I paid the price and own the scars
why did we climb to fall so far ?
An amalgamation of fire and light, a scorch upon the lands with tinkling laughter that turns heads, eyes that brighten the world, and a smile (when unburdened, unhidden, bare for all to view) to stop the earth on its axis, Moira pushes herself across the cliffs with the utmost care. A sleepy smile wavers on the edges of her teeth, even as brows draw down when amber eyes flit about to gain her bearing once more. Asterion. That's right. The word whispers through her like a welcome breeze as she remembers how they'd talked through the setting sun, watched as the stars came to life to dance overhead and bring out the brilliance of the man. Moira has been here all night, she remembers with only mild shock shuffling around within - it would be a scandal amongst her family, but they are not here to scold and scorn and judge.
Birdsong meets her on her trek downward, a return trip to Denocte and her beloved infirmary in progress, when a figure moves just below. Such stillness rests about him before until actions disrupt the natural flow of dark upon dark; gray and tan ground is nothing like the goliath that moves upon it in all of his shadowed glory. Flesh rolls as muscles undulate, dark and light clash in a beautiful display that her family would have loved. The Tonnerres are not a people built for exotic appearances such as her own - color does not permeate their home as fruits and fronds do in the summertime when all is warm and lavish parties are thrown. Every now and again, an odd child is welcomed into the fold from an outside marriage, but they are one of the few and oft do not make it high in the ranks after that. The purity, the cleanliness of the mundane and muted colorations must be kept. So Moira is an anomaly, but she adores the monochromatic colors that the world seems to overlook (that she would overlook could she not see properly as some did not.) If only shadows and light were what she knew, she thinks she would be happy with that, too.
But it is a treat to watch him move, only for her to notice red upon the ground - red the drips from an unknown source upon the man, red the stains the dirt, the grass, the morning in lush colors and concern. All thoughts of monochrome beauty dissolve as gears chug faster and faster, grinding within even as she hurries down. Where a girl stood before, admiring all that was lovely in the world, a woman now stands, a healer coming upon a stranger who bleeds as red as everyone else.
"You're bleeding," she says plainly, sternly, with all the neutrality upon her face as a mother would have when scolding their babe for dropping an open sandwich face down on the floor. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but he should not leave himself to sully the grounds like that. "And frowning. Are you ill?" Perhaps elsewhere doctors were warm, brushing a reassuring hand over their patient's head, checking for fever, smiling like they weren't going to die even if they were too far gone to save. But she was raised in a house of frost and masks, stuck behind a glass to have her strings pulled like a marionette whenever the matron saw fit, paraded about like a prized peacock for the world to laugh and smile and dance about. She was not warmth and laughter like Estelle, Moira is cold efficiency and hidden gentility. The cool hand that brushes away fever but does not kiss you goodnight, the one that works hours just to help a single soul without ever asking for a shred of gratitude in return.
Now, as she studies him her lips purse and at last she lowers her head with an introduction. "I am Moira Tonnerre." His name is not necessary and should not be forced, but if he freely gives it to her, she's sure it is not one she'll likely forget.
we made our love out of stacks of cards
@Thorvald hope it's alright we jump in here ! c:
