Work Text:
He wakes up to the sound of someone panting raggedly in the dark; it’s him panting. His breath escapes him like a convict from the law, raggedly, and he has to reign it in, catch it.
...
Keep him steady!
...
It hits him as he lies there that Cynthia would have approved of his little analogy, and by the time he’s caught up his cries
and the memory of her warmth have already fallen from him.
He falls into a restless sleep.
...
He’s at his mother’s grave, set high up on a hill,
with steps that lead straight up to the the stone marker.
He’s lying with his back to the bottom step, compelled to look at her but he is frightened. Her grave sucks the warmth from him,
needy, loveless, violent.
Mother, he thinks waveringly. Mother.
Years pass. Decades. Centuries. He freezes with the cold of millennia, and she is still, so far away.
When he wakes up, his back lies on cool grass and his front is warmed by the sun. Someone shades him; someone’s amused voice asks him something. Her voice is fond.
Morgan?
Mother?