fic: my lady sleeps in pagan bedspreads
Oct. 7th, 2009 07:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: my lady sleeps in pagan bedspreads
Series: Merlin
Character/Pairing: Gwen/Morgana
Rating: PG at most
Word count: 405
A/N: the title and cut actually references #615, which was one of my own original works.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic: Morgana/Gwen, a noble lady's secrets / 52_flavours: 17 ) Our star is fading. A bit AU.
Lady Morgana always surrounds herself in flowers, some plucked up for her hair, more to place in her dress, wrapped up between her breasts, by her heart. She always smells beautiful, a beautiful Ophelia drowning. When she undresses wilted flowers fall about her and the scent prevails, covering anyone around in the aroma of dying flowers. In her more lucid moments, Morgana lays out, allows her hair to be untangled. She looks far away, muttering of worlds far off.
They came again she says.
And of course it is the dreams, the darkness which descends to gnaw at her precious sanity. She is ill, and should she not be the king’s ward, she would be drowned as a witch, or put away to the house of the mad.
She, herself has been plucked up, taken as Lady Morgana’s own. The fragrance lingers on her, left on fingerprints, claiming. She isn’t merely a handmaiden but Lady Morgana’s handmaid, which sets her apart. She braids and she listens, she heats bathwater and laces up dresses. Most of all, she comes to her lady’s screams no matter how far away, no matter what distance. She is there at every waking, the shuddering, the dispossessed, drifting gaze.
And then lady Morgana buries herself close, face to her lap, hair streaming down like twisting, unmapped rivers, dark and dreary. At night she is grave, whispering of worlds that never were, never have been, perhaps never will be. Tales of evil, of her lady’s descent to a twisted madness. Tales of old, tales of her married off to a king and loved by a knight.
They are only but dreams. I will never leave your side, she says.
Her lady stills, yet there is still is still a restless brought on by the whispers in the night.
Gwen strokes her lady’s hair. She hopes those dreams never come to pass.
Series: Merlin
Character/Pairing: Gwen/Morgana
Rating: PG at most
Word count: 405
A/N: the title and cut actually references #615, which was one of my own original works.
comment_fic: Morgana/Gwen, a noble lady's secrets / 52_flavours: 17 ) Our star is fading. A bit AU.Lady Morgana always surrounds herself in flowers, some plucked up for her hair, more to place in her dress, wrapped up between her breasts, by her heart. She always smells beautiful, a beautiful Ophelia drowning. When she undresses wilted flowers fall about her and the scent prevails, covering anyone around in the aroma of dying flowers. In her more lucid moments, Morgana lays out, allows her hair to be untangled. She looks far away, muttering of worlds far off.
They came again she says.
And of course it is the dreams, the darkness which descends to gnaw at her precious sanity. She is ill, and should she not be the king’s ward, she would be drowned as a witch, or put away to the house of the mad.
She, herself has been plucked up, taken as Lady Morgana’s own. The fragrance lingers on her, left on fingerprints, claiming. She isn’t merely a handmaiden but Lady Morgana’s handmaid, which sets her apart. She braids and she listens, she heats bathwater and laces up dresses. Most of all, she comes to her lady’s screams no matter how far away, no matter what distance. She is there at every waking, the shuddering, the dispossessed, drifting gaze.
And then lady Morgana buries herself close, face to her lap, hair streaming down like twisting, unmapped rivers, dark and dreary. At night she is grave, whispering of worlds that never were, never have been, perhaps never will be. Tales of evil, of her lady’s descent to a twisted madness. Tales of old, tales of her married off to a king and loved by a knight.
They are only but dreams. I will never leave your side, she says.
Her lady stills, yet there is still is still a restless brought on by the whispers in the night.
Gwen strokes her lady’s hair. She hopes those dreams never come to pass.
