morricakes:

    “And you would do well in leaving it to me,”
Morrigan responds, voice so much softer than
Balfour likely thought it ever could be when they
first met all those years ago. “Do not fret. You
will no longer be pestered.”

          "Would that pestering could get you to act how I want–”

But she has her plans, and they frighten Balfour so honestly
that he barely even wishes to ask of them. So he doesn’t. At
all, no matter how badly curiosity gnaws at him.

He is so very tired of the Old Gods that claw their way into
dreams so serene, send them spiraling into a terrible 
and vast blackness. He pretends his son is just as
all the other boys are. And that Morrigan holds no
terrible plans.

                              He sleeps easier that way.