won't you wrap the night around me? Who: Storm Kapur & Morgayne Falk What: "You don't think it's contagious?" Where: Cathedral When: Last week Rating: Mentions of death & disease Status: Compete
When whispers of the plague had begun to circulate through the guildhalls, Morgayne had been revisited by an old nightmare. Her father, a marionette of rotting flesh, darkness where his eyes should be. His cold hands around her neck. You belong with us, he would say. There’s nothing left for you here.
She always awoke screaming.
But the dreams only strengthened her resolve. When she ran through the park, the sharp wind whipping her cheeks raw was a stinging, brilliant reminder: she was here. She was alive. And she would stay alive. Abstaining from visiting the plague-ridden was therefore a natural, logical decision, and Morgayne stood by it. So what if she never dropped by? The victims would either fight through it and live, or follow her father into an early grave. Her presence wouldn’t change that.
And yet. Hearing of Storm’s condition had awakened in her the baffling desire to visit. To see how he was. To offer her company, if nothing more. Even more baffling was the guilt that her abstention inspired, as Morgayne realized that if she didn’t go to see him and he died, she would regret it. So she broke from her morning route, running back toward the Cathedral.
The acolyte who escorted her to Storm’s quarters informed her in a stern whisper that she wasn’t to trouble Mr. Kapur if he was asleep, but Morgayne barely listened. She tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly becoming very conscious of her tousled appearance.
And so, while he had hoped for it, Storm was ultimately surprised when Morgayne had arrived at his door. Now he wondered why he had even hoped for it in the first place; infirm as he was, the boy could barely prop himself up on the pillows to speak with her. He certainly looked a fright as well, he judged by the sound of his voice, the tremor of his throat. (He had yet to peer into a looking glass; this was, no doubt, for the best.)
He wrung his hands, although, in his condition, the nervous gesture was made weak and feeble. There was little he could say that did not immediately tangle in his throat. In the end, eyes not leaving his own entwined hands, he settled for the banal.
“Thank you for coming.”
As it turned out, Morgayne needn’t have worried about how presentable she looked. While she certainly hadn’t expected Storm to be the picture of health, she also hadn’t expected him to look quite so pale and sickly. It frightened her, in a way. Part of her had hoped that she would see Storm and be reassured—sure, some people were dying of the plague, but who was to say that he would be one of them?
Instead, Morgayne was not only not reassured, but now more worried than before.
“No need to thank me,” she responded quietly, not sure what to say. She continued to linger in her spot by the doorway.
Not without some difficulty, he swallowed. Storm did not press her to come further in, his mind desperately seeking something to fill the stretching silence.
“I should apologise,” he began lamely. “There is little in the way of entertainment.”
Morgayne wished she’d thought to bring something—a book, perhaps, or even snacks— but here she was, empty-handed.
“Would you like anything?” she asked. “I could bring something by.” She felt oddly, unbearably polite.
“I am fine,” he said, not without a tiny grimace at the irony of his words. “With all that the mages have provided, well, there is not much left to ask for but your presence.” Storm offered a smile, or tried to. “I quite prefer you and Conan to my own thoughts.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Conan said he was going to come by.”
It was a weak attempt at conversation, and she knew it. Idle chatter, which had always come so easily to her, seemed to be beyond her grasp. All Morgayne could think of was the prognosis that the healers grimly decreed, the hulking shadow of death lurking just beyond the corner. It seemed preposterous to engage in small talk when the end could be so near, and yet, she felt incapable of saying anything she truly wanted to.
Conan had been another story entirely, plowing on to fill the room with his cheer and determination, as though death was nothing more than another dragon they would conquer in time. It had been simple enough, then, for Storm to laugh, to pretend. While Morgayne’s presence was also soothing, in its way, he could not now act as though he was well. His life felt like sand, slipping steadily through his fingertips as he tried to hold on. For a brief moment struck by wonder, he looked at her. And then his thoughts shifted to Ordalia, the harsh gales of the desert storm.
He’d promised they would go, all three of them.
“You do not have to stay,” he said. His voice was thick with something more than illness, the stoicism writ on his face in too heavy a hand. “It is enough to have seen you.”
Her hand drew to the doorframe, some part of her eager for the excuse to leave the room. “To have seen me?” Morgayne raised her eyebrows, attempted a weak smile. “I haven’t even said anything interesting.”
“Well.” And here was now a hint of humour, a weak attempt to match her own. “Go on, then. Perhaps you will surprise me.”
“All right.”
Tentatively, she stepped forward.
“If you’re interested in some rumormongering, I did hear something good about Sir Garrison and that visiting Councilwoman from Ordalia…”