When you look in the mirror, what do you see?
When Morro had asked her that question, she'd been unexpectedly taken aback. She'd never truly lingered in front of a mirror before—except to brush her long, dark hair and pull it into a bun every morning. But that was merely routine. This, Euphrasia could tell, was different.
Now she stood here, looking at herself in a great, oval-shaped mirror that hung down from the wall of the Archives, in a tiny alcove designated for study of the scrolls and other scholarly dedications of time. She stood there, gazing deeply at her reflection, trying to figure out what Morro had meant.
On the surface, she saw a young fifteen-year-old female Scrollwriter wearing misty-grey-and-cloudy-white robes smooth as the surface of a moonstone and soft as a purring kitten's fluffy fur. The robes' gentle hues were sharply contrasted by her hair—dark as a raven's wing, wispy and wavy when she let it down, taut and strong when she put it up as she had it now. Her face was pale, almond-toned in its complexion, with a spattering of caramel-colored freckles sprinkled across her nose, set off by soulful sky-blue eyes with obsidian-black pupils that glistened with a starry light like that of full moon's silvery rays.
She crossed her arms behind her back, blinking in contemplation, not sure if this was what Morro meant by the question. Something in his tone had conveyed that there was more to this than met the eye. But she couldn't quite put her finger on what that something was.
She flinched when a door creaked open and someone else came into the Archives. Quickly, she gathered her things and was preparing to head back out to work when she breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was only Marcus, trotting in with a large bundle of scrolls under his arm, which he then proceeded to give to the Scroll-Worms for reshelving. But then he turned and saw Euphrasia struggling under her own load and offered, "Oh, here, let me help you!" Before she could say no, he rushed over and took some of her scrolls from her before she could topple to the floor under their weight.
"Th-thanks, Marcus." Euphrasia stammered, her cheeks flushing crimson from slight embarrassment. She had never been quite as comfortable around the other Scrollwriters as she was around Morro. But Marcus, of course, didn't know that. He seemed determined to show her that he could be the helpful big brother that she had never had—and sometimes his help felt more like meddling than assistance. But she'd never worked up the courage to tell him that. It would break his heart to hear it, she was certain of that. So she kept her mouth shut and simply suffered her shyness in secret.
"You're welcome." Marcus exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear, blissfully oblivious to her utter mortification. Not sure what else to do, Euphrasia followed him back to her room, where he left the scrolls outside her door and gave her a bow of farewell. Euphrasia, still humiliated, couldn't even bring herself to give a nod of acknowledgement and gratitude.
She closed the door as quiet as a mouse, dumped her scrolls on her desk, and flopped down on the bed with a loud huff. There was a soft, squawky ow a second later, and she had to resist the urge to facepalm. She had forgotten that Morro liked to take wolf-naps underneath her bed when she was away.
She rolled onto the floor and knelt down to peek underneath the bed. Sure enough, Morro was in his wind-wolf form curled up in a ball on the floor, currently attempting to rub his sore snout with one paw. "Sorry." she hissed at him, trying her hardest not to speak too loudly. No one knew that Morro was here, and she desperately wanted to keep it that way. She knew all too well that Morro was the only one the Cloud Kingdom's Scrollwriters were afraid of, and they'd boot him over the edge of the clouds if they caught even a whiff of his whereabouts.
Needless to say, there were a few Scrollwriters still around who hadn't yet forgiven him for first escaping the Cursed Realm when he wasn't "supposed to" and then turning Fenwick against the Ninja in his villainous quest to merge Ninjago with the Cursed Realm and unleash his mistress, the Preeminent. And there was a high chance that some of those who still held a vendetta against the wind-master would take rather drastic measures to ensure he was taught a lesson—if they caught him up here, that is.
"Didn't realize you were under there." Euphrasia added, embarrassed.
"It's okay." Morro murmured as he changed into human form. "I guess I can be very, very still when I want to."
"You got that right." Euphrasia couldn't help but reply.
"I wanted to thank you again for letting me stay here while I help the Young Elemental Force finish setting up their HQ." Morro exclaimed, crawling out from under the bed and sitting down beside her criss-cross-applesauce.
"It was the least I could do for the training you've been giving me." Euphrasia answered, smiling as she held out her hand and called on her Wind Powers. "I've been learning so much, and my powers have been growing stronger every day."
"I'm glad. I really am." he murmured, absentmindedly tracing the pattern on her bedspread with his index finger as a smile twitched on his face. "You really are a mighty Elemental Master, and I expect you'll be twice the wind-wielder I ever was."
"Thanks." Euphrasia replied gratefully—before her expression changed to one of confusion and bewilderment. "Morro?" she ventured hesitantly.
"Hmm?" he hummed, letting his hands fall into his lap as he gazed into her eyes, as if saying silently, I'm listening.
"What did you mean by asking me, 'When you look in the mirror, what do you see?' I mean, I know that when I look in the mirror, I see my reflection. But I'm not sure if you mean something more, or if you do, what you mean exactly."
Morro chewed on his lip thoughtfully, collecting his thoughts as he quite visibly struggled to explain what he was thinking. Expressing himself was never one of his strong suits, and Euphrasia had the inkling that it never would be. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the older wind-wielder (in terms of years of existence) sucked in a breath, let it out slowly, and took her hand in a gentle, brotherly touch before explaining tenderly and patiently, "When I asked that question, I was wondering what you saw beyond your outward appearance. What you see within your core, your true self."
Euphrasia nodded contemplatively and then shook her head. "I…" She blinked sheepishly as she stammered, "I don't really know. I've never really thought about that before."
"Would you like me to tell you what I see?" Morro asked, carefully choosing his words, not wanting to seem pushy or meddling or to give the wrong impression. He'd been tight-lipped for much of his past, constantly hiding behind a mask, and he wanted to ensure that the younger wind-wielder (again, in terms of years of existence) understood that he would never be sly or shady or deceptive in any way on purpose—that he would be open and willing to confess his innermost thoughts and feelings, but in a way that was self-controlled and considerate of her feelings as well. He didn't want to pry or poke his nose in places it didn't belong, and he'd made sure that Euphrasia understood that. When he asked a question, he was sure to pick his words very carefully—something Euphrasia, being a Scrollwriter, appreciated greatly, knowing firsthand that all words—written or not—have great power within.
"If you wish." Euphrasia murmured, nodding slowly and taking his other hand in her own invitingly. Morro shifted and stirred uncomfortably on the floor for a few seconds and then began to explain.
"What I see in you is more than just the fancy robes or the silky hair or the Scrollwriter privilege. I see kindness and compassion, cleverness and bravery, courage to do the right thing, boldness and loyalty intertwined with tenderness and gentleness. I see a willingness to fight for the right thing, to take risks that have to be taken to protect those you care about. I see perseverance and a wild, free feistiness that will not cower from danger or shy away from a right cause. And above all, I see a love in your actions, a forgiving spirit, a willingness to look past the outward appearance, past people's faults and wrongdoings, and to find potential to change for the better within even the most wretched of beings, human or not."
Euphrasia could feel her cheeks growing hot at such praise. She'd never been the vain type, but she couldn't help but feel a glow of tingling warmth and happiness springing up within her core at Morro's words. She had no idea that he saw…any of those things in her. And it made her feel the slightest bit shy and withdrawn, but at the same time, she knew that his words were sincere, that they weren't sugar-coated half-truths but precious, honest thoughts springing from his very heart of hearts.
"Thanks." she managed to whisper at last, squeezing his hand to let him know she meant it from the bottom of her heart. Morro grinned and squeezed her hand back, breathing a kind, albeit rather shy, "Don't mention it."
Then Euphrasia blinked and whispered sweetly yet nervously, "And what about you, Morro? When you look in the mirror, what do you see?"
Not to her surprise, Morro was taken aback. To her surprise, though, he seemed to not know how to answer. For several seconds, he just turned three shades of pale and shuffled his feet and stared at his shoes and muttered incoherent non-answers and gibberish under his breath. Then he sucked in a sharp gasp of air, shook his head vigorously, and scrambled to his feet, choking out a strangled, "I have to go."
"Why?" Euphrasia couldn't help asking.
"I-I have to go!" he repeated more urgently. Euphrasia, frightened by his sudden change in demeanor, scrabbled to her own feet, but before she could stop him, Morro shifted into wolf form and leaped out the window in a flurried frenzy. "Morro, wait!" Euphrasia whisper-yelled, still not wanting to alert any prying eyes or ears to the older wind-wielder's presence as she rushed to the window and peered out. Needless to say, Morro was nowhere to be seen, and she felt her heart sinking all the way to her toes as she drew back from the window, slumping down to the floor with a long, despondent sigh. For several seconds, the air was filled with nothing but the mournful wolfish howl of the blustery breeze and the gentle puffiness of her own breathing as she tried to figure out all the pieces of this mysterious new puzzle.
She didn't understand why he'd run off like that so suddenly, but she did know one thing. Right before he'd disappeared, she thought she had heard the subtle yet poignant sound of Morro softly sobbing under his breath.
The only question was…why?
The answer came three days later in the most unexpected way possible. Euphrasia was studying some scrolls in the library once again when Marcus burst into the Archives, face red with exhaustion, breath coming in short, strained pants as he skittered and scrambled toward her, making a beeline for her desk. He skidded to a stop all of a sudden, out of breath, and stammered between gasps, "Eu-Eu-Euphrasia, Suetonius needs you immediately. He's found something on our borders, and only you can help him."
Euphrasia didn't waste any time packing up her things and trailing after the dizzy, disoriented Marcus in the direction he was leading her—or trying to lead her, anyway. (He was still recovering from his unexpected, frenzied race towards the Archives.) She wanted to hurry, as the request sounded inexplicably urgent, but she didn't want to exhaust Marcus out entirely. He wasn't one for rushing down spiraling, steep flights of steps—or rushing anything, really. He preferred to take things slow and steady, carefully mapping out every step of a plan and its potential ramifications before taking it.
Finally, after what seemed like ages of half-walking, half-jogging up the stairs, through a maze of corridors, and into the courtyard, Euphrasia was able to take her first glimpse of the situation firsthand. At first, all she saw was Suetonius kneeling down beside a badly injured figure, who was curled up in a tight, painful-looking ball and even from here could be heard wincing and wheezing in critically tumultuous agony and anguish. But then her heart leaped into her throat, and her hands flew up to her mouth as she realized the figure was none other than—
"MORRO!" Euphrasia screamed, charging towards him as fast as her legs could carry her, not caring that the other Scrollwriters were all staring dumbfoundedly in her direction. She fell to her knees a few seconds later, ignoring the pain in her shins as she scraped her own legs on the hard courtyard pavers, and leaned down to look into his eyes. He moaned and whimpered softly under his breath, his voice so weak and strained with pain that he couldn't even whisper a greeting, let alone explain how he'd ended up like this. But even as he continued to wail softly from the sheer misery of it all, Euphrasia could feel her chest growing tighter and tighter with raw, wildly bitter emotion as she took in the full weight of his critical condition.
He was bruised and battered all over, his arms and neck crawling with cuts and welts and lash marks that could only have been made with a very strong, very thickly braided steel whip. The back of his gi was torn, tattered, bedraggled, and filthy with mud, dirt, and crusted-over bloodstains from where the whip had slashed and shredded through the fabric, cutting into his tender skin, leaving him in sheer agony from the metallic, acidic sting of it. His shoulders were covered in blotchy black-and-blue patches where more severe bruises had been dealt, most likely by clubs. Both hands were oozing with crimson scabs, a sickly purplish lump was forming on the back of his head, and his pupils were glassy, dilated, and unfocused—definitely from a severe concussion.
When Euphrasia gently stroked his side, he grimaced, gritting his teeth so hard they squeaked. Taking a closer look, the younger wind-child felt an all-but-silent growl curling on her lips as she realized immediately that several of Morro's ribs on his left side had been broken, not just in one place, but multiple points—so many, in fact, that it was a miracle that his ribs hadn't been completely shattered by his ghastly ordeal. But the thing that stoked her anger and frustration the most was the mere sight of his blue-tinted fingertips, twitching and trembling with frigid, numbing cold, and the sound of him letting out a not-so-small slew of sharp, wet, ragged coughs as his cheeks began to flush with fever. Whoever had done this to him hadn't just been trying to hurt him, but to drown him—which would have been the end of him had he not been incredibly endurant and known how to swim.
Taking in the fullness of her fellow wind-wielder's horrid condition, Euphrasia couldn't help but mutter-snarl loud enough for every Scrollwriter to hear, "What kind of fiendish monster would ever have the gall—the sheer gall—within him to do something like this to anyone?!" Morro's only answer was another agonized moan, and his eyelashes fluttered weakly as he struggled to stay alert.
"Euphrasia, can you…tend to him?" Suetonius stammered weakly, stepping back sheepishly, not wanting to get too close to Morro now that help had arrived. Euphrasia had to bite back the urge to roll her eyes at the Master Writer's lack of backbone as she scooted closer to the older wind-child and gently-as-could-be-managed slid her arms underneath his miserably listless frame so she could carry him to someplace warm and dry. He fussed and fretted and blubbered in pain as she scooped him up bridal-style, but he was too weak to protest being carried, and so decided to simply snuggle deeply into Euphrasia's breast and exhaustedly close his eyes.
His face was so pale and he looked so drained and vulnerable that it made Euphrasia want to cry her very heart out as she brought him down the corridor, heading towards the Archives once again. He winced and sobbed quietly as she toted his scrawny, limp frame down each of the steps, and she silently apologized for every additional ache and pain she was dealing him in the process of trying to help him. To keep him calm, she crooned encouraging words in his ear, telling him over and over in a voice like the motherly coos of a wood-dove, "It's all right. You're safe now. Nothing else is going to get you. I'm here. I'm right here. It's okay. It's okay. Just rest now. I'll watch over you—I promise."
Though his concussion-induced confusion was clarion, he seemed to trust her and only stirred a tiny bit in her arms, trying to get more comfortable as he nuzzled even deeper into her chest and let out a long, fatigued sigh. Tenderly, she carried him all the way to a cushy velvet couch, laying him down so soothingly the only protest he made was a small oof from the lingering, excruciating pain of his myriad injuries.
"Sorry." Euphrasia mouthed at him, plucking a soft, warm patchwork quilt from off the floor, shaking it out, and laying it sweetly over his weary frame. She graciously tucked it in all around him, so gentle and careful in her movements that he only let out a few small grunts of discomfort. She then cupped his chin in her palm, silently directing him to lift his head while she slid a soft, tasseled velvet cushion under it so he could rest his sore skull on the pillow. He let out a contented, grateful sigh and fell promptly into a deep, dreamless sleep as Euphrasia softly and soothingly stroked his shaggy mop of wispy raven-black locks and hummed a haunting yet mesmerizingly beautiful lullaby under her breath.
He slept all through that day and on into the night as Euphrasia tended to his injuries, paying special attention to his broken ribs, and made him comfortable in any way she could think of. She kept the fire in the nearby fireplace burning bright and toasty-warm. She brought a few more blankets and piled them on top of him so he wouldn't be chilled. She wet soft rags and laid them on his sweaty, fever-flushed forehead to help bring his abnormally spiked temperature down. She shooed away any unwanted visitors and made sure the shutters on the windows were bolted tight against the blustery, bitterly chilling midnight breeze once everyone left and the Archives fell silent and still.
Then, in a flurry of inspiration, she gathered her favorite plushies, blankets, and floor pillows and made herself a blanket nest on the floor, laying some of her lovies in the nest and lending others to the snoozing, slightly drooling Morro. Laying down to find some shut-eye of her own, she closed her eyes and felt the silky strands of a tenderly tingling, warm dream-cocoon enveloping her as she was slowly beckoned away from the waking world and into a sea of beautiful dreams.
As the sun rose to greet a new day, Euphrasia woke to see soft, gentle shafts of light shining in through the high windows on the second floor of the Archives, tenderly gracing all the slightly dusty, elegantly carved wooden bookcases with the brilliance and beauty of a majestic dawn. Blinking the hazy mist of sleepiness out of her eyes, she yawned noisily and stretched her arms up over her head—before rolling out of her blanket nest and proceeding to fold up the throws and quilts into piles, collect her stuffed animals, and pile the pillows on top of each other to take back to her room. Thankfully, no one else was awake yet—not even Morro—so she found she had plenty of time to run a few trips back and forth to her bedroom before anyone saw her.
When she got back from the final trip, she could hear her fellow Scrollwriters hustling about, getting ready to go about their day. Soon the whole library of scrolls would be swarming with other Scrollwriters milling about on their normal routine, and Morro would never get any rest that way. Like it or not, Euphrasia had to move him to someplace quieter, where he could get all the care and sleep he needed to recover.
But before she dared to wake him, she tiptoed over to where he was still sleeping on his uninjured side and laid a cool, butterfly-light hand on his forehead. His fever had declined in the night, and when she grasped his wrist, she could feel his pulse beating strong under her fingers. His chest was rising and falling deeply and evenly, and the cadence of his heartbeat was steady and constant and clarion in its rhythm. And when Euphrasia peeked at his healing wounds, she was glad to see that there was no infection or sign of further injury. Overall, he was sure to be right as rain in a few days—even his broken ribs were swiftly fusing back together the way they should.
Euphrasia smiled. One of the other Scrollwriters—perhaps Nobu or even Marcus—must have taken pity on the injured, ill Morro—despite his checkered past—and wrote in his life-scroll that he would recover quickly with little to no complications. And while Euphrasia knew better than to assume the Scrollwriters could do more than just guide—not control, but guide—the paths of others' lives, she felt her heart being lifted by the mere fact that someone cared enough to put aside his fear of the new Wind Ninja and lend a hand—or a quill.
"Morro…" Euphrasia whispered, gently shaking her fellow wind-wielder, who was still soundly and warmly enveloped in a cocoon of healing slumber. He stirred slightly and let out a soft, wispy yawn but did not open his eyes.
"Morro, it's time to wake up." Euphrasia shook him again, and this time he responded and pried his stubbornly heavy eyelids open a crack, murmuring in a drowsy slur, "It's morning?"
"Yes, and we have to get moving before this place is crammed with other Scrollwriters." Euphrasia muttered so softly that only Morro—who had uncannily sensitive ears—could hear.
"Uh-huh." Morro mumbled, his voice muffled by his blankets and lingering sleepiness, his eyelids still only half-open as he let out another yawn. It was clear that he didn't want to move at all, but Euphrasia was not the slightest bit unnerved by Morro's lack of energy and incentive. She simply used her Wind Powers to pull his blankets off of him so fast a visible shiver rippled through his whole body.
"All right, all right, I'm coming." he moaned in mock frustration, wrapping his arms tightly around himself before he slid slowly off his bed and scrambled into a standing position, blinking his eyelashes rapidly in dazed tiredness and lingering fatigue. His legs suddenly buckled underneath him and he all but collapsed limply into Euphrasia's waiting arms with a distinctly agonizing, wolfishly whimpering moan.
Euphrasia's face flushed three shades of pale as she realized that Morro was still quite weak and sick. She wondered if she should ask—but she had to know. "Do you think…" Her voice trailed off uncertainly before she stammered, "Do you think that you're strong enough to shift into your wind-wolf form?"
"N-n-no." Morro stuttered breathlessly, too dizzy and drained and overall exhausted to say anything else. Without any other questions or comments, Euphrasia used her powers again to boost Morro up so she could carry him bridal-style once again. His whole body twinged and twitched involuntarily as he let out another sickeningly wheezy, wincing groan, gritted his teeth, and clenched the fabric of Euphrasia's robe in his fists so fiercely his knuckles turned a ghostly pale. With a great huffing-and-puffing effort, Euphrasia half-trudged, half-flew Morro to her room, passing by multitudinous dumbstruck Scrollwriters without stopping to chat even once. Once she had managed to shut the ajar door with her foot, she then settled the achy, miserable, melancholy Morro on a small cot she had secretly set up three weeks ago for the sole purpose of him spending the night while he was helping out the YEF.
She then snagged the nearby previously-forgotten pile of inadvertently-rumpled blankets off her bed and layered a few on top of him once again to keep him warm, and he gave a shoulder-shrug-and-double-blink-combo in an attempt to silently tell her "thank you." Mouthing "you're welcome" at him, Euphrasia proceeded to try and make him as comfortable as possible, even though he was in too much pain and fatigue to speak or move. As she moved about the room, collecting things to help Morro continue to recover, she began noticing odd signals in his body language and limited communication skills telling her something else was not right.
The eerily ghostly-white pallor of his almond-toned skin—the glassy, distant, almost empty look in his eyes, as if he was merely a burnt-out, husky shell, a shadow of his true self—the withdrawn manner of his actions—the abnormal nervousness and shy stutter in his speech—the way he flinched and pulled away if she tapped him on the shoulder, or pinched his cheek by accident, or even lightly brushed his injured ribs with her arm as she passed by him—the silent trickle of unbidden tears running down his dirt-smudged cheeks…
All signs that something was clearly wrong—that his wounds went far deeper than even the scars marking his skin with wiry, jagged lines of crimson revealed. That perhaps not just his body, but his heart and mind and core had been wounded deeply and traumatically. And not just wounded, but shattered—broken—torn in two—splintered.
"Morro…" Euphrasia started, but her voice broke when she realized that he had fallen into a fitful sleep without her realizing it. Not wanting to wake him yet again when he poignantly needed slumber and rest and tranquil peace, she let out a small sigh and curled up on her bed with a book she'd been trying to finish for three weeks by now. And as she found herself immersed more and more into the struggles of a young orphan boy seeking for a family of his own and finding it in a pack of wild wolf-like dogs, the outside world began to fade away entirely, and soon Morro's hidden torment and secret sorrows slipped her mind entirely.
The hours slipped away like marbles spilling out of a jar, and Euphrasia didn't think to check on Morro again until he jolted awake with an ear-splitting, bloodcurdling scream and immediately burst into heartbroken, mind-wrenching tears of great anguish and woe, curling in on himself, the very picture of great misery and suffering and core-shaking heartsickness. Breathy sobs spilled out from between his lips like sand from an hourglass, as his chest heaved erratically and his rapidly reddening, tear-and-dust-streaked face scrunched and screwed up in not just pain but dread. He shuddered and shivered with phantom chills as he sobbed and coughed and wheezed and sniffled and rubbed his runny nose and stinging eyes furiously in an attempt to calm himself.
Euphrasia wasn't sure her presence would be welcome, but before she could stop herself, she'd pitter-pattered softly and gently over to his cot, where he lay in a tangled heap of blankets, his features so shadowed and stunted amidst the covers she could barely make out his form from the fleeces and quilts surrounding him like a cocoon of warmth and coziness. "Morro…" the younger wind-wielder ventured, "is everything all right? What's the matter?"
Immediately, Morro stopped blubbering and wailing and instead grew exceedingly shy and distant as he coiled into an even tighter ball, staring up at her with wide, red, puffy eyes as he shoved his balled fist into his mouth and began sucking and nibbling on it furiously. He looked so forlorn and melancholy, his emerald-green irises and obsidian-black pupils so soulfully sorrowful and imploring, that Euphrasia couldn't help but feel tears springing to her own eyes as well. She immediately knelt down beside his cot, his sucking noises growing rhythmic as a heartbeat in her ears, and began tenderly stroking his shaggy, silky mop of raven-black wispy locks, smoothing each stray strand into place, as she hummed a haunting yet weirdly beautiful lullaby under her breath.
Slowly, Morro's chest stopped heaving and began rising and falling deeply and evenly again. His breaths were soft but steady, and his eyelids were drooping in healing relaxation and contentment as he slowly, very slowly, quit mouthing on his fist and silently eased it out of his mouth. He drew his hands in towards his chest and sniffed slightly, blinking in gratefulness and lingering grief as a few bubbly, gurgling hiccups escaped his throat and then disappeared into the light.
"Thank…you." he whispered in a soft, strangled tone so shy and kindly sweet, it made Euphrasia's heart swell with happiness, and she beamed. But then her expression grew grim as her face fell again. Should she ask—no, she had to know.
"Are you really all right?" Euphrasia stammered, her eyelashes blinking rapidly in nervousness.
"I'm fine." Morro moaned in an utterly unconvincing deadpan that throbbed and panged with chords of sorrow and notes of anguish.
"What happened out there?" Euphrasia abruptly changed the subject, and immediately Morro's face blanched. He bunched the blankets up in his hands, twisting and scrunching them so tightly Euphrasia was afraid he'd worry them to nothing but threads, as he began to shake with silent, uncontrollable sobs. Determined to hide his pain, he buried his face in his pillow and mumbled into it, "It was just a couple deadbeat knuckleheads looking to pick a fight."
Something in his tone told Euphrasia there was more to this than he was letting on. When she pressed him, he finally caved and began sobbing anew as he stammered out the truth—the whole truth.
"They…they ambushed me, after I left a few days ago. This gang of nasty, snarling teenagers—anti-Elementals, they called themselves. But I knew better. They hated me specifically—hated me with a vengeance. They…" His voice was suddenly choked up with hiccupping sobs as he sniffled and cried, "They jostled me and…and punched me…and beat me with their clubs. I didn't want to fight back and prove their point, but the blows just kept coming, and one of them had a bull whip…"
He stopped to let out a wracking sob, and then his voice fell to a strained, warped whisper as he blurted out, "But the worst thing was…my…my reflection."
Right away, Euphrasia knew he wasn't talking about his appearance after the horrendous scuffle was over. "What did those nasty menaces call you?!" she demanded, looking as if she'd thrash the tar and stuffing out of whomever had possessed the nerve to do this to her friend and fellow wind-wielder.
"They…" Morro sniffled as he choked out, "They called me an outcast…a vagabond…a baby…a ragamuffin no one cared about or wanted. They said I could dress up nice and read all the books and hang around 'goody-two-shoes', but that I would never…I would never…measure up or make up for all the wrong I'd done. They said I could never be forgiven…or loved. To them, I was just a scrawny…threadbare…pitiful…sniveling…weak…maggot. They-they called me a louse…a rat…a…a monster." His voice broke off, and he suddenly broke down entirely and let the tears flow. Between sobs, he managed to whimper, "I think they called me a number of other…vulgar things, but my head hurt so much I didn't catch any of them. And then I just stopped hearing it altogether, and my consciousness just drifted away…"
"Oh, Morro. Oh, Morro!" Euphrasia exclaimed, offering outstretched arms as an invitation to a hug—which Morro tearfully, vehemently accepted. "I…I woke up underwater, my breath leaving me already in gasping storms of bubbles as I thrashed and fought their grip. A few of them were trying to hold me down." Morro explained further, his voice taking on a wryly mirthful tone when he added, "I writhed and kicked so much, I think I gave a few of them a bloody nose or a black eye. I think I heard howling and screaming…but I couldn't hear much to begin with. And then they, all of a sudden, let go and I swam away as fast as I could, but…I was barely able to scramble onto shore before I blacked out again."
His chest suddenly tightened, and he let out a slew of dry, wracking coughs that shook his body from head to toe. Euphrasia lovingly patted his back until the coughing finally dissipated and he could breathe normally again. Then her face steeled and she blurted out, "You aren't any of those things, Morro. Not really. If you ask me, that gang was just a bunch of stupid, idiotic excuses for spineless half-wits and overgrown, babyish snobs. They were trying to prove that they were big stuff, but really they're just a sickly mob of mindless, psychopathic, grade-A jerks." She spat the last word out as if it were a sour lemon, and Morro let out a halfhearted, mirthless laugh at her choice of words. But then Euphrasia sighed deeply and whispered, "You know what I see…what your reflection is to me?"
"No." Morro moaned breezily, his voice slightly wistful and slushily snoozy as his taut muscles began to loosen and his bundled nerves unwound within him as he relaxed more and more into Euphrasia's fierce yet tenderly warm grip.
Euphrasia sucked in a breath and began to speak, her voice gentle and low and soft and soothing as she whispered, "When I look at you, I don't see a monster. I see someone who just feels scared and alone sometimes. I don't see a bother or a nuisance. I see a wind-child who has been through a lot of pain and suffering and agony and trauma. I don't see a traitorous waif chained in darkness. I see an overcomer who was forgiven and freed through a willing sacrifice, unshackled from the curse bound to his core, graciously given another chance to embrace the light. I don't see a vagabond, a ruffian, a ragamuffin, or an outcast. I see someone who needs love and nurturing and a true home and family to call his own. I don't see an unruly weakling. I see strength of heart.
"I see courage and bravery and a great desire to do the next right thing, even when it's tough and everyone turns away from you. I see someone who is precious and loved and wanted. I see boldness and perseverance interwoven with compassion and tenderness and a gentle, humble shyness that doesn't hold you back but makes you stronger in will and character. I don't see aggression or hatred or bitterness. I don't see your checkered past. I don't see someone who is undesirable or who is too far gone to return to the right path. I see you, Morro. I see your struggles and doubts and fears, but I also see your kindness, your compassion, your goodness, your sympathy for others' needs. I see you underneath the shroud of hurt. So I'm asking again, when you look in the mirror, what do you see?"
There was an awkward, heavy silence for a few moments, pierced only by Morro's occasional sniffles and scattered hiccupping coughs. He buried his head in Euphrasia's neck for a second, then pulled away and looked at her with big, sorrowful emerald-green eyes, almost sage-green in the dancing of light and shadow harmonizing and intertwining all around the two of them. Then Morro sucked in a quivering, trembling breath and breathed, "I…see…me. I see…a…" His voice trailed off, and he was quite visibly struggling to fish for the right words.
"A treasure." Euphrasia finished for him, and he gave a thin, slightly sad but nonetheless joyful smile.
"A poem with a purpose." he added, and Euphrasia followed it up with, "Different but not less."
"A masterpiece." the two then exclaimed in unison, and a single crystalline tear slid down Morro's cheek as he let the words sink deep into his spirit and his core. He pulled Euphrasia into his arms in a tight yet tender hug, and she let out a soft oof of surprise but didn't complain further. She basked in the warmth of his air-puff breath on her neck and the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat thrumming against her skin as she snuggled deeper and deeper into the brotherly hug, humming delightfully to herself. He was, no doubt about it, a good big brother to have.
"Euphie?" Morro murmured.
"Hmm?" Euphrasia exclaimed, her ears perking up at the sound of Morro's endearing nickname for her. She pulled her chin off of his shoulder and cocked her head to one side with an expectant, curious look on her face.
"I see you too." the Child of the Wolf croon-murmured softly and sincerely. And in that moment, Euphrasia knew exactly what he meant.
"Thank you." Euphrasia whispered, pulling away so that Morro could lay down again. Morro let out a soft yawn as he stirred around on the cot, feeling sleepy again all of a sudden. Hopefully, his dreams would be sweet and his slumber blissful and restful and healing, rather than draining and mind-numbing and full of night-terrors. In a spark of inspiration, Euphrasia went over and picked up her stuffed wolf-pup from off her bed. Then she took it and very gently and kindly placed it in Morro's arms. He nestled it to his chest and stroked its soft, fluffy fur with his cheek before breathing a soft, "Thank you," to Euphrasia.
"You're welcome." Euphrasia breathed back, before adding in a slightly louder whisper, "Sweet dreams."
Morro nodded, his eyelids drooping and his breathing deepening more and more, until he had fallen fast asleep once again, beckoned away from the waking world and into a sea of wondrous, magical, joyful dreams. Euphrasia smiled and quietly tiptoed towards the door. But before she left, she snuck a peek in her bedroom mirror atop her dresser and smiled at her reflection.
When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Morro's words echoed once more in her mind.
I see a young girl, precious and cherished, surrounded by love, gifted with the power to wield the wind, adopted sister to the original wind-child—the child of the wolf—Morro, the best big brother in the whole Merged Realms.
And with a smile, Euphrasia turned and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click as Morro slept and healed and dreamed.
THE END
