M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Interest courses through her as it does him, thrums in her blood, holds her captive until she leans nearer him. Absentmindedly she steps forward, their breaths mingle for but a moment as the space between them disappears, her eyes are wide, heart beats fast, and his smile takes her breath away. Of all the people she's met, Eik is completely and wholly himself. It puts her at ease, lets her relax and match his grin with her own, lights up the morning just as it does his skin. And he is a masterpiece.
Nations would crumble at his feet. She could watch them burn if it showed the same reds on his skin, the same orange licking down his spine, the same yellow crowning him as though a god. But Moira has no gods, and Eik will not be the first she worships.
Still, he would not make a bad one.
And with her thoughts all in a flurry, a bleary storm in the winter, he pulls her back. Back to heated days and baths for healing. To a time when her hands were pruned from the oils she mixed for her family, the water never stopped flowing in her corner of the study. There was always more to do, more to make, another person to see. By appointment or emergency, she'd seen her hands in red and white and yellow. She'd smelled the most lovely tonics and the worst that made her gag. All of it did not surmount to the pleasures of Denocte. Denocte - where there was never a dull moment. Where the gypsies roam freely and the party never truly ends. Her new residence.
The infirmaries there are now stocked to the brim with oils for soothing, for waking, for revitalizing. The shelves full of bowls that smell foul and fair alike, for healing, for unwinding, for helping. Cobwebs for patches and leaves for poultices. Perhaps here, it would not turn out so badly if she found some valerian with Eik to take home, too. "If you need help preparing it, send a bird to find me won't you?" There is that gentle amusement again, her eyes crinkle at the corners, her wings cling to her sides but shake gently as she inclines her head. All would be well. It always was.
Time ticks on, she can feel it passing through an hourglass, each grain of sand so fine as it hits the pile that grows below. And yet, the seconds do not seem long enough, her breath never quite normal when he speaks again. As he stumbles over words, thinking through her request, she almost offers to withdraw her statement. But no, he is a portrait she cannot wait to taste, to let her worries and stresses and fears ease out of herself and onto the page, to let his glory shine. Instead, earnest eyes meet his shy gaze. Head tilting to the side with a lopsided grin, Moira nods. "I'll deliver it personally then. But you'll have to tell me where that is, of course."
It's an easy statement. Uncomplicated. Moira never meant to keep the painting after all. For all those treasured memories she threw away, every canvas burned and walls splattered with color of her failings, this was one she would share with him. Biting her lip at his request, brows raise, and she nods. "In a library, most days. The halls are filled with music and laughter and life, but only at night. They are noisy, but happy." Her vagueness makes her frown - he deserves more than just that silly little piece. He's been nothing but forthcoming. Sighing, she continues. "It is called Denocte, where I rest my head and make my living. It is a good home."
Already having demanded his own dwellings, she knows she cannot parrot back such a simple question. What then is left for the two of them then? What more outside of goodbye? Sorrow pierces her for a moment at that, a melancholy and longing she cannot quite find the explanation for. "Will you remember me when we part, Eik?" Did her life have any importance after all?
@Eik <3 i'm so sorry this took way too long to reply to, please forgive me ;;
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Interest courses through her as it does him, thrums in her blood, holds her captive until she leans nearer him. Absentmindedly she steps forward, their breaths mingle for but a moment as the space between them disappears, her eyes are wide, heart beats fast, and his smile takes her breath away. Of all the people she's met, Eik is completely and wholly himself. It puts her at ease, lets her relax and match his grin with her own, lights up the morning just as it does his skin. And he is a masterpiece.
Nations would crumble at his feet. She could watch them burn if it showed the same reds on his skin, the same orange licking down his spine, the same yellow crowning him as though a god. But Moira has no gods, and Eik will not be the first she worships.
Still, he would not make a bad one.
And with her thoughts all in a flurry, a bleary storm in the winter, he pulls her back. Back to heated days and baths for healing. To a time when her hands were pruned from the oils she mixed for her family, the water never stopped flowing in her corner of the study. There was always more to do, more to make, another person to see. By appointment or emergency, she'd seen her hands in red and white and yellow. She'd smelled the most lovely tonics and the worst that made her gag. All of it did not surmount to the pleasures of Denocte. Denocte - where there was never a dull moment. Where the gypsies roam freely and the party never truly ends. Her new residence.
The infirmaries there are now stocked to the brim with oils for soothing, for waking, for revitalizing. The shelves full of bowls that smell foul and fair alike, for healing, for unwinding, for helping. Cobwebs for patches and leaves for poultices. Perhaps here, it would not turn out so badly if she found some valerian with Eik to take home, too. "If you need help preparing it, send a bird to find me won't you?" There is that gentle amusement again, her eyes crinkle at the corners, her wings cling to her sides but shake gently as she inclines her head. All would be well. It always was.
Time ticks on, she can feel it passing through an hourglass, each grain of sand so fine as it hits the pile that grows below. And yet, the seconds do not seem long enough, her breath never quite normal when he speaks again. As he stumbles over words, thinking through her request, she almost offers to withdraw her statement. But no, he is a portrait she cannot wait to taste, to let her worries and stresses and fears ease out of herself and onto the page, to let his glory shine. Instead, earnest eyes meet his shy gaze. Head tilting to the side with a lopsided grin, Moira nods. "I'll deliver it personally then. But you'll have to tell me where that is, of course."
It's an easy statement. Uncomplicated. Moira never meant to keep the painting after all. For all those treasured memories she threw away, every canvas burned and walls splattered with color of her failings, this was one she would share with him. Biting her lip at his request, brows raise, and she nods. "In a library, most days. The halls are filled with music and laughter and life, but only at night. They are noisy, but happy." Her vagueness makes her frown - he deserves more than just that silly little piece. He's been nothing but forthcoming. Sighing, she continues. "It is called Denocte, where I rest my head and make my living. It is a good home."
Already having demanded his own dwellings, she knows she cannot parrot back such a simple question. What then is left for the two of them then? What more outside of goodbye? Sorrow pierces her for a moment at that, a melancholy and longing she cannot quite find the explanation for. "Will you remember me when we part, Eik?" Did her life have any importance after all?
@
