Morgana dreamt of before things became rubbish.
-—-
She had these obscure feelings that moved in her mind, ranging from tiny creatures to wood insects and sunshine.
Once, she felt the comfort of the afternoon sun on a holiday to the lake.
It warmed the grass beneath her cheek as she lay by the beach. After a day of traveling and feeling not too well, it covered her in a blanket of gentle warmth.
Young and full of determination, she'd raced Arthur. Her heart was full and pounding from happiness. Oh, what a life to live.
-—-
Truly a sad life.
Once like a brother, her friend stayed behind— Arthur was destined to be the next king since his birth.
Morgana thought of him as trapped under Uther.
He'd always wanted to stay in the right of his father and the people at the same time.
She'd wanted to stay in the right too, to be good, moral, and just, but veered off once fear poisoned her.
-—-
Another time, the trees rustled above her head. As her face turned to the sky, Morgana's eyes chased the flying clouds above. The shadows sheltered her from the blaring sun shining in her stead.
-—-
The shadows were cold.
All of the ruins and caves she's stayed in were veiled from the sun and froze her when she woke up from sleep.
Those mornings rattled in her memories. Frozen, chapped lips as the wind rushed her.
Morgana yearned for the fireplaces in the castle while the cold sunk further in.
-—-
The flames, warm, red, hotter the closer you poke a finger.
Gwen lit her fireplace in the winter, in the cold nights, speaking softly and laughing about the crooked jokes Morgana whispered back.
Light flickered in blurred tendrils and captivated the eye, encouraging the best and the hidden parts of people to be seen.
-—-
She stretched her fingers to wear out the stiffness, again, again to fight the frost. Lungs hot with burning cold air, stuffing itself down her throat.
Fires from the castle were grand. They were grand, great big pyres and burning, burning, corpses.
Smoke. Terrible, eye-watering, scorching smoke.
Innocents up in flames.
-—-
When she wanders in her thoughts, a shady tree buzzes with bees in Camelot's grassy knolls.
The silky air ruffles the edges of her bubble, a fluttering, flickering of leaves. Her toes burrowed into the rich, cold, green, green, green grass.
Curling ferns as small as her little toe. The roots pushed up at her thighs, the ants, the bees, the pill bugs all wandered with no harm to come to them or her. Quiet, this quiet, real, green, green shade.
Peace.
-—-
She wanted to forget. But, desperately, desperately, Morgana held onto the memories of something better. She held fast to when she was oblivious to the cruel world Uther created.
YOU ARE READING
Mostly because dead people don't talk back
FanfictionVery often and sometimes a bit too many times for his taste, Gwaine found himself in very unique situations when near to Merlin. The smell of blood and dirt smothered his senses, and Gwaine couldn't get up the energy to remove himself from this sit...
