She doesn't have them often, the good kind. On the rare occasion that she does, there is one that she wants to hold on to, and keep safe someplace untouchable.
The dream consists of a choice few things: a smile that outshines all the ladies of the court, all the visiting princesses and queens; warmth like nothing Morgana has ever known, like nothing else that she ever will. There are hands that are work-worn and calloused but soft in Morgana's, and a face that lights up golden under the sun (but even brighter under Morgana's own laughter). This girl before her is both the most fragile and the strongest of them all. In this moment, she looks every bit of all of it.
In this garden, there are no flowers where they are sitting. No sign of life save for a great willow tree that hangs from above. There is no sound of birds, no song of the ciacadas, just silence, and it smells like the end of summer, the smoke of autumn in the air. Somewhere in the distance, men are fighting like they often tend to. A fleeting thought says that Arthur is probably with them. Inexplicably, she knows that he is safe and that it has something to do with Merlin, something she still can't quite place.
It doesn't matter anyhow. (Anymore? Just yet?)
The sun is high in the air and Guinevere is telling her about the last summer solstice she spent with her mother. She sounds happy to share it rather than upset at the memory, and so Morgana takes it to be a good one. She then talks about her brother, about his letters from his travels and his life outside Camelot.
Morgana dares to ask her if she would ever consider leaving Camelot.
(The real Guinevere would say, My life and my duty lie here, with you.
Of course, the real Morgana can never ask, Will you come with me if I ever go? But this is a dream, a roundabout way to everything, and so--)
Depends, says Gwen, a knowing look, on who's coming with.
*
Morgana wakes up but, for once, not with a startle. It's the kind of dream that always ends too soon, the kind that you just wish wouldn't.
She has come into her power well enough to know what it means even if not well enough to no longer dread it.
Seers dream their own endings, she had read somewhere once; a book that was burned once Uther discovered it.
She comforts herself with the thought that, in some shape or form, this might be hers.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-06-24 07:20 am (UTC)-
She doesn't have them often, the good kind. On the rare occasion that she does, there is one that she wants to hold on to, and keep safe someplace untouchable.
The dream consists of a choice few things: a smile that outshines all the ladies of the court, all the visiting princesses and queens; warmth like nothing Morgana has ever known, like nothing else that she ever will. There are hands that are work-worn and calloused but soft in Morgana's, and a face that lights up golden under the sun (but even brighter under Morgana's own laughter). This girl before her is both the most fragile and the strongest of them all. In this moment, she looks every bit of all of it.
In this garden, there are no flowers where they are sitting. No sign of life save for a great willow tree that hangs from above. There is no sound of birds, no song of the ciacadas, just silence, and it smells like the end of summer, the smoke of autumn in the air. Somewhere in the distance, men are fighting like they often tend to. A fleeting thought says that Arthur is probably with them. Inexplicably, she knows that he is safe and that it has something to do with Merlin, something she still can't quite place.
It doesn't matter anyhow. (Anymore? Just yet?)
The sun is high in the air and Guinevere is telling her about the last summer solstice she spent with her mother. She sounds happy to share it rather than upset at the memory, and so Morgana takes it to be a good one. She then talks about her brother, about his letters from his travels and his life outside Camelot.
Morgana dares to ask her if she would ever consider leaving Camelot.
(The real Guinevere would say, My life and my duty lie here, with you.
Of course, the real Morgana can never ask, Will you come with me if I ever go? But this is a dream, a roundabout way to everything, and so--)
Depends, says Gwen, a knowing look, on who's coming with.
*
Morgana wakes up but, for once, not with a startle. It's the kind of dream that always ends too soon, the kind that you just wish wouldn't.
She has come into her power well enough to know what it means even if not well enough to no longer dread it.
Seers dream their own endings, she had read somewhere once; a book that was burned once Uther discovered it.
She comforts herself with the thought that, in some shape or form, this might be hers.