Doubt never darkens horizons so lit with the bright light of a life devoted to others. Moira does not know what it is to regret the decisions she's made to be a healer, to save a life rather than take it, to feel the blood upon her hands and bathe in it until all filth and grime and stains are washed from her patient's being. But times like these, she wonders what it would be like to have chosen something her mother once enjoyed.
Gizelle Tonnerre. Not a Tonnerre by blood, merely the aristocratic daughter from the kingdom over - the kingdom with winged creatures and their floating houses and castles, the kingdom of artistry and beauty and laughter, the kingdom that never slept when the moon was high. Passion was a fire in her blood, pushed the drumming of her heart ever faster, further along. How she once would weave between the Estate's pillars in a merry stream of scarves that would fly about her as though lifted by invisible hands! Moira remembers when her mother would still paint and come to read stories covered in colors that she could not yet name as a girl. Surfacing still are the gowns and gypsy attire that Gizelle once wore when she flew across the stage to perform for the great family.
All watched her mother, and while they did not like her for her wings, her talent was unequivocal.
Music is a thrumming in Moira's own heart, stroking the strings until she moves and sways with the sun and moon left upon her face from a young prince still so gentle in his youth. As the halls pass her by, the sounds follow her like a shadow, clinging to her like a second skin unwilling to be removed.
She remembers another festival full of laughter and dancing. There, flowers were woven into her hair and a starry eyed man stood beside her. Sweet wine tasted like sugar on her tongue and only the stars remained sober and bright enough to ever see her secrets and sins. Here, corridors block out the moonlight, but rooms and mazes are set up to enthrall and wow any who visit their home.
If Thunderbirds did not kill their brave and brazen court, then a gala where gypsies that Gizelle would adore and hearts sigh happily should be the least of her concerns.
She roams like a ghost through the halls, dodging away from the crowds that laugh and bellow, the bonfires blazing into the night, the tinkling of glasses and jewelry alike, to breathe for a moment in solitude and contemplation. Rumors flew more swiftly that the swallows when Springtime comes, and breezily her mind floats to the unicorn who fell asleep in a pile of rags and stories with her. Isra. Her sweet Isra had been attacked - that's what her court says. A throat now raw and red, a wound she tended to just hours after it happened to stave off infection. Oh, she's been so careful when dressing it and applying her salves, never ready to disrupt the calming complexion of Denocte's mighty queen.
Tonight, she should have gone to clean it once more, but Moira had been pulled in too soon by little Reggie and Milo before she could make her rounds for the day. Now, it is the sound of tears and bittersweet sorrow that guide her to a door.
Upon the frame whirlpools and dolphins play, dancing in the woodwork, a living story before her eyes. Of course the absent queen would be within these walls where the sea calls to her soul. In a way, Isra reminds the phoenix woman of Asterion - both drawn to the sea, both stormy and soft in equal measure, both so dear to her heart she could burst from it all. Slowly the Tonnerre child opens the door, pushing inward until she gasps at the floating ponds with koi and goldfish staring back at her. Among it all, through distortions of water and moonlight, Isra stands with a brightness to her eyes that betrays her.
How the Pegasus rushes forward! Red in the room, burnt orange upon the ground, a sunset flying to meet the night and embrace it so tenderly with wings hesitantly folding about them once more. Only with Isra does she let her wings move, allow them to flex and extend without fear or reprimand. There are no words as the healer holds her queen, nothing but a soft sigh and a kiss to her cheek.
"I never saw to your throat today," is all that she offers, brows raising infinitesimally. But she does not pull back or withdraw from the embrace, does not comment on the sadness which is a perfume upon the air. A healer does not pry like that, they do what is necessary for their patient with what they know is wrong. If comfort is all she can provide, then comfort shall be given. After all, even the strongest of stones erode with the passing of time.
@Isra >.> <.< I regret nothing
