Every spoken sentence
beginning with
‘Ｉ ＡＭ ’
is a powerful spell
exhaled into action.
Describe yourself
ｗｉｓｅｌｙ
‘I am important. I am important. I am important.’
Words of affirmation are a necessary evil as she observes her visage in the fading evening light. The mirror doesn’t do her justice, she thinks – - her eyes are too puffy, her nose red and her skin splotchy from the force of sobs that racked her body hours prior. Looking at herself now, she can only imagine the reaction that her appearance would receive. She’s always so put together, everything perfectly in place as she walks the halls of Wardlaw Gardens or her family’s estate; now she’s falling apart, cracks in her facade exposed to the harsh light of reality. This is who she is when her guard is finally dropped, when she’s alone and can think on things she’s heard about herself throughout the day.
She’s Morrigan Balfour – - she’s somebody. Years of power flow through her veins and branch from her family tree. Hypatia of Alexandria, Lady Glamis, and even the old Kolgrim of Norse noteriety all played a role in the shaping of her lineage and magic. Balfour is a name to be feared, and to be a Balfour is to be powerful, to be SOMEBODY. And she is somebody – - she is important, no matter what a boy in her divination class may say.
Composure returns to her features as she slips back into a comfortably regal posturing. Her head is held high, chin jutting forward just enough to be proper without haughtiness, her shoulders are pulled back and her face is a mask of calm indifference. This is the Morrigan Balfour who walks the halls of Wardlaw, the ethereal young lady who holds wisdom beyond her years and yet somehow remains blind to the truth around her. Though still bleary-eyed and bearing the visible indications of tears, she is herself again – - she’s important. She’s a Balfour.
Perhaps the magic took her mother’s mind, or maybe it was something more mundane. Whatever the case, Morrigan stands at the threshold of a hospital room with barely-contained apprehension and disgust. The room is too pristine, devoid of the things that made her mother so alluring in the first place – - collections of spellbooks, an affinity for crystals and implements that had been collected throughout years of travel with her husband. Little things that became identifiers, like the smell of rosewater or silk robes and gently tinkling notes from a barely-used piano.
This room – - this prison - – is an insult to the woman Morrigan looked up to and once aspired to be. With no small amount of bitterness, she tries to think of what her mother would say if she had been in her right mind. Something about decorating, something about how unimpressive it all was, something about how she would’ve rather died than to be confined to a bed with low thread-count sheets and flat pillows.
‘Are you going to come in, dear?’
It’s her grandmother who speaks, sitting in the armchair that Morrigan has seen her in far too many times. The woman is every bit as enchanting as Morrigan remembers, despite newly minted grey hairs and creases of worry permanently etched into her forehead. For a moment, she wonders if her mother would look so regal and imposing in a few years time, but it’s a foolish thought and quickly abandoned. There would be no future for the matriarch of the Balfour family, save for being hidden away in a space where she could scream or babble or be whatever the hell she had been reduced to in recent years. For Ms.Balfour, there are only four white walls, a bay window and a painting of a seascape above her bedside.
Her tone isn’t hateful when she does decide to answer, but it quavers with an uncertainty that baffles Morrigan more than the situation she’s found herself in. Momentary weakness shown with a shake of her head, her grip on her arms becomes so tight that she can feel the tendons of her knuckles shifting beneath her skin. A younger version of herself would’ve gladly sat at her mother’s bedside, but she can’t now – - she won’t. As if her mother’s condition is contagious, Morrigan keeps her distance. Her grandmother only nods.
She stays there for minutes that seem like centuries. All she wants is a good look at the woman who raised her, a reminder that there’s no sense in considering ‘what if’s or ‘maybe tomorrow’s. Foolishness, all of it. There’s no returning from such a state, but it chills Morrigan’s bones to think that someone may find out about the blemish on her good name. she loves her mother, but she loves the security of being impenetrable; such a secret is a chink in otherwise-pristine armor. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes along to exploit it.
Her anger is righteous, when provoked. Fire flowing through her veins, all sharp edges and fury upon being thought of as some sort of damsel. Sheltered is the word they used – -sheltered from danger, sheltered from reality, sheltered from the truth. His words are meant to be helpful, but they only strengthen her resolve to make her own way in the world. Morrigan Balfour is invincible, she’s a force and incapable of fatal mistakes; the universe itself smiles upon her, and she isn’t the kind of fool to avoid taking notice of such a blessing.
Her actions come without thought, a desire to leap into the proverbially dark void of uncertainty with closed eyes an an open heart. Experiences are all she wants, specifically those experiences she was robbed of by an over-protective father and tragically whimiscal mother. She wants everything, and the world is in her hands for the taking. How can she say no?
Confidence aside, her delusion is obvious. Morrigan has become a poster child of what happens when such a gifted child is kept separated from the world around her, left to craft her own reality as an absolute truth. It’s miraculous that she is stil respected as she huffs and puffs away from the offending party who incited her anger. The conversation is over, but anger is replaced with rage upon the utterance of two syllables from the boy at her back – -
It’s a snarled insult, one she’s more than familiar with. There are some who use it as a compliment, and others who simply state it as fact. Morrigan is special – - more than that, she’s important - – and only an idiot would refuse to take note. But this time is different, this time that word is hurled like a dagger to stick straight into her spine. Paralyzed, she’s left with two options: fight or flight.
A day spent in trouble with staff members is worth the restoration of her honor.
