“Now the night's breath responds to the sea, which I can scarcely hear from here, as it reminisces about its shipwrecks.”
Isra is learning to treasure the bits of history that pour from Moira with her tears. Each word is a broken bit of wonder, of hope, of a world that was as flawed as it was lovely. She cannot help but to think of her own city, her own palace full of wonder and pray that all the horses see it as a peace offering for charred mountains and homes ruined by the gods.
There is only thing in the world Isra would hoard, only one stain on her soul in the color of avarice (and that stain is gray, gray, gray).
She gathers what tears she can from Moira's face before she dashes them on her wings. Each tear the queen touches turns to a diamond, so that her friend isn't shedding sorrow but wealth enough to feed a city. It's a promise too, wordless, but one that says I will take all your tears and heal them. Isra will make Denocte whole again through the wealth of their sorrows and their brokenness.
She has more than stories to give them now.
Fable alights from her back and twines himself around Moira's legs. His wings are cool, like moonlight and sea-foam given flesh and form. He moves between the two mares and makes another knot between them, another link, another bond.
Watching Fable twine around Moira is all the answer she needs to a question she didn't know she was waiting to ask.
“We could make Dencote like that place. We could have spires of light, and art enough to crack even the hardest of souls. We could have peace with none of the disdain or war.” This she says after her friend has pulled away to pace. In between each of her words Isra steps towards the wall and towards the darkness still lingering there.
Isra lays her check against the stone and it turns to glass, a spire made of glass and light that makes even the moonlight look pale. And when Moira turns back to her Isra only smiles and laughs brightly, like all her joy has finally cracked out and drowned all the fury and sadness. “We could have it all, if only you'll help me.” She moves to close the distance between them and Fable moves too so that he is between the two mores.
Her touch is gentle when she brushes it against the hollow of Moira's cheek. It's full of promise and hope and her eyes blaze brighter than the sun on a summer sea. “Will you be my emissary, Moira?” Isra holds her breath, waiting.
Fable fills the weighty silence with a happy purr (as happy as a dragon can sound).
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