i was loosened, a top whirling around & around
In every dip of his shoulders and curve of his cheeks, the shifting of even his mouth, it lets her know she did not say what he wanted to hear. The phoenix does not regret her words, does not shy away from the damnation set upon his head, upon Isra's. Oh, how the woman burns because she cares for them both, how bitter the taste in her mouth of ash and pure lemon and acid eating at her tongue when her eyes can only smolder and darken at him.
Every word is a curse, an ill wish, an omen upon her heart. Every syllable is a knife, a dagger, a sword plunging through burnt wings, through her spine, into her gut. And every time he does not meet her gaze she cannot help but feel the anger that pulses, a panther beneath her skin, waiting to pounce and devour and destroy.
Barking out a laugh, a scoffing sound more choked than the soft, sultry purrs usually humming through the air, she cannot help but turn away. Angrily the Tonnerre child paces to and from the bookshelves, listening to his words hit the walls and splatter like paint, like falling dreams, like destruction. He cannot know then. The destructive power, the pain that comes with, the rending of one's very soul and heart from their body - to be in love, to love another so wholly that it destroys everything you are. Snorting, Moira paces right up to him. Eye to eye, toe to toe, she breathes heavily and snarls.
"Then you are a fool and may Caligo and whatever heathen god may listen have mercy on your souls. When it tears you to pieces, when it shreds who you are like the insatiable, ravenous, awful beast that it is, when everyone you love does not know how to look at you and even you become a stranger in your skin..." Panting, she hisses.
Teeth snap as she turns away, stalks towards the shelves once more with a horrifying snap of her wings against her sides. Ears bury themselves among braids and curls, her tail flicks from side to side as irritation oozes from her pores. "Tell me then what it is to love and watch everything slip away. Tell me then how it makes you better." The word is spit like a sin, like a curse, like something wicked and acrid and foul that she cannot stand to deal with any longer. When she cannot see him, when her flames have burned down and Moira is but a pile of ashes awaiting rebirth, only then does she sigh and let her shoulders fall. Let the rage roll out and down as cascading droplets of a waterfall.
Defeat almost hangs as heavily in the air as her unending rage, rage at something that was not Eik and was not Isra. But it is gone just as quick, as quickly as her head raises once more and hollow gaze at last looks to the candles too far gone. "I'll stand by you in your joy and hers and the multitude of mistakes you will carve along these walls. And when you crumble, when the earth shatters beneath your feet... There are salves and tonics to help that, too, Eik." At last it is a whisper, a hush of words too tired to be anything more than that last offering. Her own heart is run ragged with such emotions running rampant, unleashed from their collars, unearthed from their cages, unsatisfied with how little they've been allowed to play. For now... For now she awaits the damage of her un-tethered words with a final statement so quiet it's nearly unheard: "Your mistakes are for you to decide and bare, no other can don them for you."
