11-18-2016, 12:31 AM
Exhaling sharply, Morgan finds that it smells of daisies-- the superior flower, and by happenstance her favorite. In direct contradiction to the pleasant aroma, she’s rocked into awareness by her least favorite sound-- thunder and rain pounding heavily upon a lofty, faraway, roof.
Somehow, she feels small. Smaller than usual. Her body is shaking, she can’t stop it. She’s afraid, so very small and so very scared.
Morgan allows herself a small whimper. She grips her blankets tighter as another roll of thunder crashes, coupled with a flash of lightning.
“T-this is the w-worst.” She stammers through gritted teeth, trying to pull her blanket above her head. Morgan’s attempts are met with instant failure, as her blankets are weighed down on both sides. No matter how she tugs, her strength just does not seem to cut it.
Out of the dark suddenly come arms, followed shortly by a feminine-sleep addled, “Shhh.” Morgan is engulfed in those strong, sure arms. The world seems to go still. She’s enveloped in a soft curtain of blue.
All things considered, Morgan knows she should be frightened. She should yell, scream, and fuss to wrench herself away from the mystery-hugger (and the storm, for that matter). Yet, the smell of daisies is overwhelmingly comfortable here, the embrace so assured and full of love. She’s so small, and this presence is so big, so safe. It’s simply amazing.
Testing the water, she speaks, still quivering, “I h-hate thunderstorms.” She pouts into the embrace, her voice cracks as another clap of thunder rolls overhead.
“I know, Morgan.” The sleepy voice returns quietly, without hesitation. One of the arms shifts to smooth her hair down, comforting. “It will pass soon, and there is nothing to fear, for the world needs this rain-- and so do we. Could you imagine a harvest without any rain?”
Morgan wants to think rationally about the question. “Of cour-” CRACK. “EeEP.” She’s cut off, at the sight of a violent lightning flash through the shroud of blue.
“Wuh?” Another groggy voice enters the picture, from the other side of her. It’s a man, a pleasant tenor with extra bass because of sleep.
“Oh dear.” The hugger chuckles, “It seems you woke your father.”
“Is- is something wrong?” Father asks, stifling a yawn. Morgan feels him shift, coming to face her back. She can’t leave this embrace, but she wants to see. His hair, his eyes, something, anythin-
“No, no. All is well.” She, Mother? assures Father. “Though, our Morgan…?”
“Ah.” Father says, tone full of sympathy. Another hand, bigger, and (somehow) softer than Mother’s reaches her head and pats it. “Well, Morgan. Was it not you that thought ahead when ṕ̱̗̙͎͖̹̟͇͓͉̼̣̪͠a̧̛̛͢҉̦͔̭n̶̡̧̪̞̫̲n̴̨̡͔͎̠̹̖̱̯e͘͏͈͙̺͚̼͚̮̘͍͚͇̲̟̫̩̳̭̙̘̕͢ and y̧͔̼͉͉̰̙̫͇͜͡a̷͏͚͉͚̦͇̪̫̩̜̠͙̞̩̙̲͝ͅr̴̛̜̙̦̜̠͎̲͍͘n͚̤͈͕̟͎̕͘ȩ̬̭̳̺̙̱̩̦͎̜̥͎͜ smelled the static and the rain coming tonight? Isn’t that why you chose to stay with us?”
Morgan can’t comprehend the names, but she knows Father is correct. Her small hands grip the blanket, suddenly insecure. “Y-yes.” She nods in shy affirmation.
“Didn’t you say you were going to beat the storm this time?”
Father was right again, Morgan finds herself agreeing. “Yes…”
“You wanted to beat the storm, right?”
Again, she agrees, “mhmm…”
Father’s hand strokes her hair a few more times before ruffling it proudly. “I didn’t hear you cry tonight. You’re weathering the storm.”
“B-but…” Morgan wants to give an argument, any arguement.
“It’s okay to be afraid Morgan.” Mother speaks, again, warmly. “But remember, anything can change. Look,” Mother’s hand slides from the top of her head to her cheek. “No tears. All dry.” There’s a smile in her voice.
Morgan follows Mother’s lead, investigating her own face by slipping a small hand under Mother’s larger one. Mother was right; no tears, all dry.
A surge of pride rushes through her, a big smile grows on her face. Suddenly, the whole of the storm seems very, very far away. All that was left was a tiny Morgan tucked safely between Mother and Father. Together they were all wrapped up and away from winds, rain and crashing thunder.
“We’re proud of you,” Father says, sleep swiftly reclaiming his voice.
“Now, Morgan, try and get some sleep.” Mother adds in, also drowsy now. “Wake us if you need us, we’ll be right here until the morning.”
“Good night, Mother. Good night, Father.” Morgan finds herself saying. “I love you.”
Father’s light snoring could be heard already on one side, but mother responds, just barely, “I love you too, my Morgan.”
Surrounded by warmth, and covered in the sweet smell of daisies, Morgan snuggles into Mother’s continued embrace. Feeling for the first time (relatively) unafraid of--
CRACK. flaSH
Morgan shoots up in bed, throwing her covers to one side in alarm. It’s storming.
The room is cold and clammy. It smells heavily of rain, clear wind, and a little bit of summer. Outside of the barracks of the Steel Wyvern’s keep, the floating island swayed gently in the summer squall.
Furrowing her brow, Morgan wracks her brain, she cradles her head in her hands, lightly tapping on her skull. She feels big. She feels cold. She feels so distinctively lonely. She dreamt of something; Of l̷̨̗̘͔̣̬͎͢ͅͅu̷̷̧̜͖̫̞̟̰̭͎̟̮̤͖̝̬͈͟͞ͅͅç̢̢̢̞͓̗̩̜͖͓i̡͡͏̠̬̥̫̝͎͙͓̠̭̳̟̬̻͝͞ͅn̵̵̡̨̜̻̲̥̪̩̻͔̲̯̤͕̠̖͢ạ̞̰̭͉̥̻͓͡and r̡̩̳͙̺͙̰̣͍͈̪͖̱̩̪͉͘o̧̲̠̩͠b̢̜͓̗̘̼̤̲͙͙̻̱́͜͠ͅi̸̷̡̛͍̗͎̱͈̪̱̩͜n̵̛̺͔̭̩̤͍̤̪. Of ______ and ______. Of WHAT?
Morgan wants to cry. She’s so close. She’s so close to NOTHING. It’s infuriating!
Another round of thunder and lightening roll through the sky, visible through the barrack’s portholes.
She feels the prick of warm tears in the corner of her eyes and she squints to hold them in. Lifting up her head, she grits her teeth and stifles a choked sob. “Why is it so hard to remember?!” She whispers, fighting the urge to scream.
Flopping down in bed, the tiny tactician covers her eyes with her forearm. Her entire face is swallowed up by an over-sized sleeve. She murmurs, “This is the worst. I hate thunderstorms.”
Morgan leaves her arm there, blocking out the next flash of lightning. She’s unaware of Sei’s eyes flashing in the dark, watching.
******
She stays like that for what feels like a long time. Morgan listens to the rain, to her heartbeat, and the gentle rolls thunder growing quieter and quieter. The storm is passing. From the creases in her sleeves, she can see the faintest light. Dawn is breaking.
Morgan heaves a melodramatic sigh.
Is she frustrated? Yes.
Is she just about furious? Absolutely.
Will she get up and face the day? No doubt about it!
“I think I’ll pick flowers today.” Morgan says, probably a little too loud for this early in the morning. She feels immediate catharsis at the idea. She finally moves her arm from her face, and swings her legs over the side of her cot, unable to stay still any longer.
“I wonder if daisies grow up here.”
Somehow, she feels small. Smaller than usual. Her body is shaking, she can’t stop it. She’s afraid, so very small and so very scared.
Morgan allows herself a small whimper. She grips her blankets tighter as another roll of thunder crashes, coupled with a flash of lightning.
“T-this is the w-worst.” She stammers through gritted teeth, trying to pull her blanket above her head. Morgan’s attempts are met with instant failure, as her blankets are weighed down on both sides. No matter how she tugs, her strength just does not seem to cut it.
Out of the dark suddenly come arms, followed shortly by a feminine-sleep addled, “Shhh.” Morgan is engulfed in those strong, sure arms. The world seems to go still. She’s enveloped in a soft curtain of blue.
All things considered, Morgan knows she should be frightened. She should yell, scream, and fuss to wrench herself away from the mystery-hugger (and the storm, for that matter). Yet, the smell of daisies is overwhelmingly comfortable here, the embrace so assured and full of love. She’s so small, and this presence is so big, so safe. It’s simply amazing.
Testing the water, she speaks, still quivering, “I h-hate thunderstorms.” She pouts into the embrace, her voice cracks as another clap of thunder rolls overhead.
“I know, Morgan.” The sleepy voice returns quietly, without hesitation. One of the arms shifts to smooth her hair down, comforting. “It will pass soon, and there is nothing to fear, for the world needs this rain-- and so do we. Could you imagine a harvest without any rain?”
Morgan wants to think rationally about the question. “Of cour-” CRACK. “EeEP.” She’s cut off, at the sight of a violent lightning flash through the shroud of blue.
“Wuh?” Another groggy voice enters the picture, from the other side of her. It’s a man, a pleasant tenor with extra bass because of sleep.
“Oh dear.” The hugger chuckles, “It seems you woke your father.”
“Is- is something wrong?” Father asks, stifling a yawn. Morgan feels him shift, coming to face her back. She can’t leave this embrace, but she wants to see. His hair, his eyes, something, anythin-
“No, no. All is well.” She, Mother? assures Father. “Though, our Morgan…?”
“Ah.” Father says, tone full of sympathy. Another hand, bigger, and (somehow) softer than Mother’s reaches her head and pats it. “Well, Morgan. Was it not you that thought ahead when ṕ̱̗̙͎͖̹̟͇͓͉̼̣̪͠a̧̛̛͢҉̦͔̭n̶̡̧̪̞̫̲n̴̨̡͔͎̠̹̖̱̯e͘͏͈͙̺͚̼͚̮̘͍͚͇̲̟̫̩̳̭̙̘̕͢ and y̧͔̼͉͉̰̙̫͇͜͡a̷͏͚͉͚̦͇̪̫̩̜̠͙̞̩̙̲͝ͅr̴̛̜̙̦̜̠͎̲͍͘n͚̤͈͕̟͎̕͘ȩ̬̭̳̺̙̱̩̦͎̜̥͎͜ smelled the static and the rain coming tonight? Isn’t that why you chose to stay with us?”
Morgan can’t comprehend the names, but she knows Father is correct. Her small hands grip the blanket, suddenly insecure. “Y-yes.” She nods in shy affirmation.
“Didn’t you say you were going to beat the storm this time?”
Father was right again, Morgan finds herself agreeing. “Yes…”
“You wanted to beat the storm, right?”
Again, she agrees, “mhmm…”
Father’s hand strokes her hair a few more times before ruffling it proudly. “I didn’t hear you cry tonight. You’re weathering the storm.”
“B-but…” Morgan wants to give an argument, any arguement.
“It’s okay to be afraid Morgan.” Mother speaks, again, warmly. “But remember, anything can change. Look,” Mother’s hand slides from the top of her head to her cheek. “No tears. All dry.” There’s a smile in her voice.
Morgan follows Mother’s lead, investigating her own face by slipping a small hand under Mother’s larger one. Mother was right; no tears, all dry.
A surge of pride rushes through her, a big smile grows on her face. Suddenly, the whole of the storm seems very, very far away. All that was left was a tiny Morgan tucked safely between Mother and Father. Together they were all wrapped up and away from winds, rain and crashing thunder.
“We’re proud of you,” Father says, sleep swiftly reclaiming his voice.
“Now, Morgan, try and get some sleep.” Mother adds in, also drowsy now. “Wake us if you need us, we’ll be right here until the morning.”
“Good night, Mother. Good night, Father.” Morgan finds herself saying. “I love you.”
Father’s light snoring could be heard already on one side, but mother responds, just barely, “I love you too, my Morgan.”
Surrounded by warmth, and covered in the sweet smell of daisies, Morgan snuggles into Mother’s continued embrace. Feeling for the first time (relatively) unafraid of--
CRACK. flaSH
Morgan shoots up in bed, throwing her covers to one side in alarm. It’s storming.
The room is cold and clammy. It smells heavily of rain, clear wind, and a little bit of summer. Outside of the barracks of the Steel Wyvern’s keep, the floating island swayed gently in the summer squall.
Furrowing her brow, Morgan wracks her brain, she cradles her head in her hands, lightly tapping on her skull. She feels big. She feels cold. She feels so distinctively lonely. She dreamt of something; Of l̷̨̗̘͔̣̬͎͢ͅͅu̷̷̧̜͖̫̞̟̰̭͎̟̮̤͖̝̬͈͟͞ͅͅç̢̢̢̞͓̗̩̜͖͓i̡͡͏̠̬̥̫̝͎͙͓̠̭̳̟̬̻͝͞ͅn̵̵̡̨̜̻̲̥̪̩̻͔̲̯̤͕̠̖͢ạ̞̰̭͉̥̻͓͡and r̡̩̳͙̺͙̰̣͍͈̪͖̱̩̪͉͘o̧̲̠̩͠b̢̜͓̗̘̼̤̲͙͙̻̱́͜͠ͅi̸̷̡̛͍̗͎̱͈̪̱̩͜n̵̛̺͔̭̩̤͍̤̪. Of ______ and ______. Of WHAT?
Morgan wants to cry. She’s so close. She’s so close to NOTHING. It’s infuriating!
Another round of thunder and lightening roll through the sky, visible through the barrack’s portholes.
She feels the prick of warm tears in the corner of her eyes and she squints to hold them in. Lifting up her head, she grits her teeth and stifles a choked sob. “Why is it so hard to remember?!” She whispers, fighting the urge to scream.
Flopping down in bed, the tiny tactician covers her eyes with her forearm. Her entire face is swallowed up by an over-sized sleeve. She murmurs, “This is the worst. I hate thunderstorms.”
Morgan leaves her arm there, blocking out the next flash of lightning. She’s unaware of Sei’s eyes flashing in the dark, watching.
******
She stays like that for what feels like a long time. Morgan listens to the rain, to her heartbeat, and the gentle rolls thunder growing quieter and quieter. The storm is passing. From the creases in her sleeves, she can see the faintest light. Dawn is breaking.
Morgan heaves a melodramatic sigh.
Is she frustrated? Yes.
Is she just about furious? Absolutely.
Will she get up and face the day? No doubt about it!
“I think I’ll pick flowers today.” Morgan says, probably a little too loud for this early in the morning. She feels immediate catharsis at the idea. She finally moves her arm from her face, and swings her legs over the side of her cot, unable to stay still any longer.
“I wonder if daisies grow up here.”