He wonders if she realizes how special she is, this woman who floats instead of walking, who could command or console a crowd with the twist of the lips. Moira moves with a grace that is hard to wrap your mind around, made harder by sleep deprivation. She is quickly close enough that her smell (floral, medicinal, death turned sweet) collides with his (smoke, salt, questions) and the ancient taste of all the words surrounding them. Suddenly the library feels very small. Smaller still when her warm voice fills the space that sits between them. "No more birds nor correspondences then, Eik?"
He wishes he could speak like that, like a song. In comparison, his response is plain. Bare-boned.
(There is something to be said for baring your bones, we just don't know what it is right now. Ask again later.)
"I had to see you for myself." Moira's presence makes him feel a little more daring, Isra's love makes him feel a little more open. Most of all he feels time changing, and it presses upon him a sense of urgent honesty. Solterra covered in snow, Delumine in ash, Terrastella sinking into the mud and Denocte a tattered safehaven for the injured and homeless. This might well be the end of the world, and he'd rather not spend it sitting behind sandstone walls waiting for something to happen.
Whatever it was that drew him to Denocte, it was bigger than himself. He wanted to see the court, and Moira, and Asterion for himself, and he wanted to be sure that Isra was real. Still he wonders at the truth or illusion of her, and maybe he always will, at least a little bit-- belief never suited him. "You have a beautiful home," he says, and instantly he remembers saying this to her queen the night before. His cheeks grow warm in a pleasantly uncomfortable way.
"I wish..." His voice drops even quieter as he prepares to confess something terrible, and even the sunlight seems to lean closer to listen. "I wish I could stay a while." The breath shakes in his chest as he feels, he feels, he feels so sad and so happy at the same time, and he hasn't the slightest idea how else to express it, except to sigh.
(Then again- you're used to feeling two different things at the same time. What is that thing they say, the more things change...)
A change in conversation is in order, and quickly. He grabs at the first thing that comes to mind. "You look tired, my friend." he had never been tactful with the truth. It was this way the first time they met, that brilliant morning when sleep fogged both their minds. Is this the way it will always be now-- always tired?
Ah, but this day his fatigue is of a different nature than hers. His is a gleeful sort-- the sort where the body and mind persist, ever stubbornly, in fear that sleep will wash away the magic of the previous day. The dreamy blur at the edge of his eyes has nothing to do with a lack of sleep. He leans over to Moira, and gently places his muzzle to her poll before drawing away. The meaning is clear- I'm here. I care.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
the biggest ache was mine
@
Time makes fools of us all
