merlin fic: all my colours turn to clouds
title: all my colours turn to clouds
chars: Morgana, Morgause
rating: PG
words: 1688
summary: post-212: Bonding, magical style. (aka Cheer Up Morgana.)
a/n: It's a Friday night, and I think MORGANA NEEDS A HAND. er, the fic isn't this capslocky.
all my colours turn to clouds
Morgana walks in a dreamer's world. The castle is made of grey stones, clean and razor sharp; the floor is cool and the edges catch against her bare feet, the grass prickles. The curtains of her room are lace, the windows overlook a forest but get the distant sound of the waterfall, and it's quiet; so quiet. Her muscles hurt - her eyelids, her mouth, her limbs - every part of her still aches from the after-effects of poison, and more, her mind is sick. She's lost her friends, and Arthur. She's lost Gwen; but she'd lost her before, and so there's a dull ache somewhere in her stomach that she thinks will never ease. Part of her wishes Gwen (and Arthur, and even Uther, a little) would storm in to rescue her: not because she's unhappy here, but because she wants to know she still means something to someone in her old home. She will throw a fast line at Arthur, embrace Uther (was he that bad? yes, yes he was), and return to Camelot sharing Gwen's horse, and press back into her body and feel loved and safe.
Only Camelot is no longer safe for her, and there are enemies behind every corner and shadow; her throat tightens at the memory of liquid burning like hot glass through her. Her friends have turned, and even Gwen may have been told things (things that are true, Morgana had enchanted them all, till even Gwen had fallen, last and unconscious, into her arms). Sometimes Morgana panics. The truth of what she did rises up and the helplessness she'd felt resurfaces - the poison stings and the colours about her are lurid, bright and blurred - her hands flail uselessly by her sides and she can't breathe for fear of choking.
Mostly though, the loneliness swamps her - a horrible, sickening feeling she's been cut loose from everything she knew, with nothing now to look to.
Morgause gives her space, watches over her, and is gentle. Morgana is grateful for both the care and the distance. She hasn't quite worked out what it is about Morgause that always makes her look twice - it might be what she thinks, but then, the way Morgause looks at her sometimes make her think it isn't; that there's more. All this thinking, round and down like a wheel, leaves her tired; she goes for walks instead, into the grounds and soaking in the damp air.
And then, a month after she's been brought here, when she can't sleep (she doesn't dream anymore, but she doesn't sleep either; her body is restless, and waiting for something else), she goes wandering at night. She enjoys the castle at night, when all air and objects become variations on that grey-blue tone, and the shadows are broad and inky and hide the corners. She wanders where Morgause sleeps - in the weeks she's been here, Morgause has been quick to her side when she's needed someone - but there are no rooms near hers, and again, she's not sure what she wants from Morgause. She drifts down the stairs, her linen barely enough to keep her warm, then another stack, steeper and deeper, and then more. She's never plunged so far down the castle before, but she discovers more stairs, and delves further, till she's long underground. The stone pathway is well worn before her, and she drags her hand across the rocky walls for guidance. In the distance, she sees a glimmer of light.
Morgause is standing in soft whites, surrounded by glowing lamps that light up a vast cavern. A basin is trickling with fresh water, and on a rocky shelf carved into the wall sit several coloured bottles. Around her head float a bastion of lights, and Morgana takes it in slowly. It's not that she doesn't know Morgause is a sorceress, but she's never seen magic before, not like this, open and beautiful. Her movements alert Morgause, who turns, then smiles. Morgana likes it when Morgause smiles: it reminds her of the way Gwen used to smile at her, as if she was always pleased to see her. Morgana comes forward wordlessly, still looking at cluster of lights and warmth; there are soft hues of gold around them in the air, and Morgause reaches out for Morgana's hand.
"Do you like it?" Morgause asks, voice low and soothing as ever.
"Yes," says Morgana. "I do." Something stirs inside her, and she's moved to speak again. "What spell are you doing?"
Morgause shrugs, the firelight catching the soot of her eyes. "Just practising," she says. "Little things I do when I'm worried."
"Does it help?"
"Always." Morgause speaks a few words and waves her hands; the lights disperse, and hang in various corners of the cavern. Morgana watches them trail away, leaving smoky remains, and when she turns back, finds Morgause studying her intently. Something in her expression - the warmth, the trust, the inexplicable love - makes Morgana want to say more.
"I'm magic," she says, the words falling quietly. "Did you know that? I'm magic."
There's a strange relief in saying it; Morgause's face softens even more. "I thought you might be," she says simply. The words are like absolution, and the wire construct inside Morgana that's been keeping her upright untwists.
"I've never said that before," she says, then amends, "I've never said it to someone -- " she hesitates. "To someone important to me."
Morgause considers her. "What can you do with your magic?"
"Nothing." Morgana shakes her head. "Nothing. Not like you. I thought the druids might teach me, once. But I don't think I'm very good." She laughs, softly, bitterly. "I'm not very good at anything, really."
"Nonsense." Morgause squeezes Morgana's hand. She brushes the hair away from Morgana's face, affectionate. "What's stopping you?"
Morgana shrugs, and one of the lights come bobbing down from the ceiling, like its run out of air. She reaches out, and remembers just in time that it's fire and jerks her hand back. Behind her, Morgause mumurs an easy word - the air around them shifts slightly - then she nods.
Morgana touches it, and it feels like warmth enveloping her hands, falling over her fingers.
"I think," says Morgana, then stops. Her hand clenches involuntarily as the fear clouds her mind again. "I can't seem to focus on anything. I want one thing, and then another flares in. Nothing lasts. I can't do magic, I can't fight a war. I can't even want revenge at the moment. I won't be any use to you." She turns back to Morgause, who looks both thoughtful and terribly, terribly sad.
"I don't want anything from you," she says. "I only want you to be happy."
Morgana smiles, and thinks of serpents and fallen men and fire. "I don't think magic will do that."
"Oh," says Morgause, as if she guesses her thoughts. She draws closer, and draws hand gently over Morgana's. "You're wrong, Morgana. It's more than -- " She pauses, as if trying to choose the best words. "Will you try something? Do you want to?"
It's only a murmur, close to the ear, but a sudden yearning fills Morgana's heart. "Yes," she says, her grip tightening into Morgause's. "Yes, I do."
The air suddenly seems still and thick; Morgause draws her hand up Morgana's arm, fingers light, over the shoulder and then to her eyes.
"Close your eyes," she says. Morgana hesitates for a moment, but then she trusts Morgause, completely, so she lets her eyes fall shut, and feels Morgause pressing her palms over them.
"Think of what it is you wish," says Morgause. "Think of the magic, and we will draw it out."
At first, Morgana can only see the bedroom enflamed, and an axe gleaming by the executioner's block, the sharp flash of steel razoring her mind. She can only see Uther's iron stare and Mordred running from death. She can only think of the magic that hasn't worked the hundreds of times she's tried it, willing it furiously in the darkness of her bedroom, but that has threatened to betray her to the court and haunted her dreams; that has proved only her undoing. She stands stiff and shivering in Morgause's arms, and the fear of it leaves her mind rotting, again.
Hush, says Morgause, and now the voice is closer, warmer, the words unspoken. It's nothing to be afraid of.
You're in my mind, thinks Morgana, but somehow, this doesn't frighten her. Morgause is no intruder to her thoughts, no shadow-clad villain with concealed motives. I don't understand how.
Perhaps we are of the same magic. But think only of what you would see performed, here. Focus on my voice, where we are, and nothing more.
Morgana does. She thinks she would like to make magic as Morgause does, effortlessly and unburdened. She thinks of the light in her hands, and then she feels Morgause whispering in her mind, incomprehensible words that rustle through her consciousness like layers.
And then the colours form clouds in Morgana's mind, and there's gold about her, between her limbs and in her veins. There's a distant singing, like joy and thought and desire in one, there's a fire in her skin but it's calm: it won't burn or scorch or creep up unawares, but it soothes her, gentle. Her body is swaying as it creates: dancing lights and falling water, sealing cracks in the ground and raising soft winds. The magic is her own, she directs it and allows it fill her till she's soft, flying with sensations. There is a clump of broken stalks by the basin; I'm your sister, says a gentle voice in her mind, and yes, yes, thinks Morgana, that at last makes sense, and she smiles. She gives the stalks life, soil, water, and speeds up the growth so there are flowers blooming before her and she can watch it happen; she slows the air about her so she can see every particle about her; so she can understand how the world she lives in is constructed and how it lives with the magic -- this intangible power that could be her rope back to the earth she stands on.
chars: Morgana, Morgause
rating: PG
words: 1688
summary: post-212: Bonding, magical style. (aka Cheer Up Morgana.)
a/n: It's a Friday night, and I think MORGANA NEEDS A HAND. er, the fic isn't this capslocky.
all my colours turn to clouds
Morgana walks in a dreamer's world. The castle is made of grey stones, clean and razor sharp; the floor is cool and the edges catch against her bare feet, the grass prickles. The curtains of her room are lace, the windows overlook a forest but get the distant sound of the waterfall, and it's quiet; so quiet. Her muscles hurt - her eyelids, her mouth, her limbs - every part of her still aches from the after-effects of poison, and more, her mind is sick. She's lost her friends, and Arthur. She's lost Gwen; but she'd lost her before, and so there's a dull ache somewhere in her stomach that she thinks will never ease. Part of her wishes Gwen (and Arthur, and even Uther, a little) would storm in to rescue her: not because she's unhappy here, but because she wants to know she still means something to someone in her old home. She will throw a fast line at Arthur, embrace Uther (was he that bad? yes, yes he was), and return to Camelot sharing Gwen's horse, and press back into her body and feel loved and safe.
Only Camelot is no longer safe for her, and there are enemies behind every corner and shadow; her throat tightens at the memory of liquid burning like hot glass through her. Her friends have turned, and even Gwen may have been told things (things that are true, Morgana had enchanted them all, till even Gwen had fallen, last and unconscious, into her arms). Sometimes Morgana panics. The truth of what she did rises up and the helplessness she'd felt resurfaces - the poison stings and the colours about her are lurid, bright and blurred - her hands flail uselessly by her sides and she can't breathe for fear of choking.
Mostly though, the loneliness swamps her - a horrible, sickening feeling she's been cut loose from everything she knew, with nothing now to look to.
Morgause gives her space, watches over her, and is gentle. Morgana is grateful for both the care and the distance. She hasn't quite worked out what it is about Morgause that always makes her look twice - it might be what she thinks, but then, the way Morgause looks at her sometimes make her think it isn't; that there's more. All this thinking, round and down like a wheel, leaves her tired; she goes for walks instead, into the grounds and soaking in the damp air.
And then, a month after she's been brought here, when she can't sleep (she doesn't dream anymore, but she doesn't sleep either; her body is restless, and waiting for something else), she goes wandering at night. She enjoys the castle at night, when all air and objects become variations on that grey-blue tone, and the shadows are broad and inky and hide the corners. She wanders where Morgause sleeps - in the weeks she's been here, Morgause has been quick to her side when she's needed someone - but there are no rooms near hers, and again, she's not sure what she wants from Morgause. She drifts down the stairs, her linen barely enough to keep her warm, then another stack, steeper and deeper, and then more. She's never plunged so far down the castle before, but she discovers more stairs, and delves further, till she's long underground. The stone pathway is well worn before her, and she drags her hand across the rocky walls for guidance. In the distance, she sees a glimmer of light.
Morgause is standing in soft whites, surrounded by glowing lamps that light up a vast cavern. A basin is trickling with fresh water, and on a rocky shelf carved into the wall sit several coloured bottles. Around her head float a bastion of lights, and Morgana takes it in slowly. It's not that she doesn't know Morgause is a sorceress, but she's never seen magic before, not like this, open and beautiful. Her movements alert Morgause, who turns, then smiles. Morgana likes it when Morgause smiles: it reminds her of the way Gwen used to smile at her, as if she was always pleased to see her. Morgana comes forward wordlessly, still looking at cluster of lights and warmth; there are soft hues of gold around them in the air, and Morgause reaches out for Morgana's hand.
"Do you like it?" Morgause asks, voice low and soothing as ever.
"Yes," says Morgana. "I do." Something stirs inside her, and she's moved to speak again. "What spell are you doing?"
Morgause shrugs, the firelight catching the soot of her eyes. "Just practising," she says. "Little things I do when I'm worried."
"Does it help?"
"Always." Morgause speaks a few words and waves her hands; the lights disperse, and hang in various corners of the cavern. Morgana watches them trail away, leaving smoky remains, and when she turns back, finds Morgause studying her intently. Something in her expression - the warmth, the trust, the inexplicable love - makes Morgana want to say more.
"I'm magic," she says, the words falling quietly. "Did you know that? I'm magic."
There's a strange relief in saying it; Morgause's face softens even more. "I thought you might be," she says simply. The words are like absolution, and the wire construct inside Morgana that's been keeping her upright untwists.
"I've never said that before," she says, then amends, "I've never said it to someone -- " she hesitates. "To someone important to me."
Morgause considers her. "What can you do with your magic?"
"Nothing." Morgana shakes her head. "Nothing. Not like you. I thought the druids might teach me, once. But I don't think I'm very good." She laughs, softly, bitterly. "I'm not very good at anything, really."
"Nonsense." Morgause squeezes Morgana's hand. She brushes the hair away from Morgana's face, affectionate. "What's stopping you?"
Morgana shrugs, and one of the lights come bobbing down from the ceiling, like its run out of air. She reaches out, and remembers just in time that it's fire and jerks her hand back. Behind her, Morgause mumurs an easy word - the air around them shifts slightly - then she nods.
Morgana touches it, and it feels like warmth enveloping her hands, falling over her fingers.
"I think," says Morgana, then stops. Her hand clenches involuntarily as the fear clouds her mind again. "I can't seem to focus on anything. I want one thing, and then another flares in. Nothing lasts. I can't do magic, I can't fight a war. I can't even want revenge at the moment. I won't be any use to you." She turns back to Morgause, who looks both thoughtful and terribly, terribly sad.
"I don't want anything from you," she says. "I only want you to be happy."
Morgana smiles, and thinks of serpents and fallen men and fire. "I don't think magic will do that."
"Oh," says Morgause, as if she guesses her thoughts. She draws closer, and draws hand gently over Morgana's. "You're wrong, Morgana. It's more than -- " She pauses, as if trying to choose the best words. "Will you try something? Do you want to?"
It's only a murmur, close to the ear, but a sudden yearning fills Morgana's heart. "Yes," she says, her grip tightening into Morgause's. "Yes, I do."
The air suddenly seems still and thick; Morgause draws her hand up Morgana's arm, fingers light, over the shoulder and then to her eyes.
"Close your eyes," she says. Morgana hesitates for a moment, but then she trusts Morgause, completely, so she lets her eyes fall shut, and feels Morgause pressing her palms over them.
"Think of what it is you wish," says Morgause. "Think of the magic, and we will draw it out."
At first, Morgana can only see the bedroom enflamed, and an axe gleaming by the executioner's block, the sharp flash of steel razoring her mind. She can only see Uther's iron stare and Mordred running from death. She can only think of the magic that hasn't worked the hundreds of times she's tried it, willing it furiously in the darkness of her bedroom, but that has threatened to betray her to the court and haunted her dreams; that has proved only her undoing. She stands stiff and shivering in Morgause's arms, and the fear of it leaves her mind rotting, again.
Hush, says Morgause, and now the voice is closer, warmer, the words unspoken. It's nothing to be afraid of.
You're in my mind, thinks Morgana, but somehow, this doesn't frighten her. Morgause is no intruder to her thoughts, no shadow-clad villain with concealed motives. I don't understand how.
Perhaps we are of the same magic. But think only of what you would see performed, here. Focus on my voice, where we are, and nothing more.
Morgana does. She thinks she would like to make magic as Morgause does, effortlessly and unburdened. She thinks of the light in her hands, and then she feels Morgause whispering in her mind, incomprehensible words that rustle through her consciousness like layers.
And then the colours form clouds in Morgana's mind, and there's gold about her, between her limbs and in her veins. There's a distant singing, like joy and thought and desire in one, there's a fire in her skin but it's calm: it won't burn or scorch or creep up unawares, but it soothes her, gentle. Her body is swaying as it creates: dancing lights and falling water, sealing cracks in the ground and raising soft winds. The magic is her own, she directs it and allows it fill her till she's soft, flying with sensations. There is a clump of broken stalks by the basin; I'm your sister, says a gentle voice in her mind, and yes, yes, thinks Morgana, that at last makes sense, and she smiles. She gives the stalks life, soil, water, and speeds up the growth so there are flowers blooming before her and she can watch it happen; she slows the air about her so she can see every particle about her; so she can understand how the world she lives in is constructed and how it lives with the magic -- this intangible power that could be her rope back to the earth she stands on.