There was a strange quiet that hung heavy in Morgan's Eriadu apartment. He sat curled up tight on the couch in the living room scrolling through a datapad, finger flicking over the screen to go from one thing to another. Some information about apartments or homes elsewhere, on Bespin, Eriadu still, or other places around the galaxy. Details he'd arranged for to visit Cloud City again, what must have been the thousandth time he'd checked it. A game of Qwent or two to pass the time.
After some time he looked up from the screen, golden eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. Packed and labeled boxes filled with various articles of his life here lay in neat stacks based on what they'd been and bathed in the orange-red light of sunset through the windows. He'd been prepared to move to another home with more room and taller doorways for some time now, in fact. The boxes had been there for months, nearly the same as when Tiamat had come by to visit. Only a few things were left out still, things he used or wanted to look at every day.
A teapot and two cups, one he used and one he left on the counter. A collection of cookware and some amount of dishes and utensils. A single wildly abstract painting, not hung but leaning on the wall atop a table. Items he couldn't bare to put away, just in case. Things that told him he couldn't bear to leave and reminded him he couldn't bear to stay. Stuck in limbo and miserable all the while.
He slowly got up and headed outside he grabbed the pack of cigarras off a table, gaze passing over first one chair and then the other before he sat down, eyes forward to watch the sun go down over the city. Clouds blew slowly overhead and gave the light strange shades and shadows across the cityscape. His left hand moved slightly off the arm of his chair and then back again and he exhaled smoke in lazy wisps from between his lips, and took up his datapad again to occupy himself.
What he could pull up on a certain Chiss and the political goings-on of Cloud City since that mission so long ago. Unbidden his thoughts wandered to the abandoned estate and dead man left crumbled and bleeding on the ground in hate. To songs sung with just the two of them on ships and between bedsheets, to declarations in cargo bays and promises before idols. Morgan blinked and turned back to the pad and moved to the next section of the report, scattered information of the Chiss in general, and read on while he smoked in silence.
After a time he went inside to clean the kitchen, a habit he'd gotten into doing after every use or so these days. It never really got that dirty to begin with but it was just preferred that way, just in case. Morgan shook his head to clear it and blinked down at the polished countertop. He put the cleaning products away and turned around, eyes lingering on a seat by the tea set, then turned away. Slow steps took him upstairs, pausing as he reached the top and a mix of scents and subtle sounds hit him at once, as they always did.
Morgan next carried himself into the refresher, turning toward the mirror with a sense of hesitation. He saw there how his eyes were darkly ringed from restless sleep, eyes like gilded daggers piercing everything they saw. His fingers came up to feel black hair that had grown unusually long from not having been cut in months. He tried to smile but the expression felt foreign and heavy on his face, his lips falling back flat and still and fingers in his hair lingering at a point on his neck. In silence he brushed his teeth, not looking again at a reflection that felt so much like it did not belong.
Walking out his eyes turned next to the bed.
Only a few things were by it now, so much put away into boxes. Two side tables, one empty and untouched. The other had only a single, simple wooden figurine with a crack running through it facing the bed. A wooden wardrobe sat closed, a modified shirt hanging on a hook, cleaned and unworn. On the floor nearby sat a neatly organized nest of clean blankets and pillows beside a collapsible mattress, untouched for months now. Morgan always left it all just where it was, just in case.
Beside the occupied table was his hallikset sitting in its stand where he'd left if after cleaning it as he did every morning. Slender fingers took it up and began to go through the process of tuning it as he did every night. Sat there on the edge of the bed he cradled it in his hands and began to practice a series of chords he'd repeated over and over and over, humming softly along with the sound.
Golden eyes turned up and locked onto the cracked figurine of Andraste he once had been gifted, looking toward its face and imagined looking back at him was a pair of silver eyes. The strumming of chords was uncomplicated, steady with short sounds that did not linger long. Morgan soon began to sing as he usually did to the figurine, even if now the song was always the same.
It was nothing he'd sung before another and nothing that played on radio or holonet. He sung of sadness and longing, of pain and regret and mistakes made in panic and fury. Sung of the fear that pierced his chest seeing him there bleeding in the rubble, the helplessness as he floated in the tank, the alarm and dismay when he was gone from the hospital when next he went. He sung a call, loud and long, and every word screamed the ache he felt in his heart into the Force until the the very air sang along with him.
He thought of Emryc, the angles of his face and the rumble of his voice, the warm strength of his arms and the steady drumbeat of his heart. He sang of that too, and of where he thought his boyfriend may be far away and across the universe, and how exactly it felt to have left him with those words left said and unsaid. Sang the things he should have said, sang that he was worthy and that Emryc was all he wanted, that he was enough, that he was so much more than just a soldier boy. He sung a call, long and loud, and every verse roared out the desire to show just how much he wanted nothing more than to just to be by his side again.
Morgan sung, and sung, and didn't stop. Even when the sun was gone from the windows he didn't stop. Even when his voice cracked and tears streamed uncontrollably down his face, stinging his eyes and leaving them reddened and blind, he didn't stop. Even when slender fingers burned against strings and dripped crimson he refused to stop. On he sang, focused on that figurine and memories and the connection he felt. He sung a call, long and loud, ringing in sorrowful serenade to Emryc just how deeply and completely Morgan loved and how he just wanted to find him.
He sang into the Force, willing, demanding, pleading that the sound took up wings and flew out to find the man he loved most of all. He sang until at last his voice rang hoarse and his energy was spent, and he could sing no more.
Every evening the nightingale cried out its call. Every night Morgan made the time, no matter how tired or otherwise occupied, until his breath came quick and heavy from Force exhaustion and harsh coughing wracked his shaking body. He did not know if the call could be heard, if it would pass through time and space to find pointed ears in some distant place. Even as a whisper it would be enough, hidden in a breath of wind or scattered birdsong or the rush of river water and falling rain.
He hoped if he called loud and often enough, worked harder, perhaps then Emryc would hear it and come marching home. Perhaps Morgan could follow the sound and be guided to him.
He would always have time for his Emryc. That he'd been blinded didn't change that, that he'd been so horribly hurt didn't change that, that the Eternal and the station had abandoned didn't change that. Morgan would never him let go.
"I promised," he spoke in a strained whisper to the figurine and flopped heavily down against the mattress, briefly coughing again before tightly pulling the hallikset to his chest with unsteady arms. "Please, tell him."
After some time he looked up from the screen, golden eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. Packed and labeled boxes filled with various articles of his life here lay in neat stacks based on what they'd been and bathed in the orange-red light of sunset through the windows. He'd been prepared to move to another home with more room and taller doorways for some time now, in fact. The boxes had been there for months, nearly the same as when Tiamat had come by to visit. Only a few things were left out still, things he used or wanted to look at every day.
A teapot and two cups, one he used and one he left on the counter. A collection of cookware and some amount of dishes and utensils. A single wildly abstract painting, not hung but leaning on the wall atop a table. Items he couldn't bare to put away, just in case. Things that told him he couldn't bear to leave and reminded him he couldn't bear to stay. Stuck in limbo and miserable all the while.
He slowly got up and headed outside he grabbed the pack of cigarras off a table, gaze passing over first one chair and then the other before he sat down, eyes forward to watch the sun go down over the city. Clouds blew slowly overhead and gave the light strange shades and shadows across the cityscape. His left hand moved slightly off the arm of his chair and then back again and he exhaled smoke in lazy wisps from between his lips, and took up his datapad again to occupy himself.
What he could pull up on a certain Chiss and the political goings-on of Cloud City since that mission so long ago. Unbidden his thoughts wandered to the abandoned estate and dead man left crumbled and bleeding on the ground in hate. To songs sung with just the two of them on ships and between bedsheets, to declarations in cargo bays and promises before idols. Morgan blinked and turned back to the pad and moved to the next section of the report, scattered information of the Chiss in general, and read on while he smoked in silence.
After a time he went inside to clean the kitchen, a habit he'd gotten into doing after every use or so these days. It never really got that dirty to begin with but it was just preferred that way, just in case. Morgan shook his head to clear it and blinked down at the polished countertop. He put the cleaning products away and turned around, eyes lingering on a seat by the tea set, then turned away. Slow steps took him upstairs, pausing as he reached the top and a mix of scents and subtle sounds hit him at once, as they always did.
Morgan next carried himself into the refresher, turning toward the mirror with a sense of hesitation. He saw there how his eyes were darkly ringed from restless sleep, eyes like gilded daggers piercing everything they saw. His fingers came up to feel black hair that had grown unusually long from not having been cut in months. He tried to smile but the expression felt foreign and heavy on his face, his lips falling back flat and still and fingers in his hair lingering at a point on his neck. In silence he brushed his teeth, not looking again at a reflection that felt so much like it did not belong.
Walking out his eyes turned next to the bed.
Only a few things were by it now, so much put away into boxes. Two side tables, one empty and untouched. The other had only a single, simple wooden figurine with a crack running through it facing the bed. A wooden wardrobe sat closed, a modified shirt hanging on a hook, cleaned and unworn. On the floor nearby sat a neatly organized nest of clean blankets and pillows beside a collapsible mattress, untouched for months now. Morgan always left it all just where it was, just in case.
Beside the occupied table was his hallikset sitting in its stand where he'd left if after cleaning it as he did every morning. Slender fingers took it up and began to go through the process of tuning it as he did every night. Sat there on the edge of the bed he cradled it in his hands and began to practice a series of chords he'd repeated over and over and over, humming softly along with the sound.
Golden eyes turned up and locked onto the cracked figurine of Andraste he once had been gifted, looking toward its face and imagined looking back at him was a pair of silver eyes. The strumming of chords was uncomplicated, steady with short sounds that did not linger long. Morgan soon began to sing as he usually did to the figurine, even if now the song was always the same.
It was nothing he'd sung before another and nothing that played on radio or holonet. He sung of sadness and longing, of pain and regret and mistakes made in panic and fury. Sung of the fear that pierced his chest seeing him there bleeding in the rubble, the helplessness as he floated in the tank, the alarm and dismay when he was gone from the hospital when next he went. He sung a call, loud and long, and every word screamed the ache he felt in his heart into the Force until the the very air sang along with him.
He thought of Emryc, the angles of his face and the rumble of his voice, the warm strength of his arms and the steady drumbeat of his heart. He sang of that too, and of where he thought his boyfriend may be far away and across the universe, and how exactly it felt to have left him with those words left said and unsaid. Sang the things he should have said, sang that he was worthy and that Emryc was all he wanted, that he was enough, that he was so much more than just a soldier boy. He sung a call, long and loud, and every verse roared out the desire to show just how much he wanted nothing more than to just to be by his side again.
Morgan sung, and sung, and didn't stop. Even when the sun was gone from the windows he didn't stop. Even when his voice cracked and tears streamed uncontrollably down his face, stinging his eyes and leaving them reddened and blind, he didn't stop. Even when slender fingers burned against strings and dripped crimson he refused to stop. On he sang, focused on that figurine and memories and the connection he felt. He sung a call, long and loud, ringing in sorrowful serenade to Emryc just how deeply and completely Morgan loved and how he just wanted to find him.
He sang into the Force, willing, demanding, pleading that the sound took up wings and flew out to find the man he loved most of all. He sang until at last his voice rang hoarse and his energy was spent, and he could sing no more.
Every evening the nightingale cried out its call. Every night Morgan made the time, no matter how tired or otherwise occupied, until his breath came quick and heavy from Force exhaustion and harsh coughing wracked his shaking body. He did not know if the call could be heard, if it would pass through time and space to find pointed ears in some distant place. Even as a whisper it would be enough, hidden in a breath of wind or scattered birdsong or the rush of river water and falling rain.
He hoped if he called loud and often enough, worked harder, perhaps then Emryc would hear it and come marching home. Perhaps Morgan could follow the sound and be guided to him.
He would always have time for his Emryc. That he'd been blinded didn't change that, that he'd been so horribly hurt didn't change that, that the Eternal and the station had abandoned didn't change that. Morgan would never him let go.
"I promised," he spoke in a strained whisper to the figurine and flopped heavily down against the mattress, briefly coughing again before tightly pulling the hallikset to his chest with unsteady arms. "Please, tell him."