[She almost laughs. It lodges somewhere high in her chest, catches tight in her throat that the tea forces it back down when she swallows, cup set down clumsily. Would it comfort her? Would it distress her?

It's rare that others touch her, and she almost startles away from her but sighs, eyes shut.]

More than ten years ago [is that but a blinking of the eyes to him?] I thought I knew something so terrible of her that I could know no worse. That I would leave with the one who would be Hero. That I would return. And that she would possess me. I thought I knew her secrets then, and the stories she had told before in my girlhood chilled the blood in my veins, the expectation in eye and voice. Bedtime tales for no child. No one enjoys being wrong.

[It's a bitter tonic to swallow, Morrigan who knows so much after all to the point that others outright distrust - perhaps even despise - her. But here she is.

Wrong.]

Is there somewhere between where I would simply know what has raised me that I might look upon myself and my son? Perhaps contentment but I cannot deny that I want to know. Do you understand that? Still wishing to know even with all that might follow...