Moira - - that's amore
Time is of the essence, something Moira Tonnerre knows all too well, and she can feel her heart thundering in her chest more quickly than the flickering candle flame before her as she rushes through the halls. This should not have come to pass - how is it that Isra was left so vulnerable as this; enough so that when trouble came knocking, only Acton stood, and fell, in defense of the queen. Disgust and rage and beasts stalk in her stomach, turn her heart to hellfire's wrath. Where she walks, head high, purpose in every stride, eyes cold and calculating once more like days of old, it is not a Pegasus that moves over the ground but a panther beneath her skin. Everything about her has changed from that smiling girl in the kitchen, the crying woman in a room of wonder, to something far less expressive of all that she feels, something of glaciers and hurricanes and bedtime stories are made from. Moira is no porcelain cup sitting prettily in a china hutch, she is not breakable like the dirt and hearts of children losing their favorite toys. So when she sits at the desk in her chamber - so empty save for a corner covered in sheets to hide the stains of paints and charcoals and pencils lining every bit of it - glances to the closet where a paper and quill float from, it is not sadness that coats the ink. No, something deeper and more raw, something so much more ephemeral and eternal and contradictory that is put into every letter, but does not quite shake hands with the words. Asterion, I do not know what to-morrow brings, nor what the setting of the sun will tell me. Isra has been taken, by whom it is unclear entirely other than a silver blade seen streaking across the land. In her stead, I stand as acting sovereign. Our hunt begins with the baying of the hounds when dawn breaks to match the shattering of Denocte's heart. It is my hope that this letter finds you well, stay safe and be merry where I cannot. May we meet again soon with a brighter moon overhead. with love, Moira Tonnerre, Emissary of Denocte, acting Sovereign, healer for all peoples The phoenix does not blow flames from her carmine lips as the ink dries, simply watches and waits before sending the letter off with a pale, lovely dove to find the King of Delumine. |
a letter for the king?
