M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
He is the ash that rained down to the ground when her wings burned. He is the storms that her family was born from. He is the moon in all its glory, the night in all its splendor. He is a masterpiece as he stills.
Even the breath he breathed halts as her lips press against him, her eyes close as an electricity that crackles in his veins, in hers, runs from one to the other. When she pulls back, it is like she caught fire. An abrupt sliding away to look down, to look to the left, to the right, anywhere but at him. Only when she sees a glow does Moira dare peer into those depthless silver eyes again, see the blinding white upon his forehead with markings she does not know. Is it a tongue she could learn? Curiosity blinds her, tugs her. Perhaps her quest for knowledge will always be her downfall, perhaps that will be her undoing when the end finally comes. The phoenix is grateful that today is not the day to celebrate her death. Between them, a living, breathing entity has come to be. Tension, as thick as fresh cream on milk, so dense she can cut it with just a flick of her tail, slithers down her spine, down his, until it is a slick, oily thing in the air.
If she were smarter, Moira knows she should have left. But she rises to the challenge, footsteps echoing his own to sit opposite the table and steady her beating heart, master her heaving lungs. Merely touching him is enough to push her senses into overdrive.
The only boys Moira kissed before were out of familial fondness.
She cannot tell you why her lips have been forever emblazoned upon gossamer cheek, shimmering black satin. Her only reason is that she's as captivated as she is loathing of the man before her.
When first meeting, she roared, consumed by an anger as a lion feasts upon its kill. Now, that anger sparks, that emotion zaps her once more as he asks - no, demands - to know her fears. Terror tickles her tongue, pictures flash in those amber eyes. Could she lay her heart on the table for just the folding of a paper? With her mind working overtime, she bites her lip and pretends to mull it over. All the while, the crane floats lazily through the air above them. Wings flap. One. Two. Three. Her heart matches the rhythm, her blood flowing to the beat of the drum he makes on the wind.
Moira Tonnerre nods at last, with a great and terrible sigh.
"When you close your eyes, I imagine you see faces and places. People. Things." It is soft, like the beating of a butterfly's wing, "I see fire. I see chains. I see smoke. Ruination. Damnation. There is only hatred that comes with flight. If we had gods, I would have prayed. Only our ancestors walk beside us, guide us on our journey. Mine, you see, were, and always have been, flightless." She meets his silver eyes, her own haunted, tortured, as defiant as they are dead. "It is the way of things. But my mother flew through the skies, she sang with the storms and danced with the wind. She is as beautiful as she was wild... Giselle gave me her wings upon my birth, and that will always be my greatest downfall. The chains were frozen so they would bite and burn. Any movement... Most days I did not move. Have you smelled what it is for hair to be ablaze? Acrid. Putrid. I'll never forget what it's like to catch fire and be born again. Each year my feathers returned. I think they still have trophies of the ones they plucked, ashes of those they burned, etchings of that which was frozen or chained or cut.
"I never asked.
"I learned that with things pitiful, broken things there only comes pain and suffering. There comes the rush of adrenaline that tells you to fight or flee, but I was not given the option of either. They were larger. There were dark rooms. Small rooms. Out of the way so none could hear. They kept me there so I was out of the way and you could not hear my screams. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my lips were cracked and my tears dried and began again. Time after time I returned to those chambers. Feathers have been bandaged more than they have been free. If I did not have them, perhaps things would be different now."
She chokes on the words, spits them out as she would a poison, detests every little whisper that escapes past her lips. Why could she not be mute now? It would be better. Easier.
Moira does not wish to look into his eyes any longer, she has no desire to see the emotions he may feel - if any at all. Her ghosts are all on the table now, leering eyes, taunting whispers. It is a cavernous door opened, one she's kept shut so long... Briefly she wonders if this is worth it. Secretly, she hopes it will be. But in such a dark hour, in such a lightless void, it's hard for her to grasp at the wings of hope and seize them for herself. Now, she is as hollow as the chambers long forgotten. "Your turn," she whispers.
@Caine don't mind me while i sob for her
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
He is the ash that rained down to the ground when her wings burned. He is the storms that her family was born from. He is the moon in all its glory, the night in all its splendor. He is a masterpiece as he stills.
Even the breath he breathed halts as her lips press against him, her eyes close as an electricity that crackles in his veins, in hers, runs from one to the other. When she pulls back, it is like she caught fire. An abrupt sliding away to look down, to look to the left, to the right, anywhere but at him. Only when she sees a glow does Moira dare peer into those depthless silver eyes again, see the blinding white upon his forehead with markings she does not know. Is it a tongue she could learn? Curiosity blinds her, tugs her. Perhaps her quest for knowledge will always be her downfall, perhaps that will be her undoing when the end finally comes. The phoenix is grateful that today is not the day to celebrate her death. Between them, a living, breathing entity has come to be. Tension, as thick as fresh cream on milk, so dense she can cut it with just a flick of her tail, slithers down her spine, down his, until it is a slick, oily thing in the air.
If she were smarter, Moira knows she should have left. But she rises to the challenge, footsteps echoing his own to sit opposite the table and steady her beating heart, master her heaving lungs. Merely touching him is enough to push her senses into overdrive.
The only boys Moira kissed before were out of familial fondness.
She cannot tell you why her lips have been forever emblazoned upon gossamer cheek, shimmering black satin. Her only reason is that she's as captivated as she is loathing of the man before her.
When first meeting, she roared, consumed by an anger as a lion feasts upon its kill. Now, that anger sparks, that emotion zaps her once more as he asks - no, demands - to know her fears. Terror tickles her tongue, pictures flash in those amber eyes. Could she lay her heart on the table for just the folding of a paper? With her mind working overtime, she bites her lip and pretends to mull it over. All the while, the crane floats lazily through the air above them. Wings flap. One. Two. Three. Her heart matches the rhythm, her blood flowing to the beat of the drum he makes on the wind.
Moira Tonnerre nods at last, with a great and terrible sigh.
"When you close your eyes, I imagine you see faces and places. People. Things." It is soft, like the beating of a butterfly's wing, "I see fire. I see chains. I see smoke. Ruination. Damnation. There is only hatred that comes with flight. If we had gods, I would have prayed. Only our ancestors walk beside us, guide us on our journey. Mine, you see, were, and always have been, flightless." She meets his silver eyes, her own haunted, tortured, as defiant as they are dead. "It is the way of things. But my mother flew through the skies, she sang with the storms and danced with the wind. She is as beautiful as she was wild... Giselle gave me her wings upon my birth, and that will always be my greatest downfall. The chains were frozen so they would bite and burn. Any movement... Most days I did not move. Have you smelled what it is for hair to be ablaze? Acrid. Putrid. I'll never forget what it's like to catch fire and be born again. Each year my feathers returned. I think they still have trophies of the ones they plucked, ashes of those they burned, etchings of that which was frozen or chained or cut.
"I never asked.
"I learned that with things pitiful, broken things there only comes pain and suffering. There comes the rush of adrenaline that tells you to fight or flee, but I was not given the option of either. They were larger. There were dark rooms. Small rooms. Out of the way so none could hear. They kept me there so I was out of the way and you could not hear my screams. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my lips were cracked and my tears dried and began again. Time after time I returned to those chambers. Feathers have been bandaged more than they have been free. If I did not have them, perhaps things would be different now."
She chokes on the words, spits them out as she would a poison, detests every little whisper that escapes past her lips. Why could she not be mute now? It would be better. Easier.
Moira does not wish to look into his eyes any longer, she has no desire to see the emotions he may feel - if any at all. Her ghosts are all on the table now, leering eyes, taunting whispers. It is a cavernous door opened, one she's kept shut so long... Briefly she wonders if this is worth it. Secretly, she hopes it will be. But in such a dark hour, in such a lightless void, it's hard for her to grasp at the wings of hope and seize them for herself. Now, she is as hollow as the chambers long forgotten. "Your turn," she whispers.
@Caine don't mind me while i sob for her
