josephine_marrs: Close-up picture of Colin Morgan (pic#6262684)
[personal profile] josephine_marrs



      The corset wraps around her waist, its bones settling lightly atop the curve of her ribcage. Its silk lining is cold, at first, against her skin. Her assistant tugs on the strings, and its edges cinch together around her, beginning the slow and inexorable process of locking her in. When they are done, glossy, wine-colored silk cages her from breast to hip. Every time she breathes, she feels her torso shimmying in a writhing sort of dance that strains against flesh-warmed fabric and steel bones, as she tries to draw in the deepest breath that she can.
      Gloves of black silk are drawn onto her arms, one after the other. The soft fabric rustles and whispers ever so softly as it glides up into position, sheathing her limbs from mid-bicep to the tips of her fingers. Supple as the fabric is, it is a tight fit around her hands; not a fraction of an inch was spared in the measurements. When she curls her fingers, the silk tightens over her hand like a second skin.
      A mantle of feathers settles over her shoulders. They are long and glossy-black, mirroring the gleam of her hair that falls in waves to meet them. They stick out in phalanxes of long spikes jutting from her shoulders and across her chest, her creamy skin showing as a mere hint from under their cover. Their appearance belies their texture; they are soft against her skin, caressing the sides of her throat with a texture like soft down.
      Her skirt is the same color of dark wine as her corset and gloves, and spills with a liquid sheen down her hips, ending just above her ankles. Little allowance for movement is made within it. Her stride is reduced to a dainty hobble that sets the soft silk rustling.
      Her feet are set into a framework of leather and wood that forces the flesh and bone into an exquisite arching line. The thin black cowhide is polished to a silky gleam, and it flexes against the taut white skin of her feet. The heels are six inches of twisted, polished ebony. There is no such thing as walking; there is only balancing atop that tiny, perilous height, feeling the shift in her weight from the ball of one foot to the other.
      Her attendants sit on either side of her in the limousine. Ono of them emerges first, putting the photographers on high alert, some of them already snapping pictures in their desire to record her every movement.  The other pushes and prods at her from behind, and helps her position her limbs so she can exit the limo and stand. She emerges from the vehicle in a shower of flashing bulbs; her vision is limited to a bright, white haze. She does not care that she cannot see. Her every bit of attention is focused on pivoting straining muscles within her limited scope of movement, carefully placing weight as she is pushed from behind and dragged from the front. Her face is schooled into a carefully placid, doll-like expression.
      She walks now, as close as she can come to walking; one tiny step in front of the other, masking her near-immobility with smiles and waves to the cameras and those who carry them. Each pause in her progress is an opportunity to pose, to make the line of a leg or hip more prominent underneath the hobble-skirt, the skeletal shadows of limbs underneath the silk sheath. The attendants advance with her, one on either side, keeping a carefully-calculated distance. They are close enough that they can easily catch her if she loses balance, before the audience can detect she’s doing so. They are dressed in black: black shirts, black jeans, black shoes, black sunglasses hiding the individuality of their eyes, so that they just look like twin shadows. They are easily overlooked, even in the glare of the cameras, even against the fine, bright backdrop of the red velvet carpet.
      The people behind the cameras call to her. “Here, Morgana, look here!” When she responds, the flashes pulse out to bathe her in light and record her every movement for scrutiny, from this moment to the end of time. The thick waves of her hair, the fine lines of her cheeks and jaw, her creamy skin, her perfect posture, her graceful limbs, the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips, all are carefully catalogued. Infinite copies are created, collected, curated.
      Behind and around the people with the cameras scurry people with pens and pads of paper, or books, or photographs that had been taken on other occasions, with other cameras. They push and jostle the photographers and try to outdo them with their own cries. “Morgana! I love you! You’re so beautiful, Morgana!” they call. “Please, Morgana, sign this!” They push the pens and the surfaces at her. Every now and then, she will accept one, and grace whatever surface they’ve provided with her signature. This stirs up the rest of them, and like bees, they rub and jostle against each other in their frenzy to soak in her attention.
      The silk gloves around her fingers are so tight that she can barely bend them, or feel what she’s holding. She looks at the crowd and watches their adoring faces, and can’t help but be awestruck by them, herself.
      “Thank you!” the lucky few cry, but they are drowned out by the sounds of the many, who continue to call out to her, please, please, please, please…
      At last, she reaches the doors of the theater. The heavy mahogany panels swing wide for her. For a long moment, she is illuminated by the warm light inside, an hourglass shadow, before the doors close and lock behind her.
 
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josephine_marrs: Colin Morgan wearing a dark-colored beanie, apparently at night (Default)
josephine_marrs

October 2015

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