Morrigan gently curls some of Dianor’s hair between her fingers as he bent to kiss her cheek, she let out a content hum. “I’m sure he was–” she untangles her fingers from her Warden’s hair to scoop Kieran up into her arms with the child gleefully giggling as she settled him on her hip.
“And we have the eggs we found as well–” Morrigan notes as she idly fixes Kieran’s hair as they make their way back to camp. She ducks her head, speaking softly in chasind to their son for a few moments before brushing her nose against his and set him down to let him run ahead. Morrigan’s arms, now free curl around one of Dianor’s and she finally rubs the sleep from the edges of her eyes.
“Did you manage to get some restful sleep?” she wondered, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders. She, of course, worried about him in her own way even if she was not always the softest woman. Her gaze turned from Kieran to her love with furrowed brows of worry. She could see the exhaustion creeping into Dianor’s eyes again, something she came to be acquainted with during the Blight.
THERE WAS NO HIDING FROM his woman’s attention. The curse forced on him years earlier, during the Blight, made him weaker day by day, and to be in such a condition in the happiest time of his life — to say the least, everyone would have thought it UNJUST. Infuriating, at the very least. Dianor detested the idea of fuelling her worried sentiments and always attempted to have his own condition concealed. ❝ Naturally, my love. Though I’m certain one of you kicked me in my sleep. ❞ He mocks, gently — yet obnoxiously at the same time.
Kieran was, perhaps, the only one unaware. And it suited the father’s taste; it was not the right time to tell him. Dianor himself suspected he’d have to leave, sooner or later — as the cure would not find itself in the hands of the damned elf. No, they needed more time, if Kieran was to have memories of his father.
He tied his hair in an INDECENT braid the night before — as he was incapable of making one on his own — and, with false innocence, he unties it, purposefully laying some of its glorious length onto Morrigan’s shoulder. ❝ If you need worry, do so for my hair! It is a mess, my love! Save it from the darkness and braid it for me, will you? ❞ He shoots a grin, knowing very well such a joke could taunt her.