They've moved so many to the infirmary - those with one eye or banged up limbs, broken bones and dripping wounds too garish to patch up without proper supplies. Others are sent there to rest, to recover from heinous sights that will haunt them for days to come and let themselves drift in abysmal peace. There is so much work to do, she hardly knows where something ends and another thing begins. Crumbling walls. Drenched houses. Flooded fields where crops were once fertile and rich for the taking to provide for the entirety of the nation. But what is a nation if its people are not well enough to make it fruitful? It is her duty to tend to them, to put gauze over ears half torn off, to patch up the already scabbed arms that were cut when something or another fell, to pull water from lungs of those near drowned when the sea came screaming back in on her hidden cove. Such treasures she hid once more, yet so many lives she dared try and take.
Moira is unwilling to let them be stolen away so easily.
Through the night lit only by what fires could be managed she had worked. Tirelessly moving from person to person, seeing who required the most help. She does not feel time passing as others do, her focus solely on the patients that need her the most.
Dawn breaks more quickly than anticipated, and with it comes the sound of a voice above the moans and soft sobs and gentle thank-yous whispered. Hoarse, croaking, probably as tired as Moira undoubtedly looked, Isra approaches. In the middle of applying a salve to a gash to stop infection and rubbing lavender about the young man's neck to calm him, golden eyes pause to look over towards her new queen. Unhurt through their perilous and trying catastrophe, she stands a beacon of hope despite the sorrow weighing on the dreamer's heart. For a moment, sympathy touches the phoenix' eyes, but quick as the lightning that came and went, it too is gone within seconds. There is no time for silly emotions like that. What will come will come, and she sure as hell won't go down without a fight. "Isra," she murmurs with a swift nod. Doesn't she realize there is bleeding to be stopped so their streets are not eternally red?
Where is the kiss of night and sound of laughter? What happened to the magic that once ran rampant on a lover's tongue, the soft sigh of falling stars and tinkling music that was always about?
It will not return with idle hands. So shock courses through her like ice in her veins when lips touch her own brow. Lips tip down, ears twitch before burying themselves in fallen curls from braids and pins to keep at least that from the injuries if nothing else. Easing back so there is distance, so that she does not feel like a bug under the microscope ready for dissection, the woman in red merely looks to the crumbling architecture and mourns its loss. "There are people who need mended and bellies to be filled. Sleep can wait for me. But you, sweet Isra, must rest your eyes. I can see it on your shoulders - the weight of the world. You are not alone. We are at your fingertips so that you do not break." She smiles for the first time that morning.
Turning to the young man once more, she is quick to finish wrapping his arm send him on his way. Then, with all the efficiency and as much lackluster as she can muster, she turns promptly on her heel to press her shoulder against Isra's own. "This way, I think we've set up something for porridge at least for today. Let's get you some and a nice cup of tea to talk about what comes next?" Reassuring, calm, yet as distant as the sea that has retreated far down the coast once more. Just as she was raised - a serene presence to help another to wherever they need be in life. This... This is what Moira was born for. Not the sky nor the sea nor the arms of a cruel lover, but the healer, the helper, the one to guide and nurture others throughout the beginning, middle, and end of their lives.
testing out a new table woooo ! @isra also can i say i simply adore isra nes? I just needed to say it again
Moira is unwilling to let them be stolen away so easily.
Through the night lit only by what fires could be managed she had worked. Tirelessly moving from person to person, seeing who required the most help. She does not feel time passing as others do, her focus solely on the patients that need her the most.
Dawn breaks more quickly than anticipated, and with it comes the sound of a voice above the moans and soft sobs and gentle thank-yous whispered. Hoarse, croaking, probably as tired as Moira undoubtedly looked, Isra approaches. In the middle of applying a salve to a gash to stop infection and rubbing lavender about the young man's neck to calm him, golden eyes pause to look over towards her new queen. Unhurt through their perilous and trying catastrophe, she stands a beacon of hope despite the sorrow weighing on the dreamer's heart. For a moment, sympathy touches the phoenix' eyes, but quick as the lightning that came and went, it too is gone within seconds. There is no time for silly emotions like that. What will come will come, and she sure as hell won't go down without a fight. "Isra," she murmurs with a swift nod. Doesn't she realize there is bleeding to be stopped so their streets are not eternally red?
Where is the kiss of night and sound of laughter? What happened to the magic that once ran rampant on a lover's tongue, the soft sigh of falling stars and tinkling music that was always about?
It will not return with idle hands. So shock courses through her like ice in her veins when lips touch her own brow. Lips tip down, ears twitch before burying themselves in fallen curls from braids and pins to keep at least that from the injuries if nothing else. Easing back so there is distance, so that she does not feel like a bug under the microscope ready for dissection, the woman in red merely looks to the crumbling architecture and mourns its loss. "There are people who need mended and bellies to be filled. Sleep can wait for me. But you, sweet Isra, must rest your eyes. I can see it on your shoulders - the weight of the world. You are not alone. We are at your fingertips so that you do not break." She smiles for the first time that morning.
Turning to the young man once more, she is quick to finish wrapping his arm send him on his way. Then, with all the efficiency and as much lackluster as she can muster, she turns promptly on her heel to press her shoulder against Isra's own. "This way, I think we've set up something for porridge at least for today. Let's get you some and a nice cup of tea to talk about what comes next?" Reassuring, calm, yet as distant as the sea that has retreated far down the coast once more. Just as she was raised - a serene presence to help another to wherever they need be in life. This... This is what Moira was born for. Not the sky nor the sea nor the arms of a cruel lover, but the healer, the helper, the one to guide and nurture others throughout the beginning, middle, and end of their lives.
