Normally it might have felt a shame, or at least a waste, to have Mort in her bed and not do anything about it. As it were, Belladonna was far too grateful to have him anywhere near her at all to find their current situation anything other than incredibly marvelous. No complaints, no whining, no pouts or attempts to change the current state. Just simple and total enjoyment of their proximity to the other. That was what the witch let cover them as she pulled the blankets up and over their heads, before she snapped her fingers and they were plunged into darkness. Yet this was the comfortable lack of light, a longed for absence that signaled another completed circle. It was a smaller circle, one that meant this beginning had been completed, that the couple can now spiral outward to any number of other things.
Belladonna knows this as she curled against Mort's chest, as she wrapped her arms around him even though in a half hour the one underneath him will have fallen asleep when she still has not. Cycles in ones life are often viewed with scorn and dismay, but the witch has been taught to carefully examine circles with an optimistic eye. This habit now proves to only make her happier, though with her heart nearly pressed to his it is difficult to get much happier without exploding from joy.
There is really no need to respond to his words, for she has already accepted them by turning out the lights, by not continuing to push. Still, she finds herself with a tilted up head to whisper:
"Later. We have an endless amount of time left." And she believes herself, too.
After another moment of silence, Belladonna whispered to him the story of her first day with Trouble in her room. How he had nearly set fire to her bedspread, to her desk and to herself. How she had still held the little pup and cried on him because he had tried so hard to be helpful, to be bright and happy and carefree when she could see he was worried too. How her tears had made him steam up, and that was how she'd thought of the big cauldron in her closet that could tipped over, that he could occupy and live and sleep in. And with a laugh she told Mort about how long it had taken her to lug it out, to slide it across the floor and finally situate it in the corner. She failed to tell him she had exerted so much physical effort because she had feared her magic was gone, had feared she would blow up her room in her grief and had instead opted to further bruise her already wounded hands just to be kind to Trouble.
And while the story makes her laugh, it also makes Belladonna cry. Mostly because her sorrow is still fresh, even if it has mostly healed over. But also because Mort is here with her, because all her desperate wishing has come to pass. It really and truly does not matter that he has come back missing a large part of himself, or that something is wrong. The witch knows it will take time for them both to discover exactly what it is he has lost, precisely what it is he has gained, and what collectively they can share. She knows, whether she realizes it fully or not, that for a little while she will have to not only shine brightly for him, but also lead him as well. That until his confidence in himself returns, that she will have to fill in whatever void has been left with herself.
But Belladonna does not mind. As always, as it will forever be, she would and will do absolutely anything for Mort.
This is the thought she carried in her mind as she drifted off to sleep, a mumbled
"I love you" pressed to him before she fell under the heavy burden of restful peace. For only a few hours she actually sleeps, for soon enough she begins to dream. It is not the same dream as before, for there is no altar, no valiant knights with their individually colored cloaks, no monster that asks for their sacrifice. But there is a large, empty field the witch inhabits almost alone, for the same gray and blue phoenix is with her. It sits in her hands, looks at up at her with its odd, fragile eyes as whispers pour from her mouth. Belladonna will try to shout over them, to drown them out with her own words, her own screaming, but it isn't until she crushes the bird to her chest that she wakes, suddenly.
To wake with the thing one had spent an eternity wishing for, to wake with one's beloved wrapped around one is surely enough to make any normal person a little teary eyed, let alone a normally water works prone ghoul. So even though a little bit of gray light can be spied outside her window, even though the morning has come and found them safe and sound together, Belladonna still clutches at Mort, drags him as close to herself as she can, finds it not close enough, and cries once more. It is surely not the last time, but she is just so happy, she cannot stop herself.
And why would she want to? Mort is all she's ever wished for.
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