M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Petals fall from trees, float off of flowers like raindrops, and through it all Moira wears a smile. Paint is washed from her skin, the water pours in cool waves over her face, her arms, until only the ghost of a rainbow and passion are left to tell others of her heart now back on a canvas. Sweet breads are offered, cake stands proudly on tables with drinks for all to partake of, and Moira pulls a slice and glass towards herself.
Life is too short to not enjoy the little things.
Having seen her cousins die too young, having caught a sickness that even her instructor could not heal, she has suffered alongside them. From their death, she learned to appreciate life more fully despite having closed off too many to count.
A sigh slips from her at last as she looks about, wondering what Asterion has gotten himself up to. After their departure, she slipped away to paint and let her heart bleed out in reds and blues and purples. Upon her neck, a small patch of indigo still remains, as though smeared while deep in thought and missed upon cleaning. The ends of her hair are tinted white from stars too brilliant, too bright. Smiling, she remembers the shooting star now drying on the canvas and hopes that leaves have not gotten stuck to the surface. Perhaps the man of twilight and midnight dreams, of sea songs and starlight would like the painting of this life, or perhaps she'd burn it for the imperfections she could see. The Matron has burned many of Moira's paintings before, and with every crumpled, ashen painting and drawing that was not suitable, she felt her heart splinter and her spine stiffen. "You are a doctor," the Matron would say with cold eyes, remind Moira over and over what she'd worked so hard for. So they were put in trunks and hidden in attics, painted in the dark with only moonlight to guide nimble fingers as they worked for hours on end as though performing a surgery. Once it was finished, she would shred what was not good enough, what the Matron would tear apart, and destroy another hope, another dream, another fear given form.
Often times, Moira painted fire and chains, other times she'd paint the rose bushes in the gardens, the tulips in the window boxes, and portraits of family members. The twins often found their way into her paintings, flinging mud from balconies, pushing one another into ponds full of lily pads and frogs. They brought light into her life. It was these precious moments she's saved. And now, at the heart of the painting full or light and dark, a clashing of two worlds, Estelle sits in all her silver glory with a cloak of emerald and eyes of scorn. Would she be upset with Moira, or happy for her?
She bites her lip in the place that's been worn so thin, so raw still from the last time it'd bled with her inquietude. Only when the pain lashes from her lip to her neck and down her spine does she let it go. Turning with her drink floating nearby, the phoenix runs smack dab into the side of another. With a gasp her drink falls to the ground, her flower crown she'd asked for so that Asterion would look losing petals in the collision, and her cake smeared down the side of her wing tucked against her ribs to appear as though they do not exist. Horrified, she takes a startled step back, shaking her head and looking at the mess. "Are you alright? I didn't mean to, oh... I'm so sorry. Let me help clean up my mess. I'm sorry," stumbling over words, her soft voice wilts with every syllable. Like little lights blinking out, if you look in her eyes you can see the stars dying. And it had been such a good day until now.
@Bexley i'm sorry for this novel ;o;
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Petals fall from trees, float off of flowers like raindrops, and through it all Moira wears a smile. Paint is washed from her skin, the water pours in cool waves over her face, her arms, until only the ghost of a rainbow and passion are left to tell others of her heart now back on a canvas. Sweet breads are offered, cake stands proudly on tables with drinks for all to partake of, and Moira pulls a slice and glass towards herself.
Life is too short to not enjoy the little things.
Having seen her cousins die too young, having caught a sickness that even her instructor could not heal, she has suffered alongside them. From their death, she learned to appreciate life more fully despite having closed off too many to count.
A sigh slips from her at last as she looks about, wondering what Asterion has gotten himself up to. After their departure, she slipped away to paint and let her heart bleed out in reds and blues and purples. Upon her neck, a small patch of indigo still remains, as though smeared while deep in thought and missed upon cleaning. The ends of her hair are tinted white from stars too brilliant, too bright. Smiling, she remembers the shooting star now drying on the canvas and hopes that leaves have not gotten stuck to the surface. Perhaps the man of twilight and midnight dreams, of sea songs and starlight would like the painting of this life, or perhaps she'd burn it for the imperfections she could see. The Matron has burned many of Moira's paintings before, and with every crumpled, ashen painting and drawing that was not suitable, she felt her heart splinter and her spine stiffen. "You are a doctor," the Matron would say with cold eyes, remind Moira over and over what she'd worked so hard for. So they were put in trunks and hidden in attics, painted in the dark with only moonlight to guide nimble fingers as they worked for hours on end as though performing a surgery. Once it was finished, she would shred what was not good enough, what the Matron would tear apart, and destroy another hope, another dream, another fear given form.
Often times, Moira painted fire and chains, other times she'd paint the rose bushes in the gardens, the tulips in the window boxes, and portraits of family members. The twins often found their way into her paintings, flinging mud from balconies, pushing one another into ponds full of lily pads and frogs. They brought light into her life. It was these precious moments she's saved. And now, at the heart of the painting full or light and dark, a clashing of two worlds, Estelle sits in all her silver glory with a cloak of emerald and eyes of scorn. Would she be upset with Moira, or happy for her?
She bites her lip in the place that's been worn so thin, so raw still from the last time it'd bled with her inquietude. Only when the pain lashes from her lip to her neck and down her spine does she let it go. Turning with her drink floating nearby, the phoenix runs smack dab into the side of another. With a gasp her drink falls to the ground, her flower crown she'd asked for so that Asterion would look losing petals in the collision, and her cake smeared down the side of her wing tucked against her ribs to appear as though they do not exist. Horrified, she takes a startled step back, shaking her head and looking at the mess. "Are you alright? I didn't mean to, oh... I'm so sorry. Let me help clean up my mess. I'm sorry," stumbling over words, her soft voice wilts with every syllable. Like little lights blinking out, if you look in her eyes you can see the stars dying. And it had been such a good day until now.
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