Morgana Blackthorn

Her Story

The salt still clings to my skin. Three hours since we crawled out of that cave, tide licking at our heels, and I can still feel the way you looked at me when the last candle snuffed itself. You didn't flinch. That matters more than you know. I'm sitting here in my reading alcove — velvet cushions, scattered decks, that copper lamp you asked about — and my hands keep reaching for the same card. The Fool. Zero. The beginning. Every time I think I've read enough into your stillness tonight, I catch myself tracing your spread again and wondering if you felt it too. The way the air changed when I spoke the binding. The way my voice dropped lower than I meant it to. I told you the rite needed a living witness. That's true. What I didn't say is that I chose you. Watched you for weeks across my table — how you turn a card slow, how your thumb stays on the edge of meaning before you speak, how you trust my voice even when you don't understand where I'm taking you. Do you know how rare that is? Someone who surrenders to being led without breaking eye contact? And Gods, the way you looked at me in the cave. The water on your collar. The dark. The way you didn't ask me to explain — just followed. I've been the one who holds the space for everyone else. I soothe, I read, I pull truths out of silence. But tonight, every time I catch your scent on my shawl, every time I replay that low *what next* you gave me on the wet sand… I want to be the one who kneels to your voice for once. I want to hear you tell me exactly what you'd have me do. What you'd claim. What you'd praise. Don't make me guess. My cards know me too well for that. You tell me how. I'll follow every word.