Such a lack of power felt so wrong.
So shameful.
For the first few months after her encounter with Gaius, Morgause found herself unable to carry out even the simplest of tasks—Morgana had to do most all of it.
She was bedbound…and to a makeshift bed with only a coarse, tattered, and dirty burlap sheet to cover her frail body. Morgana would tuck her in the best she could and then the next day help pack what few items they had and set off to the next place. The duo couldn't afford to stay in once place…to be found. The time to be found wasn't right, Morgause decided. Not yet.
But she knew all too well that in her condition—battered and limping, not quite walking right and unable to pinpoint the reason—she was much unsuited for travel and the constant mobility that came with it. The long nights of travel were beginning to take their toll—at first hindering the healing process and then stopping it all together.
It was worth it to ensure her half-sister's survival.
Morgana was the one to find their latest shelter. Morgause felt something of a connection to it; the countryside house was a broken thing.
Abandoned…
Rundown...
Ill.
The roof did little to keep drips of cool rain off of her marred face.
Morgause lie on her side—the side she and Morgana had jokingly labeled her 'bad side'. At this point the jokes had lost their humor leaving nothing but a dry and sour after taste. No joke could fill in nor removed the emptiness Morgause felt.
The emptiness left by her inability to do magic (even the simplest charm)…to fight… even walk right.
By her lack of power.
The lack of everything she had once been. Everything she had once loved about herself.
Morgana hovered a moist rag—abundant with holes—over Morgause's head, instructing her to turn her so that she could cleans the wounds. Scar tissue, Morgause wanted to correct. But she bit her tongue. With hesitation the woman did as she was told.
Sister or not, Morgause still found herself uncomfortable letting Morgana see the grotesque mapping of scars mapping the right side of her face.
Morgana's looks of sorrow and pity were not lost on her and she'd be forced to lie. To tell Morgana that is was okay…
She was okay.
Morgana brushed the cloth over Morgause's cheek in a series of fluid and gentle motion. Almost too gentle, as if she thought her half-sister was something weak and breakable. And maybe she was right. And she resented it really, to be seen in such a regard. She longed to be seen as a woman of strength again, longed to take care of herself.
And yet here she was, lukewarm water dripping down the side of her face and invasively into her ear. She silently motioned for Morgana to fetch her a dry cloth of some sort. The young woman retrieved the rag, but instead of handing it over to Morgause herself, Morgana mopped up the stray drips.
Morgause didn't have the heart to tell Morgana that she didn't want nor need her help with such an easy task.
Morgana disappeared over to the other side of the room once again, this time coming back with a wooden cup. She held it out.
Before Morgana had a chance to do it for her—as if trying to remind herself that she could—Morgause sat herself upright. It took much more effort than it really should have, leaving her arms strained and tense.
"I told you not to push yourself." Morgana half-scolded as she bought the cup to Morgause's lips.
The former sorceress let the liquid seep through. The water left a very earthy taste in her mouth, she fought the urge to spit it to the floor next to her bed.
Morgana withdrew the glass as Morgause let her head fall back onto the pillow, turning her head back to its original position—the scars once more hidden from view.
"I'm going to find us something to eat." Morgana grazed her fingers over Morgause's upturned cheek, sweeping away a mess of dirty, tangled, blonde curls. "I won't be too long."
"Take your time." She couldn't bring herself to speak above a whisper.
Though Morgana nodded, Morgause knew she'd still rush herself—worrying that if she didn't return in a timely manner something tragic would befall her sister.
She'd become a burden…a burden to the one she sought to relieve of burdens.
She watched Morgana leave, the door squeaking shut behind her. Morgause slammed her fist into the mattress. She never used to be one for tears—they only really came to her when Morgana was teetering between life and death—but like all other aspects of herself that seemed to be fast changing.
She bit the inside of her cheek, unshed tears building behind her eyes.
Morgause was tired of feeling hollow and useless. It was far past frustrating. And with her magical abilities null and void, tears became her only means of releasing all the emotions—frustration among them—she had fought to suppress.
She gripped the burlap sheet as if combating some unfelt physical agony and let out the sob she had been choking back. And then came another, and another until the woman was a wailing mess; hair clinging to the wet tear-made trail.
Morgana found Morgause curled up on the bed weeping bitterly to herself. Morgana had haf the mind to slip back outside and play ignorant so not to embarrass her sister. But her feet had carried her to the foot of the bed.
Morgause didn't notice her. Not until she dropped onto the bed.
The woman flinched. Her instincts set on ridding herself of the tears and any evidence of them. And yet the harder she fought to be rid of them, the harder they fell.
It wasn't until Morgana heaved her sister into her arms that she noticed how badly the woman was shaking. Morgause was trembling quite terribly indeed as she pressed her body closer to Morgana's own.
Morgana starred into puffy red eyes as she cradled her sister. She didn't even know what was wrong. Didn't even know how to ask what ailed her sister to this point. So instead she settled for hushing and rocking her slightly.
Morgause drew in a deep shaky breath and gripped her sister's hand.
Morgana tears welling in her own eyes. She was supposed to be the little sister. Morgause was supposed to be cradling her like this.
It's not fair…
Morgana snuggled her cheek against Morgause's—a gesture that always made her feel better when it was Morgause doing the comforting.
To her surprise Morgause was the first to compose herself; though a tear or two still spilled over the woman was mostly silent, just taking in the sound of Morgana's breathing.
Still clutching Morgause tightly to her they sat in silence. Words unneeded. Their closeness was reassurance enough—despite it all, they still had each other.