Myopic
Another movement, another thread passing through the fabric – another life bound by her fingers as they moved around the design of a three that held hope for those who had never known life. It was a beautiful form, full of delicate turns and shining promises that blinded her for the destruction it would create.
She wanted to believe – she wanted it to become true – she wanted to see Arthur risen in glory, magic shining freely through the land, a peaceful Morgause and herself a happy maid – but none of this could ever come while Uther ruled, and with every night – even day and every thread – she could see him growing stronger and Arthur growing weaker, falling further away from her, closer to him – and magic burning in rage as her kin burned in the pyres that crosses the whole of the land, the whole of time, never stopping, never wavering, never, even after all magic was gone and the land was dying.
She couldn't bear to think about it – she couldn't worry about it – she could only sew and hope for what would come, for a future so frail and unsteady as glass, one she could barely glimpse and never grasp, moving further away with each look in spite of her efforts to reach it until it was gone and so was she.
(Morgana never knew that it was her own doubts and gestures that pushed it all away).