Morgan Is My Name

My name is Morgan,” I said. “And there aren’t enough words for all that I am.

In truth, Morgan, I can no longer remember when I haven’t thought of you. It’s as if you’ve been my whole life.

Morgan is my name, and its origin true at least - “sea-born” by way of the Welsh tongue.

This sea brought you forth to life - I can hear it roaring in your veins. It brings you strength, is felt in the tidal shift of your moods.

My name is Morgan. And there aren't enough words for all that I am.

There is nothing simpler than convincing a man of what he believes he already knows.

Never apologize for seeking further wisdom, or for being remarkable.

We can only truely depend on ourselves - I know that now. I wish I had learned it sooner.

Constantly told our bodies are troublesome, complicated, our insides a dangerous tangle compared to men’s? Yet it is nowhere in this book, nor anything we’ve studied. We are half of this living world and no one has ever seen fit to write us down.

Isn’t it far better to choose a fate entirely on your own terms, in service of your deeper talents and wants of the mind, rather than be led by the weakness of the heart?

The name, peregrine,” my father said. “It means ‘wanderer.’ ‘She that roams.’ ” He looked down at me, lines on his face drawn grave. “Do you know what her greatest strength is, Morgan?” “Yes. Her talons, for the crushing of skulls.” He had told me so on our very first flight—the beak is sharp and worth your caution, but never forget her talons: there death resides. But today, I was wrong. “Survival,” he said. “At any given moment she can fly away, knowing she can live. She doesn’t need me, the falconer, or the shelter of the mews. That is the greatest power of all.

How many times did I have to say it ? How old, how angry, how mutinous did I have to be before he realised I would always defy him, no matter the punishment; that with the last breath in my body, I would fight him and refuse to obey any word that came from his lying muderer's mouth.

I was what remained: Morgan, sea-born and I caged, shattered but soaring, returned to life.

If I am not for you, then I am for no one.

If you are unholy then I am damned along with you.

Do not apologize, Lady Morgan. Your decorum leaves a little to be desired, but never have I been able to fault your work. Never apologize for seeking further wisdom, or for being remarkable.

My mother was marble, her strength cool and smooth and patient; I was dark and made of shards, formed under pressure in places light did not reach. I was flint, and always had been. And I was also steel: hard, forged in blazes, bright and glittering sharp.

Love,' she continued, 'is more potent and powerful - it gives pleasure, meaning. But it also dominated, weakens, is a beast greedy and selfish, requiring constant sacrifice. To love is to cede our own power, an act of surrender we cannot guarantee will be returned...

Then he kissed me, and I kissed him, deeply, fervently, endless, until we were all there was.

True power comes from freedom, and the ability to survive what befalls us.

It isn't weakness," I protested. "Love clarifies, not destroys. It brings strength, fulfilment to our hopes and wants.

I was flint, and always had been. And I was also steel: hard, forged in blazes, bright and glittering sharp.

Marriage is like the wind, the widows told us, husbands blow warm then cold, gusting elsewhere, then sweep back with a sensibility of their own. It is pointless to question the wind, they said. But I was of the sea, turbulent and unceasing; it was not in me to accept platitudes and inconstancy.

The widows of St. Brigid’s told it true: there is nothing simpler than convincing a man of what he believes he already knows.

We were water then, fluent, indivisible; a lake in a rainstorm, rippling with life; a waterfall colliding with itself in tumult and thrill; a river in spring thaw, wild and unceasing, rushing to meet the salt embrace of the sea.

So then you know,” he said. “I love you and I never stopped. I’ve thought of nothing but you since you returned—and before that. Since ever I saw you.” He met my eyes with a fierce, needful expression I had not seen before. “In truth, Morgan, I can no longer remember when I haven’t thought of you. It’s as if you’ve been my whole life.

I was made of stone, as if Medusa’s rage had uncoiled within me and caught sight of its own ferocious reflection.

it's not about you Morgan, Ninianne said. It's about them - men, their power, their battles, their pride. Everything they do is to provide them with what they need, no matter the cost.

The connection runs deep—a Celtic nymph, perhaps, tangled up in your ancient bloodline. No doubt you derive some thrill from any water.