“If I let you I think you would treat my heart tenderly.”
There is still that sad song tingling on her lips and sorrow whispering below her eyes like a glittering sea. But when Moira is the one to walk into the room her sorrow and her sadness disintegrates into joy and something hot, like hope, like young fire. Isra looks at her and thinks that sadly they are becoming relics, the last of the ones left to whisper of floods and birds and gods who break their hearts with betrayals.
And if the sea of sorrow below her eyes rises like a tide, who can blame her?
The distance between them quickly whittles down to nothing more than a breadth of heat and fondness. Each feather whispering against her skin feels like a prayer, a thing whispered to Caligo that says, we have this still, no matter how shattered you left our hearts and our hopes. Isra turns and buries her nose in sunset feathers. She ignores how the movement stretches and pulls as scabs and fresh scars.
“Always worried about everyone but yourself.” Fondness turns her smile into a bright, moonlit thing. All the bright bowls of fish and silver orbs seems pale in comparison to the thing that lives in her gaze. Another sort of love, she thinks, another thing to bank the rage instead of fuel it. There is very little fury left in her now, the last of it drained away by her red and black and golden friend.
A harp song pours faintly in from the crack in the door and the places where the stones in the wall don't quite meet evenly. At her back the night goes on, draping the room in moonlight and sea-light and a song soft enough to sound like the shore. It's almost easy to glaze over the salt stains around their hooves, easier still when each bit of earth touching Isra's hooves turns to grass stalks made of silk.
“My injuries are fine for the night, Moira.” Her lips brush sweetly against the healer's dainty cheek. A hair tickles her nose and she sneezes before tucking the wild strand behind Moira's ear. “Tonight is for dreaming and wonder.” The moon shifts behind a cloud and the scaled curtains turn black as space and they only light between them is candle-light and sea-light and Isra chuckles.
Even inside they cannot hide from the night.
“Tell me what your perfect night looks like and I shall see it happen.” Something bright and playful sparks in her eyes as Fable flies through the door to land across her back. Her spine bows slightly under the weight of him, but her hooves still feel light as air as she dances away from sunset feathers into the kaleidoscope of blue and silver light floating over them.
Tonight is for dreams and Isra knows, when the ground changes to moonstone and glass and feathers rising up like weeds, there is nothing she cannot create for Moira.
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