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foxficThis flower that smiles today
Dresden Files bookverse
prompt was Morgan/flower at Dresden Flash fic on LJ.
warning: offscreen OFC death
title and cut text from Robert Herrick's Poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time"
He's been doing this job and nothing else for so long he's forgotten how to be anything else.
Once upon a time, Morgan was a man, a son, a husband, a father, a mean saxaphone player, and an alright pool player.
A long time ago (and in a life time far away) Morgan picked flowers for his mom on Mothers Day, before he was old enough to have a paying job and (proud enough to insist that he could) buy it from a store.
The day he got married his wife wove little white flowers into her hair. The day of her funeral he placed a single white rose on her casket.
He's been fighting the same monsters who killed her for a hundred years, maybe a thousand. The faces change, but the root is the same one, growing anew every spring from black earth.
He'd been in full blown as a young man, but the people (and ideals) he'd lost had been petals wilting, dying, falling off and rotting. He feels like potpourii - dried pieces of what was once a beautiful life.
Morgan was a man once. Now he's just the job; a gardner pulling weeds. Morgan wishes he could still see the flowers he's pruning this garden for.
Dresden Files bookverse
prompt was Morgan/flower at Dresden Flash fic on LJ.
warning: offscreen OFC death
title and cut text from Robert Herrick's Poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time"
He's been doing this job and nothing else for so long he's forgotten how to be anything else.
Once upon a time, Morgan was a man, a son, a husband, a father, a mean saxaphone player, and an alright pool player.
A long time ago (and in a life time far away) Morgan picked flowers for his mom on Mothers Day, before he was old enough to have a paying job and (proud enough to insist that he could) buy it from a store.
The day he got married his wife wove little white flowers into her hair. The day of her funeral he placed a single white rose on her casket.
He's been fighting the same monsters who killed her for a hundred years, maybe a thousand. The faces change, but the root is the same one, growing anew every spring from black earth.
He'd been in full blown as a young man, but the people (and ideals) he'd lost had been petals wilting, dying, falling off and rotting. He feels like potpourii - dried pieces of what was once a beautiful life.
Morgan was a man once. Now he's just the job; a gardner pulling weeds. Morgan wishes he could still see the flowers he's pruning this garden for.