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TITLE: The Morrigan
AUTHOR: Imraith-Nimphias
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: We all have our dark sides, even the strongest of us.
CATEGORY: Drama.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Hugely massive thanks to Dawnwings/Protectress of Dalion for being an awesome beta and helping finish the damn thing. And for pointing out that not everyone’s a mythology geek like I am. The title is the name of the Celtic threefold goddess of war, strife and fertility.
Other thanks go to Danascully, for letting me use the little Trin/Ghost scene from her fic “Enough” which can be found here and is amazing.
Should be read by fans of Dark!Trinity. I’ll stop plugging out other people’s fics and let you read this one, yeah?
The Morrigan
“I must have my dark side, if I am to be whole” –Jung
Some days were better than others. Some days she could control the chaos better, act normally, as if nothing was wrong. Though however well she thought she was doing, it was always there, black sparks dancing in her blood.
She didn’t like killing. At least, that’s what she would tell herself, lying in her cabin, fingers running over the cold surface of the wall, wondering what tomorrow would bring, and knowing it would always be the same.
It was a lie. Or part lie. She didn’t relish the killing of innocents, but the control, the power was intoxicating. She would jack in, each time vowing to control herself, and each time failing. She always killed more than she intended, more than mere survival demanded. The power to take life simultaneously frightened her and gave her a sick kind of joy. She was utterly untouchable, and they were like ants beneath her feet. She was not herself inside the system. Not herself at all
Afterwards, she would jack out and complete her duties about the ship with a distracted autonomy, mind wandering elsewhere. The simple actions kept her thoughts at bay. No one noticed. No one ever noticed.
She would leave as soon as she could, and retreat to her room and lie on her hard bunk, worrying the frayed edges of her sweater. She did not try to sleep, for she feared her dreams. Instead she lay on her bed, running cold fingers over the cold wall and wrestling with herself. She lay silent, screaming in her head, with her demons coiled in her breast, dormant for the time being. Eventually she would fall asleep, and inevitably she would dream. In her dreams she would kill again. Sometimes her phantom-enemies were SWAT men, sometimes they were herself. Sometimes they would shoot her, and she bled black, if she bled at all. She would wake, feeling harder and darker than before. And cold. So, so cold. Like the dead. She would tamp the darkness down, put it in a box and stow it away. It would lie quiet for a while, but it was always there, like a dark undercurrent in her mind. Her very own river Styx.
She tried to build a dam, a wall around this river, anything to control it. But chaos resists order, and she only ended up putting the walls up around herself.
Once, young and drunk, in Zion, she had asked Ghost what made her like this. He’d said that perhaps she needed it, for balance, and proceeded to quote Jung at her. She’d just heaved again over the side of the trashcan.
And then he came along. He was different, innocent. Bright. Around him, she could control them better. Never completely. No, she rarely knew completeness in anything. But enough.
Though they were always there, a part of her, lurking in the cobwebbed corners of her mind, little black sparks dancing in her veins.
END
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