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[ Noire's had some time to think. Maybe too much time to think, but nevertheless, but there's no helping it. She hadn't ever expected that she would have found herself in the same situation, facing a friend-turned-enemy, abandoning her sense of mercy for the sake of someone else. The first time it had happened, she'd told herself that they would have preferred it that way. They wouldn't have wanted to stay a monster.

But Morgan, much like her best friend, hadn't really changed, so much as made a decision that had forced her and the others into opposition against him. It's too similar, and Noire's dwelt on it too much, and in the end, when she's counted the days... she settles against the wall of his housing block, his sword balanced across her knees and the page of Thoron tucked safely away into her quiver. She doesn't know what she'll say to him when he revives. She doesn't know how he'll react. She doesn't even know if this will be another case like Eugeo's, where he won't come back at all.

All Noire knows is that she needs to see him.

... Except she's far too tired to stake the place out very professionally, so should he ever open that door at some point, hopefully he won't hit that blonde archer half-slumped and dozing there. ]

[ When he wakes up with the smell of dust and metal lingering in his memory -- again -- Morgan lies in his bed and stares at the plain white ceiling of his room for a good half hour.

It isn't like blacking out on the battlefield and waking up in the medical tent. It isn't like waking up and knowing that your side must have won in the end because it's safe and quiet, and because otherwise you'd be dead. When he wakes up, there's no rest or relief; he wakes with fear.

He's afraid to know how the battle turned out. He wants to know, doesn't want to know. No matter what, he's lost. And rather than know defeat or disappointment, he'd rather know the intimate details of the ceiling for just a little longer.

Eventually, he climbs down from his bed. It's thoughtless and automatic. He checks himself and the new damage to his robe (regretfully) and stuffs some piece of food in his mouth. This house is a safe place. He doesn't want to go outside or face anyone, so for once in his life, he takes his time. Takes a shower, scrubs at his robe, checks the food in stock, lingers at the front door. But he can't stay here forever. He opens the door slowly and peeks out (some crazy destructive things were going on when last he was alive), but all he sees is...

Noire.

He freezes.

The last time he saw her, she was angry. It wasn't her blood and thunder side -- just her, all Noire, furious and resolute. And he can't blame her, no more than he can blame Morgan for killing him. He hurt Morgan, badly; there could be no forgiveness for that.

... But. She shouldn't be sleeping outside in the depths of winter like this. He hesitates, then steps out toward her. Maybe he can pick her up without waking her... ]

[ It's likely a gamble; Noire is not a heavy sleeper by any meaning of the term, but she's been exhausted lately from nearly every aspect of her life. That she's sleeping at all, that she doesn't even stir when Morgan approaches, is indicative enough. But there's always that chance that she'll wake up without warning, that the sword will clatter to the ground if she shifts, that something else will rouse her.

TIME FOR THE DECISIVE BATTLE, MORGAN. ]

[ OH NO... It is too soon for any more fatal encounters...

The closer he gets, the more this seems like a bad, terrible, no good idea. Putting a blanket on her and calling it a done deed would be safer, but leaving her out here doesn't seem right. So he keeps on sneaking up and reaches for his sword first...

... CAREFULLY...

... staring at Noire's face for signs of wakefulness as he tries to s l o w l y lift the weapon without disturbing her, like it's the world's worst game of Jenga. ]

Mm...

[ That gets a tiny noise out of her, hardly audible, but her eyes stay closed. Is she stirring? Is it a feint? HOW MANY LICKS DOES IT TAKE TO GET TO THE TOOTSIE ROLL CENTER OF A TOOTSIE POP?

The world may never know. ]

[ !!!!!....

He stops and holds his breath, probably looking like a total loser and possibly homicidal to passersby with his sword in his hand as he stands over an unconscious girl. Silently, he tucks his sword under his arm and leans back, hoping that perhaps somehow this extra bit of distance will keep her from teetering into wakefulness. ]

[ No further movement (except breathing, because we don't need any more dead bodies for the next month or so)... who knows, maybe she really is that tired. ]

[ OKAY... So far, so good. Back to this then...

He beeeends to scoop her up, one arm under her knees and the other at her back, sloth-like in speed. Seriously. He is terrified of her waking up right now. What if she hates him right now, what if she brought his sword as an instrument of layered revenge??

This whole idea is looking impossibly worse by the moment. Don't blow it, Morgan, DON'T BLOW IT. Just get her to a couch in the living room, put a blanket on her, and vamoose. Easy. EASY. Now, go...!! ]

[ Except Noire had learned years ago to be ~~paranoid~~ cautious, especially when sleeping. When you were slumbering was the ideal time for someone to cast the most malicious of hexes on you, or for the enemy to take your life before you ever woke up, or carry you into the arms of slavery (an option she hadn't considered until her arrival in the past, but one she was very much wary of now). And when he picks her up, she abruptly jerks awake with a panicked squeak, clutching at his shoulders because her feet aren't touching the ground, is she being carried on a wyvern, does she even have feet--

It'll take a few seconds. ]

[ YOU BLEW IT, MORGAN.

The struggle not to drop her is real. He automatically leans back and clutches her close in turn, and then accidentally drops his sword and tries not to stab himself in the foot. ]

Hrrk??

[ The strangled sound of unsureness and startlement. ]

[ About the time that Noire realizes who's holding her, she also realizes that he just made a sound that could have been bad, and he's very clearly not dead now, but that could easily change or maybe this was some very strange dream where she was being carry-haunted by his ghost.

Still more disoriented than anything, she holds on. ]

M-Morgan?

[ There's a whole lot of variety in her tone, running through the gamut of emotions here. Hope that he's really alive and all right, worry that he's hurting or that he's more than prepared to try and gut her with the sword she'd had in her lap, some doubt, some grief, some confusion, some... residual bits of anger. But she waits to say more than that. ]

[ The complicated tone of her voice is enough to make him pause. He's no doubt caused her pain -- if not directly to her, then through the other Morgan -- and he can hear it simply in the way she says his name. His expression draws down, all lowered eyes and brows, and he doesn't look at her as he moves to gently set her on her feet. ]

Hey, Noire... You shouldn't sleep in the open.

[ Even being awake in the open seems like hazard now. ]

Edited 2014-04-20 00:56 (UTC)

I didn't mean to... [ There's still so much uncertainty in her voice, and her posture, once she's back on her feet. But when she looks at him-- and realizes he's not looking at all, she clears her throat. ] A-actually, there was something I wanted to do...

Hm? [ He looks back at her, surprised. ]

[ Clench your teeth, Morgan, there's a right hook coming at your jaw.

Because she might as well put all of those lessons with Zohra to good use. ]

What were you thinking?!

[ Well, so much for being quiet. Noire's eyes are glistening, and there's color rising high in her cheeks-- because still, still, it yanks at her, this gods-damned frustration. ]

[ Well, he wasn't expecting that. Or maybe he was... but it's still a shock, getting punched in the face by Noire.

He stumbles half a step, a hand automatically going to his jaw, and recovers slowly. When he looks back at her, wincing, it's difficult to meet her eyes again. But he does, knowing full well that he deserves anything she'll dish out at him. ]

I couldn't leave her... Not when she needed me most.

[ But where his voice held conviction on the battlefield, it now holds fatigue. ]

[ Thankfully, she won't be going for a one-two combo here; her hand lowers to join the other, both trembling fists clenched at her sides. ]

You-- did you ever stop to think that maybe it didn't have to turn out that way? That you didn't have to try to kill Morgan, or fight any of us? Or did our bonds seriously mean that little to you, that you honestly thought this was the only way to help your mother??

[ The words come rapidly, swelling, rushing waves hurrying towards a waterfall. And all this time, Noire keeps her eyes on Morgan's face, because she wants him to see, she wants him to know-- ]

You could have talked to us! We could have helped, found a way to stop Grima without anyone having to die-- at least we would have tried everything before it came to that! I never wanted to be your enemy-- I never wanted to hurt you, and have you smile like it's fine this way because it wasn't fine!! Why--

[ Her voice hitches in a sob, raw and broken. ]

Why... [ And Noire's shoulders slump as she brings her hands up to hide her face. Now. Now it hurts to look at him. ]

Why couldn't you have believed in us a little more...?

I believed in you... to do what good Shepherds are supposed to do.

[ Her words cut deep and his expression bleeds, but his voice manages to barely wobble, level and reasoned and heartbroken. ]

How could I ask you to go easy on Grima? How could I ask you to do anything but try to kill him with everything you had? Killing him was the only right thing to do, but me... I couldn't.

[ He laughs once, disbelieving, because he wants to be a master tactician someday. How can he when he couldn't do such a simple thing? ]

And I couldn't ask you to have mercy, because Grima doesn't deserve it. But my mother... she deserves everything. Everything I have. Even if I made no difference. Even if it put me against impossible odds...

[ And the tears begin to roll down his cheeks, because this is the truth: ]

You don't need me. Not the way you needed to kill her.

[ Given the choice, she would have wanted a few minutes to quiet her breathing, so that it didn't sound so broken. She would have waited until she was sure she could look at his face with composure.

But Morgan's words abruptly throw all of those plans and wishes into ruin. She remembers her best friend, talking about tactics, understanding that lives would be lost. Pragmatic. And she remembers what she had done.

Noire's head shoots up, and even with tears streaking trails down too-pale cheeks, she stares at Morgan-- and then reaches out to place one gloved hand flat against his chest. ]

Don't you... [ she exhales, unsteadily. ] Don't you dare say that. Stop thinking that one thing is more important than the other, when that's not the case. When-- when Mother died-- [ and it's pathetic, how much the memory still slams against her throat, forcing her words to emerge thinly. ] I honestly wished it had been me. If it hadn't been for the others, I would have been lost.

... My friends mean the world to me-- and-- [ she drops her head, forcing the words out as fiercely as she can. ] So do you, Morgan! I need you, to be there for my best friend in a way that I can't! I need you to keep learning archery and to make me smile, because it's always been so easy to do around you! I need you to give us a stronger chance against Grima so your mother had more of a reason to come back to us! And I need you, because if you're not here, how am I supposed to tell you not to give up without trying everything and that-- that you're not alone??

[ Her eyes and then her words are almost too much to bear. But he takes in every moment of it. This woman baring her heart to him deserves no less. And though his vision bends and blurs, and a hollow carves out in his chest with every word, and the shame creeps in to fill it, hot and buzzing, he listens.

He listens.

And it's hard and it's painful to have the truth of his blindness laid before him, but he listens.

And when she's done, he has no answer. The silence between them makes that obvious. But slowly he lifts a hand to her cheek and raises her head, and wipes away her tears with his thumb. To apologize, to comfort, to touch. Because what she feels is real, as little as he knew it before -- or didn't want to know it. It's real, as much as the sword at their feet and her hand on his chest, and it was only his willful ignorance that kept him seeing it.

His voice comes subdued, defeated. ] ... I'm sorry, Noire. I'm an idiot.

[ Her breath catches on a tiny, tired note when he reaches out, and she can feel the warm swipe of his thumb just under her eye. There. This is the Morgan she knows, the one who didn't smile like it hurt him, and that simple touch both comforts and leaves an ache behind-- even as she tries to blink back more tears so that his thumb isn't stuck with a monumental task.

After a few seconds, in which she slowly nods - yes, she's agreeing that he's an idiot - she moves that hand from its place on his chest and lightly presses her fingers to his jaw, where she'd punched him. A silent apology. Not for hitting him, but for maybe doing it as hard as she had.

And then Noire smiles, and it's a weak, trembling thing, but it's there. ]

Welcome back, Morgan.

[ He chuckles shakily at the pure cheek of her to nod like that. ]

It's good to see we're in agreement, then.

[ His jaw still smarts, and he'll have to commend her for that later. But now her touch makes it better, and he lowers his cheek into her palm almost subconsciously as his own hand drops away. ]

You're quite the welcome wagon, you know that?

... Sorry. [ And she even looks properly contrite, as much as someone so wan can pull off. It's hard to pull her hand away right after he leans the curve of his cheek into it, so she'll keep it there a minute longer. ]

I wasn't actually sure if you'd want to see me at all, and I didn't give you a choice in the matter, and then I exploded at you like that--

[ She'll draw her hand back now. Things you feel embarrassed about after you deck a guy. ]

[ And he lets it go, but not without a long look in its wake. ]

... No, it was perfect. You got your point across pretty effectively, I think. And I don't regret that you did it -- do you?

action; 4/19 or whenever the heck he revives

correctamundo

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