Candle after candle burns to its wick, a mere flicker by the time she lights the next one, turning to solemn faces once more with a tender, inquisitive gleam to those honey eyes that assess and seek to sooth all at once. She is a healer. Patient after patient she sees, so many faces that they blur together from young to old to new mothers and those expecting. Others come with tears to tell of those they lost in hopes she's seen them, treated them, fixed them so that they can find their way home. Moira cannot tell them of their family, all she can do is offer comfort in the makeshift medical room she's made. They stay there with warm tea that does not sooth them, they listen to the way her voice flows through the room as she sings, as melodies as ancient and churning as the sea fill the air, as her bandages flow unending onto sprained ankles and cut arms. Some are worse than others, some she fears infection will find, some still are more grim and she must take them to another room to help them. All the while though that song continues as steady as a war-drum, as steady as the beating of her phoenix heart.
When once more Isra pulls her from the sick bay and forces food upon her again, when the Queen holds her close until her hands stop shaking, when the numbness returns and the darkness brightens just a little, she is forced away to take a break. For your health the storyteller whispers, ushering her down hallway after hallway until she's near to her library once more.
The smell of books on shelves calls to her, pulls her in until the doors are open and his scent hits her. The portrait left unfinished comes to mind - the painting of the man in white and silver crowned by the sun and mountains behind him that she's yet to put fully on canvas. A smile lights on her face, however weary, as the bright-hearted woman sees him bent over a tome as she often is when in these many walls. Moonlight glints through the high, arched windows, spilling on him like a lover pressed against his skin. So close, Moira had been so closely pressed against Asterion not too long ago - relief in the curve of her spine to see and old friend. Once more the feeling sweeps through her and she moves forward. The picture of grace as feet glide almost silently upon the floor.
"No more birds nor correspondences then, Eik?" How sweet it is to say his name, to feel it roll off of her tongue like honey, like home. "I can't believe you're here," the phoenix says at last, settling in on the bench beside him while bringing over a book from the shelves she'd intended to pick up again. "You've seen Denocte then, is it everything you hoped it would be?" A careful question posed, inquiry and curiosity twining together until she cannot tell if she hopes for him to like Denocte or not. As the silence stretches, she cannot help but to think it is more tedious than the death bell that tolls in the sick bay where she should have been, but this... To have left to find him will be a welcome reprieve for at least a few hours.
When once more Isra pulls her from the sick bay and forces food upon her again, when the Queen holds her close until her hands stop shaking, when the numbness returns and the darkness brightens just a little, she is forced away to take a break. For your health the storyteller whispers, ushering her down hallway after hallway until she's near to her library once more.
The smell of books on shelves calls to her, pulls her in until the doors are open and his scent hits her. The portrait left unfinished comes to mind - the painting of the man in white and silver crowned by the sun and mountains behind him that she's yet to put fully on canvas. A smile lights on her face, however weary, as the bright-hearted woman sees him bent over a tome as she often is when in these many walls. Moonlight glints through the high, arched windows, spilling on him like a lover pressed against his skin. So close, Moira had been so closely pressed against Asterion not too long ago - relief in the curve of her spine to see and old friend. Once more the feeling sweeps through her and she moves forward. The picture of grace as feet glide almost silently upon the floor.
"No more birds nor correspondences then, Eik?" How sweet it is to say his name, to feel it roll off of her tongue like honey, like home. "I can't believe you're here," the phoenix says at last, settling in on the bench beside him while bringing over a book from the shelves she'd intended to pick up again. "You've seen Denocte then, is it everything you hoped it would be?" A careful question posed, inquiry and curiosity twining together until she cannot tell if she hopes for him to like Denocte or not. As the silence stretches, she cannot help but to think it is more tedious than the death bell that tolls in the sick bay where she should have been, but this... To have left to find him will be a welcome reprieve for at least a few hours.
