(no subject)
Her room is the same as when she left it. It is a little thing, really, and one that mere logic could have told her, but when she left logic wasn’t the main
(it’s all spinning and fractured Barty Barty, oh, my poor Barty…father hated him stepfather hated me he was screaming and lying, god, the floor shouldn’t move should stay still)
thing on her mind.
The young witch shuts the door behind her, and walks the steps across the floor to her bed. A simple thing, such a simple thing, but the floor is just the floor and nothing more. No blood or glass or anything else. Just carpet. Cloak tossed onto the bed, and she unpacks her belongings as Arianrhod slides out and back to her place on Morgan’s pillows. Clothes folded and hung away, Alanna’s charmed cloak and Barty’s book go neatly into a draw and Morgan is standing in her room with her eyes closed.
Her room is the right place to do this, cut-off from the constant flucuations of magic and emotion from the rest of Milliways. Morgan has her eyes closed and hands by her sides with her fingers straight and wide-spread and Sees
the charm and magic sown into Alanna’s cloak, Barty’s book, magic and charms crafted with her own signature.
Arianrhod, and the casual elegance of the Morningstar’s brilliance made into the snake’s very being.
the black box, coaxed and crooned and ordered with magic by a man with genius and arrogance
the magic attached to her things and person that should be there, and nothing more
Opening her eyes, Morgan hugs herself, laughing. Her mind is still bent, still with cracks and fractures, but it’s not broken. She is well, as well as she can be considering she is still quite, quite mad. At least, for the moment. But for the moment is good enough, has to be good enough. Think about the future, worry and worry and then she’d waste the present.
Which reminds her of her own leaving, once she has her baby son in her arms. Months, yet. Months.
Only months, and then she’d most likely never see Barty again. The laughter fades from Morgan’s remarkably pretty, and fey, face before she tosses her head. Live in the present, or lose it, and, well, she loves him, doesn’t she?
Nothing else can explain the way her heart has been caught by something that feels like metal and twists and cuts at the thought of him.
Barty…
So Morgan, tall and slender (despite her four months of pregnancy) and pretty Morgan, glances at herself in the mirror and smooths down her dress, her long black hair before making her quick way to the door to find her boyfriend.
(it’s all spinning and fractured Barty Barty, oh, my poor Barty…father hated him stepfather hated me he was screaming and lying, god, the floor shouldn’t move should stay still)
thing on her mind.
The young witch shuts the door behind her, and walks the steps across the floor to her bed. A simple thing, such a simple thing, but the floor is just the floor and nothing more. No blood or glass or anything else. Just carpet. Cloak tossed onto the bed, and she unpacks her belongings as Arianrhod slides out and back to her place on Morgan’s pillows. Clothes folded and hung away, Alanna’s charmed cloak and Barty’s book go neatly into a draw and Morgan is standing in her room with her eyes closed.
Her room is the right place to do this, cut-off from the constant flucuations of magic and emotion from the rest of Milliways. Morgan has her eyes closed and hands by her sides with her fingers straight and wide-spread and Sees
the charm and magic sown into Alanna’s cloak, Barty’s book, magic and charms crafted with her own signature.
Arianrhod, and the casual elegance of the Morningstar’s brilliance made into the snake’s very being.
the black box, coaxed and crooned and ordered with magic by a man with genius and arrogance
the magic attached to her things and person that should be there, and nothing more
Opening her eyes, Morgan hugs herself, laughing. Her mind is still bent, still with cracks and fractures, but it’s not broken. She is well, as well as she can be considering she is still quite, quite mad. At least, for the moment. But for the moment is good enough, has to be good enough. Think about the future, worry and worry and then she’d waste the present.
Which reminds her of her own leaving, once she has her baby son in her arms. Months, yet. Months.
Only months, and then she’d most likely never see Barty again. The laughter fades from Morgan’s remarkably pretty, and fey, face before she tosses her head. Live in the present, or lose it, and, well, she loves him, doesn’t she?
Nothing else can explain the way her heart has been caught by something that feels like metal and twists and cuts at the thought of him.
Barty…
So Morgan, tall and slender (despite her four months of pregnancy) and pretty Morgan, glances at herself in the mirror and smooths down her dress, her long black hair before making her quick way to the door to find her boyfriend.