Time is of the essence, something Moira Tonnerre knows all too well, and she can feel her heart thundering in her chest more quickly than the flickering candle flame before her as she rushes through the halls. This should not have come to pass - how is it that Isra was left so vulnerable as this; enough so that when trouble came knocking, only Acton stood, and fell, in defense of the queen. Disgust and rage and beasts stalk in her stomach, turn her heart to hellfire's wrath. Where she walks, head high, purpose in every stride, eyes cold and calculating once more like days of old, it is not a Pegasus that moves over the ground but a panther beneath her skin.
Everything about her has changed from that smiling girl in the kitchen, the crying woman in a room of wonder, to something far less expressive of all that she feels, something of glaciers and hurricanes and bedtime stories are made from.
Moira is no porcelain cup sitting prettily in a china hutch, she is not breakable like the dirt and hearts of children losing their favorite toys. So when she sits at the desk in her chamber - so empty save for a corner covered in sheets to hide the stains of paints and charcoals and pencils lining every bit of it - glances to the closet where a paper and quill float from, it is not sadness that coats the ink. No, something deeper and more raw, something so much more ephemeral and eternal and contradictory that is put into every letter, but does not quite shake hands with the words.
Asterion,
I do not know what to-morrow brings, nor what the setting of the sun will tell me. Isra has been taken, by whom it is unclear entirely other than a silver blade seen streaking across the land. In her stead, I stand as acting sovereign.
Our hunt begins with the baying of the hounds when dawn breaks to match the shattering of Denocte's heart.
It is my hope that this letter finds you well, stay safe and be merry where I cannot. May we meet again soon with a brighter moon overhead.
with love, Moira Tonnerre, Emissary of Denocte, acting Sovereign, healer for all peoples
The phoenix does not blow flames from her carmine lips as the ink dries, simply watches and waits before sending the letter off with a pale, lovely dove to find the King of Delumine.
It is far from the first time that he has been caught unawares, celebrating when those he loves suffers. It is not so different than the night he spent dancing with Aislinn, while Lysander was beaten to unconsciousness with only the silent pines to watch.
His people had returned to Terrastella with hope at last in their hearts - but as Asterion reads and then re-reads (again, and again, eyes snagging on a different line each time but always coming to rest on with love) his heart tumbles like a stone to hungry waves below.
His own response is scrawled in minutes, the ink dark and glistening across the thick paper like blood on snow. Each scratch of the nib is a tear at the soul of him, and when he is at last done he glances at the mourning dove, dark-eyed and watchful.
But it is Cirrus he turns to, and she accepts the letter to her leg without comment, though she reaches to glide the edge of her wing against his cheek. “Help them look,” he says, knowing she does not need told. Be wary, she returns, and then after a pause - it’s good you’re back. You’re needed here, Asterion.
He says nothing, only watches her go first to the window, and then to the sky, a small distant beacon against the pressing night.
Before she vanishes entire, he turns away to gather his people and once more press them to service.
Moira Tonnerre,
I am so sorry. I did not know. If I had I never would have left -
I will send Marisol and Theodosia and some of their command to aid in your search. What else can I do? Anything you ask of me you will have.
I do not tell you to be strong, for you already are. So is Denocte, and so is Isra. If I have any faith left it is in you and she.
Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling
The knocking came late that evening, after an owl was sent into the morning light to find her court and her Regent to the north. Just a quick nap, that's what the woman wished for upon returning to the library where night always seems eternal. Only the window up high allows for sunlight to stream in, bright enough to read by without the need of lamps in the right spot, but dark enough to still find Caligo's kiss of darkness in the corners where so few venture.
It is here that Cirrus wheels into; stormy wings dipped in white are nearly silent through the shelves, and when orange feet land before honey eyes, Moira's heart stutters. She must have flown across the sea, she thinks, to have come back so swiftly. Where a sigh flutters, quickly the phoenix covers it and rises from the mat upon the floor. She dips her head, smiling, "Hello my friend," and a wing is extended for the gull to climb upon and rest while the letter is opened.
She ignores the tremor that seems to run through the thick paper, her nerves not yet having settled. (Would they ever calm with so many storms constantly on the horizon?) Heart clenches and she huffs out a stubborn breath, raises and eye and looks to Cirrus. "He worries too much, doesn't he?" With love and hope - why did he sign it so? With hope. It stirs her from her reverie, pulls her to the sleepless present.
My dear friend,
The world cannot rest solely upon your shoulders, even you cannot make the stars fall or realign. It is good you are home, the people need their King, do they not? Tend to them, Denocte is in good hands and we will prevail.
Marisol and Theodosia will be treated as one of our own, and their services are greatly appreciated. How can I ever repay you for the kindness in your heart? I don't think a million glasses of dandelion wine would ever tell me the secret...
Cirrus needs rest, so I'll set up a roost or nest in my chambers until she is ready enough to return to your side.
Thank you, my friend, for your faith and courage. It gives me hope for the future knowing that there are those like you that walk these lands. Thank you, Asterion.
Your faithful companion,
Moira Tonnerre
Setting a similar seal as she had that morning on her letter to Delumine, the phoenix looks to Cirrus again as she carries her new companion to the aerie. Together they tie the note about the leg of a sleek pigeon. Her greyness reflects the sorrow in the skies this evening, and it is with sorrow and joy that the Pegasus sets the bird off into the skies where she seems to disappear. "God speed, little dove."
