#morrigan pov is hard goddamn

[rosella-writes]

Hi Rosella, happy DADWC! For a prompt, for Morrigan/Warden Loghain, may I submit the following excerpt from Elinor Wylie's poem "Valentine":

Before my heart is dust At the end of all, Eat it I must, I must Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet By some strange art; Wild honey I shall eat When I eat my heart.

I'm dumbfounded by this one, honestly. It's so beautiful. 🥺 I hope this little fill does it any kind of justice, thank you. For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Morrigan x Loghain Mac Tir Rating: T Context: the morning of the day Hawke, Loghain, and Inquisitor Virelan Lavellan's party leaves to besiege Adamant Fortress.

~~~

‘Tis strange, waking in a bed that is not hers, to sunlight that does not dapple so much as stream. Morrigan blinks against it and turns her face away from the light. She tucks her nose into the warmth of the blankets — warmth that lacks her son, but holds someone else. 

“Morning,” she tells the Warden in her bed. “I had not thought to stay, but it seems rest claimed me against my will.”

Loghain Mac Tir stirs, his voice a pitched rumble in his chest that is more vibration than sound. His arm tightens around her. “I am glad for it. Stop shifting about, it was perfect before you moved.”

“Well pardon me,” she scoffs, but she does not mean it as harshly as her tone implies. “I supposed you would wish me gone.”

His grasp tightens again before immediately falling slack. The weight of his arm is a comfort. “I do not wish it, no.”

Morrigan hums contentedly to herself, then makes a show of shifting closer and tucking in. ‘Tis purely to be contrary, she tells herself. It has nothing to do with the fact that the very warmth and scent of him are comforting, or that she savours every breath that expands his chest beneath her ear. She nearly fools herself into believing that she isn’t counting every single one, marking them, along with his heartbeats, in her memory. 

She feels, almost, as if she is consuming this moment. Their time is coming to an end, just as it had once before, but this had not been the bitter gall of the Ritual. She wishes she could hold it in her hands, an immortalised moment clutched close to her chest, as if it were a precious bauble that her mother might scold her for keeping. Instead it is much like honey, dug from a dead tree with hooked fingertips, dissolving into sweet heat in her mouth. Soon the taste will be gone, and she will struggle to remember.

Loghain grumbles, tucks his nose into her hair, and huffs out a satisfied breath. Her chest aches, and she closes her eyes.