Random Elsword Drabbles

Sleepless (OC-Centered)

Morgan's never been much of a dreamer. The last dream she had was when she was four years old, and her father still lived and lightened up the world with his presence. Those days have long since passed, and Morgan's had dreamless nights ever since. It's not like she could treasure any dreams that came, what with her mother usually visiting her in the night for their usual routine.

So no, Morgan can't remember the last time she's ever dreamt...but she also can't remember the last time she's ever really slept. She's grateful to Yuria for accepting her and Kjelle into the traveling Landar camp, and as a result, Morgan's carved out a little spot within the group. She can distract herself with her alchemy or medical work, always experimenting, always looking for other avenues...just like her father used to.

When it's time for her to sleep, she finds that she simply lies there, awake. Time ticks by, and she never knows when sleep truly takes her...just that it never feels like it when she stirs in the morning. It persists like a never-ending cycle, but with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company in the dark hours of the night, she doubts she'd ever get much of any rest.

Kjelle thinks it's a miracle that she's still functioning. Morgan just thinks that it's another fact of life. No rest for her if she wants to achieve her goals. All that leaves is a dull ache in her head and the weight of her body leaving her more like a robot than a person.

Perhaps she's destined to forever be a tool.

Kjelle tells her one day that she looks wary, but she can't imagine what she'd be wary of. At least, nothing close by. Irene wouldn't travel across the seas to get her back. No, the woman would cut her losses and find someone else to be appropriated into a doll. A vessel.

She doesn't try to push down the guilt that comes with that thought. That if she'd just stayed put, then someone else wouldn't have to suffer.

When Morgan lies awake that night, she wonders why nightmares haven't overtaken her. She feels like she's floating between everything and nothing, reaching her hand out to someone that won't reach back. It's why she doesn't pray in the dark hours of the night. Better to spend that time doing something than pleading with someone she isn't sure is listening.

A songbird locked away in a gilded cage. That's what Alister had described her as one day, and it has only been recently that Morgan understood what he meant. Yet, whenever she looks at that cage, she sees nothing more than a bird struggling to stay conscious, to fight off exhaustion.

A deeper part of her mind tells her to look closer, that she's missing something. Namely, the bird within the cage is nothing more than a mirror, the impenetrable bars painstakingly crafted by her own hands. The lock she had so gingerly placed, and the key within her hands that she refuses to acknowledge.

She has long since drowned out that voice, guided only by the drifting wind that was left behind. She works on understanding this disgustingly altered form of magic, a resentment that she turns her head from bubbling when she thinks of what her mother has done to her father's research.

You know there's more to this, her mind supplies when she thinks of saving her mother, do you truly think she is worth saving?

The answer is yes, but the wisps of a voice that knows better told her to think about it, just a little longer. Her real answer is no. She knows the truth.

She won't acknowledge it.

She expends her energy on her research, greeting people cheerfully and fulfilling their requests. She has long since stopped giving her mind a moment to think, to breathe. The less she has to hear that haunting, all-knowing voice, the better she can concentrate. At least, that's the reason she's given herself.