𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑

        she is dripping wet. her doublet is soaked through from passing the path of the storm & she feels as though she is freezing to the bone. she should have known it would rain on the only day when she was caught both unawares and unprepared. if she’d had time before she’d been banished she would’ve brought her things, an umbrella among them; if she’d had time she doubted she’d be in this position at all.  ❛ that’s very kind of you. ❜ she surveys the other’s face, eyes glancing to her ears for tell-tale points only to find none. human, then.  ❛ i won’t stay long—just until the storm passes. ❜

                    “I am,” he admits, a lopsided little smile sparking at the corner of his lips. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve wandered really. Something DREW me here—-though,” a pensive finger rests against his upper lip, “I’m not too sure WHAT.” Perhaps it was something so SIMPLE as a yearning for the peace of being lost in another world, or an INSTINCTIVE venture off the dirt trail. Whatever had lead him here wasn’t something he entirely understood. “I mean—-I came here, but now, I am lost—-” easily distracted the elderly man shakes his head to clear his line of vision of stray silver strings & extends a wobbly hand, “Antonio.”

          𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 of a second, when the gleam of the white mask is hit by the low lights of the stage as they dim. when the darkness regains his composure, he sulks back into the shadows of the rafters, amber eyes almost burning like the flames of dying candles, to contrast the atmosphere to surround him.     ❝ the word of importance there, mademoiselle, is nearly. and I did… not fall. ❞     ah, so the darkness is prone to lies, not that it is a sentiment that should surprise anyone.     ❝ take this encounter as a warning, and that the garnier cannot rest if there are rats like you still scurrying about at this hour. ❞

There is much about her to marvel at; Morgana does so discretely, as she follows her through the slender bodies of the trees. She has thought of running away before, like a child from home; she has thought of fleeing the widening eye of persecution that hangs upon Camelot and finding a hideaway in the wilderness. It always held a terror for her: a maiden weaned on the noble court. She had not thought anyone could make it look so easy — so comfortable. 

But here there is a sanctuary, a gate, a garden. There are flowers peering with cheerful faces at their passing. She is careful to tread lightly. 

Beyond the green door, there is a home — a real home, one that reminds her, with all the force of a gloved fist, of childhood. Not the austere halls of the castle, but a smaller, richer kingdom. An open fire, a brace of rabbits tied alongside, herbs hung upon the walls, a mother’s singing. She stands a moment in the doorway, blinking.

“This is… beautiful.” She takes a step, finally, indoors. “I can see why you don’t miss the cities.” Where the common folk are thrust together, on top of each other, clamouring to breathe, and the streets are thick with the shouting of merchants and the smell of their wares, and every path is trodden by a hundred feet.

She turns around in the small hut, her smile stretching. A nervousness to her now, as she thinks what she might say next, some pleasantry, a diversion. 

“It reminds me of my father’s— of my old home. He used to say my mother had a herb for every ailment. I don’t remember if she really did. Sometimes he would say things just to be infuriating.” A shaky laugh; a breath— “You read a lot?”  

“thank  you.  i  do  try  to  keep  it  -  friendly,”  there  are  certain  beliefs  about  witches  -  certain  stereotypes.  horrible,  dark  houses  are  among  them,  ones  with  cobwebs  in  the  corners  and  rickety  little  chairs,  ominous  fires  rumbling  in  the  hearth  with  a  questionable  pot  above  it.  honoria  does  her  best  to  flout  such  ideas  by  opting  for  soft  curtains  and  plush  pillows,  as  much  light  as  possible  filtering  into  the  space.  magic  is  not  evil.  it  does  not  have  to  be,  anyways,  and  she  would  rather  not  have  the  sinister  trappings  of  someone  scheming  something.

besides  -  there  is  something  kinder  about  this  place  than  any  other  she  remembers.  palaces  were  always  lovely,  yes,  but  something  cold  and  impersonal  always  lingered  just  beneath  the  gilt  edges  of  the  finery.  things  can  be  beautiful  and  unkind,  no  matter  their  intentions.  this  little  place,  with  pieces  of  herself  scattered  about  in  the  flowers  pressed  beneath  book  pages  and  the  smell  of  thyme  in  the  air,  is  far  more  hers  than  anywhere  else  her  feet  have  tread.

@shemagickd liked.

          ❝ 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 !  and besides, you should be more careful. ❞

yes  ;   celebrate .  something  much  needed  in  winterfell .  it  had  been  so  long  since  there  was  something  to  be  happy  about .  it  seems  as  if  the  world  had  possessed  hardship  after  hardship  for  those  in  westeros ,  it  was  now  the  dawn  of  a  new  realm  &&  perhaps  the  warmth  of  summer  could  bring  with  it  promising  &&  optimistic  beginnings . 

❝  winter  is  coming   ;   the  words  of  my  family  —-  &&  yet ,  here  i  am  embracing  the  season  changes .  ❞  a  glimmer  of  amusement  flickers  beneath  her  words ,  irony  at  its  best .  ❝  though  a  summer  feast  should  be  had ,  with  the  warmth  comes  the  promise  of  new  grain .  ❞

“it  will  come  again,”  the  seasons  returning,  a  cycle,  a  wheel  spinning  beneath  them  and  keeping  the  world  on  it’s  axis.  perhaps  things  will  not  circle  out  of  control  again  -  not  for  a  little  while,  at  least.  she  can  hope.  and  in  the  meantime,  spring  and  summer  bring  with  them  the  promise  of  flowers,  of  honey,  of  warm  air  on  her  cheeks.  there  are  things  she  remembers  like  those,  things  she  has  no  business  remembering.  perhaps  the  newly  blooming  ground  will  bring  with  it  clarity. “  -  and  you  will  be  -  we  will  -  be  ready,  when  it  does.”

“y’know it’s not as interesting as all that- hang on. sorry, i might’ve misheard y’ there. did you say PIXIES?”

Excitement and dismay and now the fresh kernels of hope all bloom across her face before she extinguishes each one like a snuffed candle. This is treason; that word alone hammers in her throat, as if on an anvil. Consorting with witches. Consorting; aiding; associating — all words that could lead to the pyre. Honoria has made no admittance, not yet; Morgana could plead ignorance, if it came to it — but ignorance was never an excuse for those who dallied before. 

Besides. This girl has opened her hearth to her. This girl, who she’d found barely an hour ago, bent scrupulously over a hawthorn. She has the greater reason to flinch. One word breathed to the wrong ears could summon a phalanx of men marching for her blood. 

“That is — you are — kind to offer.” Her hospitality is more than kind; it is brave. “I think I would like to see your home.” She is a girl again, stumbling the first time a knight approached her in the lists and asked for her favour. She stumbles here, too, her breath hot in her throat, shallow and tangled around her pattering heart. Pattering: like the footsteps of mice. Skittish, darting in different directions. 

“You’ve— always lived alone?” She follows, past the leaning shoulders of the oak, the fresh bloom of lilac, past the downcast caps of the mushrooms. She can imagine a life tucked away here, an existence nestled between the trees and the bend of the river. She cannot imagine a child, unprotected, without family. “There must have been dangers…” She knows: the dangers have been repeated to her until she sees them lurking behind every shrub. Beasts. Bandits. Mercenaries. She envies Honoria her fearlessness. 

But then, even bandits fear a witch’s open door.

she  starts  towards  the  cottage,  serene  smile  on  her  face  as  calloused  hands  press  to  the  sun - warmed  bark  of  the  trees.  home  is  just  as  much  this  path  -  these  woods  -  as  it  is  the  interior  of  her  modest  house  and  it’s  slanting  roof  and  stone  walls,  the  window - boxes  filled  to  overflowing  with  green  plants  that  spill  over  their  confines.  as  the  two  draw  closer  she  shakes  her  head  with  a  smile,  “oh  -  not  really.  you’re  doing  me  a  favor,  really  -  as  much  as  the  fae  are  friends,  they  are  not  good  company.”  there’s  a  laugh  snaked  through  her  voice,  light  and  happy.

wards  are  greeted  quietly  as  the  pair  cross  them.  words  of  hello  and  friend  and  safe  and  guest,  warm  and  cordial.  the  wards  keep  her  safe,  keep  her  little  home  harder  to  find  if  you  are  not  welcome,  harder  still  to  approach  if  ill  intent  colors  your  heart  coldly.  “here?  yes,  i’ve  been  alone  while  out  here,”  there  was  a  before,  of  course.  two  befores  -  three  befores  -  feather  beds  and  dirt  ground  and  the  little  room  in  the  servant’s  quarters.  this  is  her  favorite  so  far,  though.  truly  hers.

shoulders  rise  and  fall  in  a  shrug  as  honoria  picks  across  the  garden  and  towards  the  front  door  of  her  home.  “not  horrible  ones.  the  woods  -  like  me,  as  i  like  them.  we  understand  each  other,”  smile  is  a  little  impish  now,  “the  bandits  are  not  fond  of  pestering  me.”  she  has  not  hurt  them,  never,  but  -  frightened  with  illusions  and  bursts  of  bright  light.  they  do  not  bother  her  too  horribly.

It is not a confession, but it’s what she hoped for; relief breaks across her brow a moment before she thinks to compose herself. Honoria’s tone is mild, displeasured; it suggests both familiarity and condemnation. A simple peasant girl would gasp — dreadful! How did you escape! But there is a calmness about her; Morgana cannot shock her.

Affirmation aches in her throat. She can hear herself saying all the things she has wanted to shout at Uther Pendragon, guardian, tyrant. It’s not magic that’s to blame, only those who use it for ill. Magic is not wrong, it’s not — evil. How she wants to hear someone else say it. She catches the hunger in her own gaze, quickly averts it. 

“Then, do you live here…?”

She has already anticipated the answer, yes. It must be yes, it must all be true, everything, even the druids. That they live here, hidden from the king’s men; a peaceful, nonviolent people. Magic running through them like ore: natural, inseparable. Perhaps, if she is deemed harmless, she will be permitted to some secret grove, a camp, a settlement ripe with people, and they will look at her with understanding, with acceptance, they will tell her, you are welcome, Morgana——

“Surely,” A little breathless with impatience; her eyes pick at the basket, cornucopia of herbs and salves, then cling again to the girl’s face. “Surely, there are others…”

something  tender  lingers  in  her  gaze,  the  way  morgana  struggles  between  some  mixture  of  elation  and  hunger,  excitement  and  the  need  to  stomp  out  the  flames  of  happiness  and  interest;  it’s  familiar.  gaze  follows  down  to  the  basket  and  then  upward  again.  magic  is  -  is  honoria,  now.  it  has  been  since  she  severed  the  spell,  cleared  her  muddled  mind,  chose  to  embrace  freedom  rather  than  position.  she  still  wonders,  sometimes,  if  her  predecessor  is  happy.  wed  to  a  prince,  with  all  the  pretty  baubles  and  gowns  and  fine  dinners  she  would  dream  of.  it  had  always  felt  wonderful,  but  now  it  just  feels  hollow.  fool’s  gold.

“oh  -  yes,  a  little  ways  away,”  her  home  is  a  little  cottage,  rich  soil  and  small  garden,  a  brook  that  branches  off  this  river  babbling  and  leaves  casting  dancing  shadows  across  the  grass.  it  is  only  a  few  minute’s  walk  from  here,  though  difficult  to  find  if  one  does  not  know  the  path  of  landmarks  -  the  looming,  twisted  oak,  the  spattering  of  lilacs,  the  faerie  circle  and  sparrow’s  nest.  others  has  her  pausing,  though.  “i  live  on  my  own,  though  -”  ah.

she  knows  of  the  druids  more  than  truly  knowing  them.  honoria  is  something  -  different  than  them,  but  the  spattering  of  times  she  has  met  their  group  it  had  been  amicable,  if  not  wary  on  both  ends.  “there  are ... others,  though.  i  only  see  them  on  occasion.  it  is  safer  to  remain  in  small  numbers.”  a  pause,  considering  for  a  long  moment,  “would  you  like  to  come  to  my  home?  these  things  are  easier  to  talk  about  over  tea.”

@shemagickd said: ‘ you’re welcome here, there is room for everyone. ’ bonnie & clyde ! / accepting !

“BRILLIANT. love that. you’d be surprised how many people hear the word ALIEN an’ decide t’ change their minds.”