanding why Flemeth chose to steal children from Chasind families instead of having her own. She didn't believe it was possible for her to hate anything more than being pregnant, except possibly Alistair for making her so. The Witch ignored the fact that she had coerced him into that, of course.
Only the knowledge of what the child would become kept her from taking an abortive potion. Had he been anything else than what he was, what he would be, she would have ended it before ever reaching the Frostback Mountains.
And it was definitely a male child. She would have preferred a female like herself but in this, she had little choice. There was a connection there that went far beyond the laughable notion of 'motherly instinct'. She could sense how distinctly pleased he was when she read or recited passages and spells from her grimoires, but the mere thought of eating twistroot, which had always been one of her favorite vegetables, both irritated and disgusted him—and earned her a few painful kicks in the bladder to boot.
Morrigan had strange, dark dreams—or perhaps they were visions—in which she could almost feel the cooling of a molten earth, the plodding passage of eons, the frustrated writhing of an ancient presence that waited caged, hidden and burrowing, like a worm trapped in the rotted core of an apple.
As her pregnancy progressed further along, they became more focused. She relived her entire life through her dreams, starting with her earliest childhood memories right up to the point where she felt that immense surge of power that heralded the death of the Archdemon. The dreams of all living beings (with the exception of those stone-bound dwarves) took them to the Fade, but unlike her previous forays into that spiritual realm, these images were vivid and real in a way that they had never been before. Unobscured by that thick murky mist that typically lay over everything in the Fade, the Witch felt herself experience all the events of her life a second time, every emotion, decision, taste, scent, sight, sound, touch.
Her interactions with others were of particular interest. Those first memories of Flemeth, her murder of a Chasind man who had tried to claim her as his own, the very instant she felt her body tingle with the budding power of magic coursing through her, every single moment shared with another being, all were sifted through with equal precision. Ironically, the vast majority of her time spent with other people had happened in those weeks right before the Battle of Denerim—growing up with Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds had not been socially inclusive, after all.
Even though she slept, Morrigan's subconscious mind did its best to redirect her dreams elsewhere, elsewhen, but her attempts were brushed aside effortlessly. The people who she tried to avoid thinking most about were the ones that garnered the greatest amount of attention from the growing child within her—the more she tried to suppress the memories of Lyna and especially of Alistair, the more carefully they were winnowed through, each word, expression and inflection subject to intense scrutiny.
Thankfully, as the ninth month of her pregnancy started, the child shifted downward toward her pelvis and his attention became more focused on how uncomfortable and cramped his living space had become. Her body began to go through the final stages of pregnancy, her breasts swelled full with milk and ached and her back ached from the shift in weight.
One day while she was out tending the herbs in her garden, doing her best to ignore the contractions that had been spasming throughout her stomach for the past day and a half, she felt a warm rush of wetness between her legs and knew it was time. Carefully levering herself to her feet, she went inside, heated up water on the fire and gathered up the things she would need to deliver the baby alone. Then she sat down in the birthing stool and waited.
It did not take nearly as long as she would have thought, and she suspected it was because her child was as eager to be free of its tight confines as she was to have it out of her. Her contractions came in waves, each one coming closer to the previous and stronger in intensity. The pain in her back was excruciating and she felt the pressure in her pelvis move down, down, down. The stool made the agony in her back unbearable, so she moved the birthing linens down to the floor and stretched out on her back with a woven rug as her only padding. Morrigan inhaled, gave a primeval shriek and pushed and—then the head came out. She reached down, cupping it in her hand and took another deep breath. One more mighty push and that did it—the shoulders slid out and the rest of the body followed to land in a wet puddle of flesh and blood and birthing fluid on the clothes she had bunched up beneath her rump.
She fell back, sobbing with pain and relief, and it took a moment for her to realize that the baby had not made a sound since being born. Frantic, the Witch sat up and looked down between her bloodied thighs to see the child, her child, his liquid gold eyes wide open and flecked with particles of brown and more aware of his surroundings, of himself, than any newborn's eyes had ever been.
A feeling of exultation unlike anything Morrigan had ever experienced swept through her. Picking her son up, she cupped her hand around the thick, matted cap of dark hair on his head to clutch him to her breast instinctively. "Well done, Child," she murmured, her voice ragged and still panting with effort. She brushed her nipple over his lips and he latched on and began suckling, never once closing his eyes as he stared up at her with something approaching bemusement. While he nursed, she dipped a clean rag into the tepid water of the nearby basin and began to clean him off.
The birth cord was quick to draw her attention away from that. It was thick, dark with blood and twisted, and she could not help the wave of revulsion she felt upon seeing it. The Witch settled the infant boy on her lap and tied off the cord with some twine, trying to avoid touching the disgusting thing. Then she picked up the knife and drew it hard across the tough, leathery surface. It writhed like a snake at the touch of the blade and the motion was so unexpected, the knife slipped in her grasp. As her clenched fingers slid up the slippery handle, she felt the keen, sharp edge dig into her flesh, blood welling up and running down the steel.
The instant that first red droplet touched the cord, it twitched once and then turned black. The twisted, veined surface began to shrivel and Morrigan watched with horrified fascination as the taint—for she was sure that was what it was—crept down the length of the cord, thankfully away from her son. She didn't realize the placenta was still in her body until she felt the first foul, corrupted touch on her thighs, and by then it was too late. The desiccated birth cord cracked into two and separated from the babe on its own.
Morrigan shrieked in agony as she felt the god-taint seep through every mote of her being. Her soul rotted—she changed—and the transformation was more painful than birth and death.
The child watched the taint work its way back into his mother's body, his expression serene and unsurprised.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she regained consciousness. Her body ached still from the touch of the taint, but at the same time, something seemed to be keeping it at bay. Each time Morrigan's heartbeat pulsed, she could feel the ebb and flow of the corruptive effect in her body. It's the blood, she dimly realized, blinking and staring up at the ceiling from the pool of bloodied water she lay in on the floor. The child's god-blood that still lingered in her body quashed the effects of the taint.
The water on the floor came from where she'd tipped the basin in her thrashing and the bloodied birthing linens were a dark mottled blob of fabric. The baby lay just over an arms length away, his body relaxed in sleep and round face tranquil. The cord at his navel was unremarkable, and the Witch imagined it now looked like the umbilical of any other newborn baby.
Morrigan sat up and hissed at the pain that raced through her body. Without even thinking about it, she cast a heal spell on herself and closed her eyes as she felt the surge of power rush through her. The basking warmth mended her in an instant. It took a moment to sink in, that for the first time in nine months, her magic didn't escape her control. It was still exponentially more powerful than it had been before the Archdemon had been slain, but now that the babe had been born, it had waned to a manageable level.
The Witch smiled as she scooped up her slumbering child, holding him close to her chest as she began to clean up.
The god-child was like every other baby in numerous ways in that he ate, he slept, he pissed, he shit. He would make his displeasure known by squalling. Not really crying, per se, for there were no tears, but the loud protests were a clear indication that he wanted for something, usually food or a nappy change. If Morrigan took more time than he liked to see to his needs, he'd open his mind to her, just enough for her to feel the aching pangs of his hunger or how uncomfortable it felt to lay in the soiled clothes sticking to his skin and chaffing. After a few of his object lessons, she was careful not to tarry when he began fussing.
Despite the fact that most babies (according to what she had heard) were comforted by swaddling, her child seemed to be the exception to that rule. He detested it. If his wraps weren't kept loose enough, his face would redden and scrunch up (which made him look disturbingly like Alistair, after she'd been working hard to get him riled) and he'd bellow out his frustrations. He'd let her feel the confining binds around himself, how they reminded him of another time, when he'd been someone else, something else, buried deep beneath the earth and confined for eternity. And then the tight strips of clothing would just slip loose and fall away from him. Like magic, only it wasn't, of course.
Her curiosity got the better of her and one day she tested it, tying him uncomfortably tight complete with a knot balled up right on top of his chest. The babe glared at her with a baleful stare and before her very eyes, the knot worked itself free and the linens seemed to melt free of him to form a loose puddle of white cloth around his body. She shook her head with fascination and lifted him into her arms. "Such a remarkable child," she commented with an approving smile.
The next morning when she awoke, she was entangled in her own bedding, the sheets and furs so tight around her body and limbs that she couldn't move, she couldn't breathe. She struggled in vain against the constricting fabrics and tried not to hyperventilate as that sense of being eternally confined swept through her again, the weight of stone and millennia pressing inexorably down. "Mercy, Child," she finally pleaded, looking over at the cradle beside her bed where her child lay watching, his expression solemn. She was instantly freed and flung the sheets off, gasping with relief.
She never tried to swaddle him again.
As for Morrigan herself, in the days following her delivery, she could feel the taint's sickening effects growing inside her, as the lingering drops of the babe's blood in her veins faded. The potency of her magic dwindled as well, much to her displeasure. She knew what she had to do, to maintain that perfect balance between corruption and power.
The Witch gathered her child close and set him down on a table, a dagger held at the ready and flask nearby. He cooed and gurgled, waving his fists around as he looked up at her with a broad grin that again brought Alistair's irritatingly handsome face to mind. "This must be done," she informed him in a matter of fact tone and the babe went still, his small face now regarding as seriously as a judge, as though he understood every word she said. She had no doubt he did.
Morrigan took a deep breath and slowly dragged the knife across his pinky finger and…nothing happened. She stared in disbelief at the tiny, unmarred hand. There was no blood, no scratch, not even a sign that she'd tried to cut him. Her startled golden eyes met those of her son and he blinked once.
Again, she drew the knife over his finger and watched as the sharp blade pressed into his soft flesh but did not break the skin. He could feel it, she knew that because his little fingers clenched in reflex at the touch. But that was all. There was no sign that he felt any pain from the touch. The Witch lifted the knife up and stared at it. Perhaps it wasn't sharp enough? No, that wasn't it, she realized as she dragged her thumb lightly across the well honed edge.
Gripping it more firmly in her grasp, she angled it downward in an attempt to prick the boy's skin with the point, but that was as ineffective as her other attempts had been. She jabbed his foot, his ear, his arm, all with no success. The high pitched giggle of laughter that escaped him when she poked him in the side sent a wave of frustration through her. Morrigan stretched out his leg and literally sawed at his foot with the knife. The knife blade indented the skin, dug into it but could not break through the flesh to the precious blood just beneath the surface.
Even though it didn't cut him, the babe found the confining pressure of her grip holding his leg still and drag of the knife just uncomfortable enough to squirm in protest. His face scrunched up again as he glared up at her.
Morrigan's heartbeat pounded in her chest and she could feel the taint surge as a result. Flinging the dagger away, her face twisted with vexation at being so close to that powerful blood and unable to reach it. "I must have it, I must or…" her voice trailed off, for she did not want to consider what might happen, what she might become if she could not find a way to draw blood from the child. Unconsciously, her fingers curled into claws, the nails digging into the child's thigh and he gave a started wail of pain.
Her jaw dropped as she stared down at the crescent shaped marks her fingernails had made, the blood welling up on his soft flesh. The babe was a god-child, but born of flesh—half hers, and half Alistair's—part of both and thus, vulnerable to them above everything else. The Witch had a moment of perfect clarity that revealed to her the most efficient way to draw the blood out of her child. She shifted into a spider and held him down with two powerful forelimbs as her waving fangs drew closer to that tender flesh. "This must be done," she chittered at him in spider-tongue and bit him.
The babe shrieked, crying fat wet tears, his small red face reflected back in the eight shining eyes on his mother's face.
Three weeks—a month was pushing it.
That was as long as Morrigan could go between 'feedings', if it could even be called that. After that, she could feel the taint's corruption spreading and the potency of her magic lessen. She had to be careful not to draw too much blood out because she could not take the risk. If her flesh against his was enough to pierce his skin and cause him pain, then surely there was the potential for her to kill him, even unintentionally, and if he was dead… well, corpses don't produce blood.
Despite that, each time she fed, she felt compelled take a little more of his blood. He was growing like a weed, after all—the bigger he grew, the more blood he had to give. Each time she felt the warm rush of fluid in her mouth, she was filled with exhilaration, a feeling of utter invincibility. It was addictive but she was disciplined enough to pace herself.
This was a necessity—for both of them. She needed him to keep the taint at bay, and he needed her because he could not survive on his own in his current state—or so she told herself. After the fourth time, he stopped struggling during her feedings and just lay there, sobbing until it was over. When finished, she would shift back into a woman and take him in her arms, soothing him quietly. She ignored the fact that the process was painful. Afterwards, he was always weak and sleepy. However, he was nothing if not resilient and healed quickly. Two days later, the only signs of her feeding were the circular scars her fangs left in his flesh. .
As Flemeth had done to her, she did not give him a name. "Your name is not mine to give, child," the old Witch had told her when she was a little girl. So she had named herself Morrigan. When he was of an age, he would choose his own name and until them, she called him "Child."
He grew as all children do, but was perhaps a little quicker to master things than an ordinary boy may have been. He started crawling on his elbows and stomach at three months. By six, he had his first tooth, dark hair, and a drooling mischievous grin that certainly did not come from her side of the family. Once he learned to walk at eight months, he was utterly impossible to keep track of. She would look away from the barest moment and turn back to find him cramming something into his mouth, parchment, flowers, bugs, coins, all were worthy of being tasted at least one time.
Luckily, that invulnerability that made his skin impenetrable to all but her touch was far reaching enough to protect him from poisons as well, as she discovered when he ate some dried belladonna leaves he had found locked away in a cupboard. She stayed up all night watching him sleep, waiting for the shakes and delirium the poison typically caused to wrack his small body. The symptoms never manifested, which was just as well, as not even her magic was strong enough to save him from that particular poison.
It was pointless to hide away poisons, potions, notes, or anything else unless they were high and out of his reach, because there was not a lock that she'd yet discovered that he could not undo. Even magically sealed locks were opened with ease, by the barest touch of his small finger. Along the same lines, no knot, however intricate it might be, was sufficient or tight enough that he could not untie it. He also was unaffected by cold or heat, as near as she could tell. She could pull him out warm bath water into icy air and he would not even shiver. Once, he had tipped a pot of boiling water over onto himself and stood there blinking owlishly at her with surprise, not because of the scalding hot water but because it was wet. She still made sure his clothes were appropriate to the weather but it was more of a precaution than anything else.
One thing he did not do was talk. Given his father's gift for gab, that seemed in many ways like a blessing. He could make sounds, she knew, because he cried every time she fed on him. On rare occasion he would laugh, but there wasn't a lot for a child to laugh at living as they did. He was content to play alone with the few small wooden toys he had while she studied her lexicons, honed her herbalism skills, or practiced her magic.
The only time the boy ever seemed content was when he was outdoors. Sometimes, he would run around joyously, jumping at grasshoppers and wave his arms like wings, flapping them at birds as he chased them around the clearing by their shack. Other times he'd sit cross-legged in the middle of the grass (or snow, as it were) and stare off into space, his face peaceful and relaxed.
Morrigan's nomadic nature was far too ingrained for her to stay in one place for every long. They moved quite often, every fall and spring, from that shack in the Frostback mountains to a fishing hut on the shore of the Waking Sea and then south to the Hinterlands. She avoided larger cities without fail, though she would occasionally venture into small villages to trade her herbs and potions for supplies—and for cheese. She hated it, but it was the one indulgence she allowed her son. To the average slow-witted peasant, she and her son seemed as unremarkable as any other displaced refugee still wandering Ferelden after the stain of the Blight had been wiped out.
Those forays into civilization were brief, and she tried to gather as much information as possible while she was there. She kept the child within arms reach at all times. News was spotty at best, but a few things were certain.
King Alistair was proving to be a very popular king, among the people at least, no doubt because he enjoyed rubbing elbows with the commoners. It seemed as though the former Grey Warden and Templar spent much more time travelling all over Ferelden than he did at the Royal Castle in Denerim. He'd married a human noblewoman, and not Lyna (and Morrigan just bet the Dalish Grey Warden had just loved that). Commoners discussed the Queen's pregnancy as though she were a close relative rather than a noblewoman who likely would not have even given them the time to hold up her dress.
Lyna herself was working on restoring the Grey Warden order at their new base in Amaranthine with the help of other Grey Wardens from Orlais and the Anderfels. The rest of the companions that the Witch had travelled with were not important enough for the average Ferelden to remember with the exception of Wynne who had, by all accounts, become Alistair's 'court mage'. At the very least, she travelled with him whenever he left Denerim.
The darkspawn had retreated back underground without an Archdemon to guide them. Every now and again they would raid the surface world. Rumors abound that they were searching for another Old God to awaken and lead them in another Blight but so far, they'd had no such luck. Morrigan could not help tightening her handgrip on her son when she heard that. She felt them distantly through the taint they shared every now and again, but had not seen any above ground since the Battle of Denerim.
The Witch heard about the Queen's death the following spring when they were moving through a small village on the Bannorn. She'd lost the baby and died of a broken heart a few weeks later. Or so a trader told her, anyway, his eyes downcast and mournful.
By the time that Morrigan and the boy had made their way back around the Frostback mountains, he was just under four years old. He was a sturdy boy, with a shock of long, curly dark hair that was completely unmanageable. No scissors could cut it. Curiosity led her to return to the shack he had been born in. When she saw that it had been left undisturbed, she deigned that it would be safe enough to resettle until the following Fall. Perhaps they'd head down to the Korcari Wilds next time.
The child still had never spoken a word aloud. Perhaps he had nothing to say. For the past few days though, he'd been very subdued, even for him. He would sit with his head turned to look southward, though she had no idea what might be that way other than the spine of the Frostback Mountains. The Witch could not recall the last time she'd seen him smile—perhaps when that trader had slipped him a bit of candy?—though to be fair, he'd always been a serious little boy. It had been months since she'd felt him touch her mind, but perhaps that had to do with the fact that he was old enough to communicate by expression or by pointing, even though he still did not speak.
More likely his reticence was because he knew it was time for her to take more of his blood. She almost drooled, thinking of the rush his blood would bring. Tonight, she thought to herself. She let him play outside most of the day, though of course he had to do his chores first, sweeping the floor, bringing in kindling, shaking out the rugs. It was dusk when Morrigan decided she could not wait another moment.
The boy was sitting cross legged in the grassy clearing in front of the house. He held perfectly still, staring at a large butterfly with shimmering blue and black wings that was perched on his finger.
"Child, come now," the Witch called, her teeth bared with anticipation. "'Tis time. Come in."
His small shoulders stiffened but he did not turn his head away from the butterfly, which began to fan its wings nervously.
Morrigan's brow drew together when he didn't get up. "Child. Come here now," she ordered, enunciating the words with harsh clipped tones.
The boy turned his head slowly, not wanting to startle the butterfly as his golden eyes met her own. "No," he said, his small chin tilting upwards in defiance.
Her eyes widened with shock before the Witch hissed. How dare he? Without even thinking about it, she raised her hands and a fireball flew from her fingertips toward the boy. It exploded on him with a loud boom, setting his clothes on fire and the boy gave a strangled cry of dismay as the butterfly was incinerated, its short life snuffed out in less time than it took to blow out a candle. The wings crumbled to ash and the charred body fell off of his finger to the ground.
The clearing was still crackling with flames as she shifted into a spider and lunged at him, literally pouncing on him. For the first time in years he fought back, kicking and growling like a wild animal, his teeth bared. She grabbed him up and tried to wrap him in a cocoon but the silken strands slid off of his small, thrashing body. In the end, she had to pin him to the ground with all of her weight, her forelimbs holding his arms down, ignoring his small feet kicking into her thorax as she sank her fangs into the muscle of his shoulder and drank more deeply of his blood than she ever had.
As his vital fluid drained into her bloated form, his struggles became weaker and more ineffectual. The boy's head hung limp to the side and his glazed eyes landed on the curled black body of the butterfly, the sooty cinders that had once been its wings less than a hands breadth away from his nose. Forcing himself to focus enough for one last moment of insolence, he pursed his lips and blew a warm, gentle breath across the remains. The ashes shifted, tumbling toward the charred insect and brushing over its surface. Each powdery piece clung to the butterfly's body, pulsed once and then restored life wherever it touched. The tiny limbs twitched, the blackened body uncurled and swelled with life, and the ashes clumped together in veined strands to form the shimmering blue wings scales.
A smile curved the boy's lips as it regarded him with faceted eyes, antennae flickering before it took wing, flying up and hovering right in front of Morrigan's eight eyes, taunting her with its restored life. She stared in disbelief as it imploded. The clearing burst into a riot of blue and black as hundreds—no, thousands—of butterflies swirled around her in a storm of wings. The delicate insects dived and darted at her with mocking disregard until blood loss finally took its toll on the boy and he fell unconscious. Then they all vanished, all but one that fluttered up and away from the clearing until it was out of sight.
It was dark when he woke up in his bed, his shoulder burning with pain. At some point, his mother had carried his naked body inside and dressed him in a muslin smock before putting him to bed. The boy looked across the room to where she lay with her face on the table, her mouth hanging half open and snoring, blood drunk. There was a plate with a large hunk of white cheese sitting there—a peace offering, he knew. Mother hated cheese.
In silence, he slipped out of bed and stood, his knees shaking and body swaying from lack of blood. When the world stopped spinning, he took a deep breath and padded with hesitant steps across the floor to the table and picked up the cheese. He bit into it, the taste sharp and delicious and satisfying more than just his hunger because it always made him think of the other one, the one Mother tried her hardest not to think of. Chewing slowly, he regarded her for a long solemn moment before he turned and walked toward the door. It was sealed by magic, of course, but it didn't matter. His fingertips brushed over the metal handle and he pulled it open just enough to slip outside.
The moon was waning in the night sky above, shining its dim light down on him as he made his way across the center of the burned clearing to enter the thick trees beyond. The food helped, filling his belly and strengthening his step with every bite he took. A little more than an hour after he left his mother, he reached the river. He stuffed the last chunk of cheese into his mouth and stepped into the water. He had only waded a few steps in before the rushing water swept him away.
The child tumbled head over heels, his small buoyant body pushed along by the quick moving current and tickled by the sharp rocks that lined the shallow riverbed. He was breathless and exhilarated and felt more alive than he ever had. His giggles rang through the Frostback canyons, echoing for miles.