I paid the price and own the scars
why did we climb to fall so far ?
Sunlight scrapes precariously over precariously hewn wings reaching for the sun that is so far away. Glinting beneath heavenly light small chains laugh gaily as the girl's feathers rustle and head tilts upward, rich amber eyes closed as she takes in one breath, and then another, and another, only to be terminated by the faintest of sighs and more sorrow spilling upon her shoulders.
What would help Estelle?
Sick, cold, alone. Abandoned. Clanking through her head like tanks rolling over battlegrounds, she cringes at the thought of her poor cousin whom she left to find herbs to help heal her. Was she even still alive? Worry ate at the laugh lines that were tucked into the very edge of her eyes, around the corners of her once-beaming mouth. It was detestable to have left her there, so alone in a world they did not know. But Estelle is strong, she reminds herself, thoroughly scolded (although to say calmness had returned would be a falsity even she could not commit to) and once more focused, Moira's dark lashes flutter open at last.
Striking beauty of a woman pieced together from sunlight and stars themselves, she is a living masterpiece. Orange skin clings tightly to an arched neck and swaying hips, wraps like a lover over sparrow-boned breast and aching heart, curls like smoke about a face that darkens just enough to draw the eyes away from curious ivory marks that mar her proud chest and soaring wings, pulling ever further away from the starlight that sprouts from her sides. The phoenix woman holds herself tall despite such average stature. She does not seek to be flashy or garner unwanted attention, simply existing within the biome and living within her means.
This new land was strange, the people she had yet to get to know personally. Caretaker. That's the title she'd been given when entering the den of artists and claiming them as her kin just as the esteemed Tonnerre's had taken Moira as one of their own when but a young girl. They'd found her alongside the lake, searching then much as she was now for Lizard Tail and Floatingheart to help create poultices and potions alike that would heal from within and without a body. It was the art she'd been taught - the life she'd chosen.
A life of servitude was all she could offer.
To the water she now looks, determination creeping in along the edges, wiping away the worry and unease that haunts her day and night, replacing self doubt with stone cold certainty. Moira was born for this. From a young age she'd been instructed on how to help, how to heal. It was her one gift to the world, if nothing else ever came of her.
Many plants are in full bloom, proud to display their color (or lack of) upon the surface, even moreso to survive to be tall enough that Moira would notice them. Careful are the steps she takes forward into the pool once more, avoiding the saddened eyes she knows so well that would stare back at her should she choose to watch the girl that enters the pool just like herself. What would she find there? Every time it's the same. Bracelets from her beloved Estelle would disappear, forgotten as the woman was when Moira was working - a shame she should never get over; black and white locks held tight into braids and buns, looking much more than her four years should allow; and the face of a girl who'd left her family and all she'd ever loved.
Regret.
At the end of it all, she knew she'd find that within the heart of the woman who would stare back at her. Where did she fit in the grand scheme of things? Perhaps she'd found Denocte and the Night Court and their denizens because her heart called to the artists, the lovers, those too passionate for their skins. But she was not alive like they were - she did not truly live as they did, did she? Fire courses in their hearts, they are unafraid to proclaim love and show their creations. Moira, esteemed daughter of the Tonnerre clan, Phoenix Woman cut from the sky itself, disgraced and reborn, hated and loved. Moira... Now she was just... Moira. Caretaker for Denocte, in charge of patching up wounds, keeping the shelves stocked, and minding her own business until she was right and ready to let herself find another home that would help heal Estelle as it should her.
She sighs again, at last meeting those accusing eyes. Traitor they say, glaring at her even though she wears no such expression upon her much more neutral visage. Brows draw tight once more, and in an unusual show of discomfort she splashes away her own reflection, refusing to look any longer at herself for fear of what more she would find. Forcefully she pushes further into the pools, feet sinking into mud, moving over rocks with algae so heavy upon their surface they seem almost covered in biofilms of slime. It is a cesspool for parasites, but these waters hold herbs she needs as well.
code: e-cho; image: unsplash
we made our love out of stacks of cards
