Memory

[Morgan LaLuna]

Morgan had chalk in his hand and a book laid open next to him, looking closely at the runes and magical etchings depicted across two vellum pages. Not just the runes, but those behind them. The magical lines that Mallory had taught him to see some time ago, lingering just beyond the normal perceptions of the human eye. A fingertip dragged across the lines and curves, and he shifted to drag chalk over the wooden floor of his cabin on a ruined ship. After another rune perfectly drawn, he sat back on his heels, and set the chalk down, rubbing at his forehead and scrubbing black strands of hair from his face. “It’ll be worth it.” He murmured to himself. Mostly because the only other body in the room wouldn’t hear him. “You’ll wake up, and you’ll be fine.” He rocked back, and stood up to walk to the bed, sitting on the edge and shifting the corpse that had taken up residence there. For now. “And I hope you won’t be mad at me.” He reached and straightened Drotar’s collar again for the… Well, he’d lost count. "We'll celebrate. Music and dancing and you're going to be fine."

Was he just trying to convince himself?

He stood once more, and lifted his arms in a stretch. Hours of sitting on his knees on the floor drawing the right shapes and lines and curves was taking a toll on him. He paused. On top of other activities far more strenuous, to boot. His fingertips ran over his ribs, and he let loose a deep sigh, leaning against the doorframe that held cracked and bowed wooden doors hastily reattached. "I can get the crew to play your favorite song. We can do the dance you taught me. You remember…" but the bosun did not reply, of course.

"I thought it looked so dumb at first." A laugh escaped in spite of himself, and he crossed one arm over his chest, resting the other elbow on top and palming his cheek. He pictured the way Drotar had grabbed him by the wrists and nearly pulled him entirely off his feet, singing at the top of his lungs a song about a beautiful lass from across the sea. Singing was… a generous term. It was more crowing. But Morgan had not minded, for he couldn't do much better. The song was one sung often on the deck, and he knew it by rote now. He hummed it, a little off key, and closed his eyes to remember the steps he'd seen often. The ones he had been taught.

A single tear slid down his cheek, and he wiped at it with his palm, sniffling once before moving back to the half-finished circle. He settled to his knees gently, careful not to shift the chalk dust, and picked the white stick up. He almost swayed. It was so strange being on his ship… and it was so still. So quiet. He leaned forward, placing his palm on a clear spot of floor, and looked to the book, studying the next set of symbols he was to draw.

Back to work.

Little by little.

He had to get this right.