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Title: Memento Mori
Fandom: Nevermoor
Rating: Teen
Characters: Morrigan Crow, Ezra Squall
Pairings: None
Content Warnings: Child death (mentioned), emotional/psychological abuse
Summary: Morrigan has never questioned her adoptive father, Ezra Squall, when he says that the Eventide curse is not only inevitable, but necessary. That is, until she lives to see her first Eventide. [AU where Morrigan was raised by Squall. Oneshot. Mogtober 2025 offering.]
AO3 link here.
Author's Note: This is my contribution to Mogtober 2025! The prompts used were "Morrigan Crow", "Guilt", and a bit of "Legacy".
Morrigan Squall always knew she'd watch other children die on Eventide. Her caretaker Ezra had never made a secret of it, even though it was on the list of things they could discuss in private but not in front of "normal people", as he called them. This list included but was not limited to:
- The fact that they were Wundersmiths.
- What a Wundersmith was.
- The fact that there was a whole other world somewhere, and when she was old enough, Morrigan would go there to become a "proper Wundersmith."
- The fact that "Mr. Jones" and Ezra Squall were in fact the same person.
- And, of course, the role Ezra Squall played in the deaths of cursed children on Eventide.
And, the fact was, when you grew up hearing about how cursed children always died on Eventide, how they lived brief, miserable lives where they ruined everything everywhere they went, when you grew up hearing that treated as a fact as certain as the law of gravity, you weren't particularly predisposed towards questioning it. Morrigan certainly wasn't, anyway. But there were, she admitted, things that didn't make a ton of sense if she thought about it too much. Like, for example, the fact that she wasn't a cursed child, even though she'd been born on Eventide.
The details of her adoption were always a bit fuzzy, which was probably because it hadn't been strictly legal. The way she was told the story, her mother died in childbirth on Eventide, and her father had been more than eager to get rid of her when Ezra — as "Mr. Jones", of course — offered to take her off his hands. She wasn't sure if her birth father had been told that Ezra intended to raise her, shape her into his heir, but he'd apparently handed her over before Ezra could even finish the pitch. No one asked too many questions. Eventide babies disappeared all the time—not everyone was willing to wait until the next one for the child to finally die, and not everyone was willing to bear the burden of a cursed child. Besides, with Ezra's connections, it was all too easy to sweep the whole matter under the rug. It was those same connections that made it possible for him to have Morrigan's birth certificate altered.
In the eyes of the law, Morrigan Crow, born on Eventide, never existed. Morrigan Squall, born on Morningtide, took her place.
She had, a few times, seen her birth father, a chancellor and a member of the Wintersea Party, one of several, and, so far as Morrigan could tell, not even a particularly important one. Ezra had pointed him out to her at some stuffy event however many years ago, and Morrigan could see the resemblance. She had also been impressed with herself for not feeling much of anything when she looked at him, and maybe the feeling was mutual, because when the chancellor made eye contact with her, he gave no hint that he had even the slightest idea who she was.
Maybe the reason she'd never considered it odd that she could escape the curse simply by having a forged birth certificate was because, until now, she'd never lived through another Eventide.
She'd tried to sleep through it, but the bells kept her awake all through the night, and as she tossed and turned in bed, she couldn't stop picturing what fate was befalling the other Eventide-born children. Morrigan wasn't afraid of the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow; they obeyed her almost as well as they obeyed Ezra, and he'd made a point of getting her used to them early on in life. She'd never think of them of pets, exactly, but they weren't monsters to her. But that was what they were being used for tonight — each dog was tracking the scent of a cursed child, each horse was carrying them closer to their doom, and the hunters wouldn't rest until their quarry was dead.
Those children are like me, she thought. I ought to be out there with them.
If Ezra hadn't chosen to take her from the Crow household all those years ago, she would've been.
Hours passed, and Eventide gradually grew to a close, and Morrigan knew in her gut that every cursed child that had been born in the last Age was now dead. Plenty had probably been born in the time it took Ezra to hunt them all down.
It's fine, she thought. It's necessary. He's doing what he has to.
The sound of parties taking place in the streets below were what finally roused Morrigan from her bed. Not to go join them — she never cared for parties, and Ezra only attended them when he absolutely had to. But there was far too much noise to sleep, both outside in the city, and inside Morrigan's own head. And, besides, it was now legally her birthday. She was entitled to get up and wander if she felt like it, wasn't she?
Despite being one of the richest men in the world, Ezra's home wasn't the lavish mansion most citizens pictured whenever the leader of Squall Industries was speculated about, which was often. Morrigan knew her caretaker disliked attention and being the center of gossip, and wondered if he realized people wouldn't be so curious about him if he went outside as himself every now and then, instead of pretending to be his own mild-mannered assistant. People came up with all sorts of stories about Mr. Squall, why he never went out, why his assistant seemed to handle so much of his "daughter"'s upbringing. They imagined a Gothic castle or a house so large and expensive it was downright offensive that it was home to only two people. But no one would've ever pictured their actual home: a simple two-level house hidden down a side street not far from Squall Industries' main office. The street that took you there only worked if Ezra wanted you to be able to find his home; for everyone except him and Morrigan, it led to a dead-end. That was a trick she was looking forward to learning, once she was ready. The house was dark gray with shuttered windows and a black and white tiled roof, with a tidy garden that kept itself arranged out front, and a swing on the front porch that only Morrigan ever used. She had the vaguest memory of it being a birthday gift, a rare indulgence granted when she was very young.
Morrigan wandered down the hall on the upper floor, which had paintings from all over the world on the walls — some, Ezra said, came from the place she'd be sent in a few years' time. Whenever she asked when she'd finally be going to this mysterious place, the answer was always, "in a few years' time," which for awhile made her wonder if Ezra was simply pulling her leg, but she'd heard and seen enough to conclude that the Free State, wherever it was, did exist.
The door on the other end of the hall, Ezra's bedroom, was open, which meant he wasn't in there. Not that she would've woken him up, anyway. But she heard movement downstairs, a door opening and shutting, and she realized—he was home. It was over.
Morrigan stood at the top of the stairs, watching as a light from downstairs flicked on, listening as his footsteps carried him from the entrance. She waited for him to come to the staircase, to catch her, but instead, she heard him turn and head into the kitchen.
She could go to bed. Try to sleep. Go downstairs tomorrow morning and not ask how Eventide played out, pretend she didn't know how Eventide played out, and they'd have a conversation about her studies, or what the next Age held for Squall Industries, or what Wundrous Art she was working on this week. She was sure Ezra would want to talk about Eventide eventually, but on his terms—they always spoke on his terms. Maybe it was easier that way.
Morrigan went downstairs.
Ezra was in the kitchen, just as she'd thought, pouring himself a cup of tea. Morrigan stood in the doorway, debating how to announce herself. But, of course, it was unnecessary. She'd never been able to sneak past him before, and she hadn't truly expected it to be different now. Without looking up, he said, "Awake, are you?", and took a second cup and saucer from the cabinet.
Morrigan sat at the kitchen table, let him pour her a cup, and silently drank while looking him over. Being raised by Ezra Squall was to be well-versed in his moods; she had to know when he was angry, or stressed, or when he was actually pleased with her, or when she was getting on his last nerve, and she had to know without being told. He'd taken off his jacket and shoes, and had his button-up rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a mess and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked the way he did when he worked late into the night. Which, she supposed, he had. Ezra was clearly exhausted, but there was no sign he was irritated at her being there, no sign he was unhappy to see her. There was, of course, no sign he was happy to see her, but she hadn't really expected that.
"Happy birthday." Ezra was the first to speak, and it startled her. His tone was almost offhand, like he'd forgotten it was her birthday until he happened to see something that reminded him.
"Thank you."
"We can go into town this afternoon, get something to eat, if you'd like."
Morrigan's birthdays were never an excuse to slack off, skip a day of training, but, after their morning lesson, he'd always taken her into the arts district of the city and let her choose what they went to go see. Morrigan suspected he appreciated and needed this break from the day-to-day grind of being the Squall family as she did.
"That sounds good."
Her cup was empty now, a perfect excuse to say "thank you" and go to bed. But she remained sitting at the table, and after draining his own cup, Ezra sat down as well.
"It was a good hunt," he said. He often jumped into explanations of important things with little warning. "Efficient. We got them all in good time."
"Oh. That's… good." She felt like she had a rock in her stomach.
She supposed her apprehension showed on her face, because Erza let out a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Don't go feeling guilty, now."
"I'm not," she lied, a tad defensive.
"I've told you a thousand times, you cannot concern yourself with the feelings of insects," Ezra said. He made that comparison a lot. Wundersmiths lived so long, and were so much more powerful than normal people—thinking themselves the same would only be fooling themselves. At least, that was what Ezra had always told her. So it was true. He'd never lied to her. He wouldn't.
"I just keep thinking—they're children," Morrigan said quietly. "Children my age."
"Children who lived only to suffer, who would've died anyway." He waved his hand as if dismissing an unwanted guest. "Once you come on a hunt, you'll understand."
Morrigan's chest tightened. "You want me to what?"
"Not until you're older," he said, as if this would reassure her. "Hopefully this Age won't end for awhile, give you time to improve your skills, get used to the idea, get some practice in. You'll be a natural."
This was clearly meant as a compliment, but it made her wince. Luckily, he wasn't looking at her face, having closed his eyes and rested his hands over them, as if trying to do away with a headache.
"And we… we really have to do this?" she asked. She didn't want to look at him anymore, so she stared at the teacup instead.
"Yes." He sounded as though he'd had this argument in his head a thousand times before. Whether with himself or with Morrigan, she wasn't sure. "We need the Wunder, and they're taking it, and they can't even handle it. That is the curse of Eventide's child."
"But I'm Eventide's child."
It was the first time in years she'd acknowledged this fact aloud. He'd explained the truth of her birth to her many years ago, when she'd asked why she didn't have a mother, and he'd decided to just get all the big birthday bombshells out of the way at once. She'd been so young that it hadn't really bothered her. So she technically celebrated her birthday one day late. So what?
But every other child who shared her real birthday was dead now. And she wasn't. And for the first time, she thought it very important that she understand why.
"We fixed that," Ezra said.
"But can a curse be fooled by… by paperwork?" She hadn't realized just how ridiculous the idea was until she said it aloud.
"You'd be surprised."
"Ezra." She rarely addressed him directly. "Mr. Squall" felt too formal, "Father" felt ridiculous, and "Dad" was absolutely not on the table. She had floated "Uncle" once, but hated it as soon as it was out of her mouth. Mostly she avoided proper nouns altogether, or used his first name in the event it was necessary. This was a first name conversation. "Ezra, what would happen if the curse didn't take those children? What would happen to us?"
"I've told you." He opened his eyes, looking at her now, leaning forward in his seat. "We'd. Lose. Everything. Our position is only tenable if we control the Wunder—I've already given up some of that power so you can have it, so you can come into your power as a Wundersmith."
"I know." She hated it when he brought that up.
"Morrigan, we would not be welcome in the Wintersea Republic—anywhere at all, really—if we didn't hold onto the Wunder. They need us, they fear us, and that is how it should be. Anything less would lead this—" He gestured vaguely around the room. "—our whole situation being very different."
"But don't you—don't you ever wish you didn't have to do it?"
"No." He said it so simply, it honestly shocked her. She hadn't expected remorse or doubt, but she had expected something other than a complete acceptance of what happened every Eventide.
"Really?"
"Wundersmiths do what no one else can, and what no one else will. That's another thing you need to learn if you're going to keep hold of everything I've built. You can have everything you want, but you will have to deal with some unpleasantness if you want to keep it."
Morrigan wasn't sure there was any amount of wealth or luxury or influence that was worth doing what Ezra did. But maybe she only thought that because she'd never been forced to live with the alternative.
"I just don't understand why I…"
She trailed off, as something suddenly snapped into place in her mind.
No.
No.
She couldn't look at it, she couldn't allow the thought to form completely, she couldn't let herself ask the question. That was one thing she couldn't know, didn't want to know.
But she needed to know.
Ezra was still watching her, and he exhaled, looking like he wanted nothing more than to go to bed. He stood, his chair scraping along the hardwood floor, and carried their dishes to the sink, and Morrigan realized he wanted to escape hearing the question just as much as she wanted to escape asking it.
As he turned to leave the room, the words flew from her mouth.
"Is there really a curse?" she asked.
Ezra stopped, looked over his shoulder, and stared at her for a long moment during which Morrigan didn't dare breathe. His gaze was as it always was; distant, cold, but not without some level of respect, not without some indication that he was truly thinking about what she'd said and how to respond. He was not the warm, attentive parent from the books Morrigan read, the ones where children were spirited away from a bad situation to one that was not only better, but undoubtedly good, wonderful, and magical. He had never lied to her about always wanting a child to dote on and shower with love; he wanted an heir. An apprentice. An employee, to some extent. She wasn't quite his daughter, but also not quite not his daughter, and it was hard to explain how isolating that felt, even to herself. But he had almost never been cruel, he'd given her an education most would envy, and he promised that by the time he was dead and gone — a concept Morrigan had trouble grasping — she would be more than equipped to have any life she wanted. And, besides, this in-between was all she knew.
So that was why, despite her fear and uncertainty, she felt she could ask.
And maybe he'd grown used to the in-between, too. Maybe he wasn't ready for things to change yet. Because instead of answering, he asked, "Do you really want to have this conversation now, Morrigan?" And it wasn't a threat, or an attempt to get rid of her. Just an exhausted, honest question.
"No," was her honest reply.
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