Morrighan Kane | Ronan Lynch (madeforwar) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2019-03-17 19:28:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !narrative, * terri, c: morrighan kane |
WHO: Morrighan Kane & Ronan Lynch
WHEN: March 17, 2019; afternoon.
WHERE: The Warehouse
SUMMARY: Morrighan visits her dreams a little differently than usual, and it leads to a surprising new trick.
WARNINGS: Feels. Spoilers for The Raven Cycle. Cursing because lbr, this is Mo and Ronan.
She had dreamt of Cabeswater a thousand times. When she went there, however, she was never Morrighan. She was always Ronan: the boy that dreamed things. She would look into a stream and see his sharp, unforgiving features. That’s the way that it was supposed to be. She dreamed of the events in his life, and of his dreams, too. They never existed in the same space, and in the dreams, she was never aware of herself as some other entity. She was Ronan, until she woke up and put all the pieces into place...only then did Ronan and Morrighan separate in her mind. This time, when she drifted into Cabeswater, she could tell something was different right off. She looked down to her own hands, with chipped black nail polish clinging stubbornly to her fingers. Reaching up, she ran her hands through turquoise hair and then down her body to find the curves she always knew to be there, “What the fuck?” The words were muttered to herself, but she looked around that familiar glen warily. There was a rustle of wind through the trees. Sequere. They spoke to her this time. The whisper started all around, until she could pinpoint it. Sequere. “This is probably a bad fucking idea.” She told the trees, but they just rustled again, that same persistent whisper urging her to the forest. Sighing, she stepped off of the beaten path, her hands brushing over the bark of the trees as she trampled through the forest. They led her deeper into the dense crush of trees, past the river that ran backwards, and finally to a small clearing. He was wearing a tight black shirt, and she could see the peak of his tattoo creeping up the back of his neck. His hair was shaved close to his skull, and he sat there on a raised, flat rock with his feet dangling down over some edge that she couldn’t readily see. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, fist clenching in some protest of whatever mind-fuckery her head was putting her through now, “Hey, asshole. What are you playing at?” His voice was lower than her own, almost a growl, and a barking laugh passed his lips, “We. I think you mean, what are we playing at. You’re me.” She toed at a rock and kicked it into some underbrush. She forced back a sigh and slowly approached, lowering herself onto the rock next to him, but she couldn’t make herself look at him. It was too strange. They weren’t supposed to be this way...aware of each other. Was it something that was just her? Because he was the Greywarren? “I hate you a little, you know,” she told him quietly. “Get in line,” she could tell just by the tone of his voice that he was smirking, “Besides, that just means you hate yourself, and that’s on-brand.” She wanted to punch him, but didn’t, “We’re too fucking similar. It’s a real bitch sometimes.” “I know,” Ronan told her, which just served to infuriate her even more. He shouldn’t know, but he did. They were connected in a way that she couldn’t even begin to explain. She looked down at her own empty hands even though they felt like there was a weight in them...like there should be something there, small and thrumming. She glanced over to him just barely and noticed that his hands were clasped around something that she couldn’t see. “Can I see you this way because we’re dreamers?” “Probably. Fuck if I know. You and me, we’re both the greywarren,” Ronan looked out into the forest, still and coiled as though he was ready to spring up at any moment. “Not quite, I don’t think. I’ve never brought anything out of a dream,” Morrighan argued, though there were times when she thought she should have. Sometimes her heart ached for it. “I think that’s why we’re here,” he looked down to his hands and her eyes followed his gaze. “What?” Instead of talking, he unfurled his hands, revealing a tiny bird clutched there. It was small and frail. It looked like a forgotten splotch of ink or maybe breathing tar. “Is that--” she started, throat dry. “Chainsaw.” He nodded once, and then gently transferred the baby bird to her once-empty palms. The weight there was just right, the thrumming was the quick pulse of her tiny heart and squeeze of her lungs. “How?” “You know time is strange in Cabeswater. The Chainsaw I raised is out there somewhere,” he gestured, she assumed, the general area of outside their dreams and Henrietta, “But I found her here.” “Fuck,” Morrighan looked down at the bird, small and ugly and hers. “Wake up,” he told her. “I don’t think it’s going to work.” ”Wake up.” She focused on the weight of the raven in her hands...on the poke of the feathers, the beat of her heart, and the quick breaths of her lungs. ”Wake up.” Morrighan woke from her unintentional nap with a breath gasped and dragged into her lungs, sputtering a little even though her limbs, for a moment, felt too heavy to move. She could still feel it...that steady beat. It was a few moments before she dared to open her eyes...before she could move, and when she did, she looked at her hand there, open palmed on the bed. Inside her grasp was an inky black splotch...a breathing thing. Her voice cracked, tears welling into her eyes unbidden, “Chainsaw.” |