m o i r a
there is sorrow in a smile
there are secrets in her eyes
there are secrets in her eyes
T
angles in the golden woman's hair are reflected in the phoenix' heart, twisting and twining and tugging her down, down, down beneath the briny waves of the ocean, down into a tumultuous sea, down until that treasure of her love, her life, her passion is hidden. Down until she is a ship lost at sea. There are no ports in sight in the storms that swirl within, building faster and higher than ever before. The glory of the lightning is dwarfed by the threat of the darkness. Such darkness should have been an old friend.
It never will be in the flaming heart of the fire-girl.
Hollow steps ring through hollow halls. This palace is a rotting corpse. With Isra gone, all Moira can feel is the howling in her ribs, the wind whipping through corridors and rooms in search of a queen it will not find. Even the people seem less themselves, quieter, more cautions. One of their own murdered beneath their very noses, it is only a matter of time before the other shoe falls, before the guillotine blades descend, before the noose is pulled tight about their throat.
But oh, the lion-hearted girl stands tall in the face of adversity, raises those golden eyes in defiance and refuses to crash without first burning everything in her wake to ashes, to smoldering cinders, leaving only dust and memories in the beautiful disaster that is her. This court will not fall, these people will cry no longer, and Novus will know that Denocte stands strong, stands tall, stands true when all is said and done.
A warrior-heart cannot always pound its beating drum, cannot always grin like a barbarian ready for a brawl, cannot always scream like a Berserker plunging head-first into the fray only to find spears and arrows aimed for their heart. She walks as a ghost along the halls, a twisting and reviling sourness pooling in her stomach, growing day by day. The phoenix knows she should eat more, knows that the hollows of her ribs are not holy temples to worship in anger and hatred, to be washed with the names of the dead and the faces of the stolen. The Tonnerre girl knows she should sleep more, as she should now, curled warm and safe next to her beloved Neerja in their pillow fortress and land of dreams. But how can one rest, how can one sleep, when there is such an emptiness, an abyss deeper and darker, that thirsts for not only her blood, but the blood of all those she holds so dear?
If you ask, she will not tell you how they hold her heart in their hands, but they do all the same.
So she stalks through the castle halls, Neerja pacing restlessly behind her as only she can as a guardian and protector of this winged cub with no sense in her head. The tiger follows as a fretting mother, a loving friend. Their hearts are one, she knows this to be true. Their dreams are shared, and as such, their nightmares too. She has seen the horrors that haunt her girl's sleep, has slain the beasts that rear their heads to take Moira's in her dreams, has watched those that made the phoenix' breath catch in her heart be lost in so many awful ways. Neerja has felt the loss as a blow to her own heart, as the pang of having lost her own brother when but a cub herself to a pack of wolves. She grieves as the phoenix does not know how to, and she is the shadow with golden eyes ready to destroy anything threatening the woman that now slips down a side hall.
Another door opens, and together they go in. Mirrors line a wall, ladies line the mirrors. A sunrise girl looks between the two with wide eyes, but quickly moves past when she sees Neerja eyeing her as a meal. Only then do the gentle words of Florentine, the golden girl whose sharp eyes rake down the Pegasus' soul, plunge into her sinking heart, and miss nothing of the way she straightens, words hit her like a freight train.
Is there a similarity between this drop of sun and any others she know - a man, a brother. Perhaps in the curve of their jaw, the shape of those eyes. Realization sparks brightly in honeyed gaze, a brief nod casting her face in shadows as messy, curled hair slips down from its nightly braid onto her cheeks, over her eyes and those devastatingly long lashes. She is a walking heartbreak, a moving masterpiece. If angel blood ran through any, it ran through the two women here with cutting angles and curling soft edges. It paints her as a rival to the sun and the moon and the light of the stars. "Florentine," the smoky voice comes at last.
"Forgive me, there is much that keeps my mind busy this day. You are...Asterion's sister, no?" How she softens at the name, how tension flows from her body and seeps into nothingness at the mention of the star-bright boy that stole her first kiss.
How she wishes he were here instead of his sister. So many apologies are scribbled in paintings, so much confusion is splashed over her chamber walls. "Please, the pleasure is mine, and long overdue. I saw you in the crowd, you came when the bells sang. Thank you," and tears line pale eyes, sad eyes, lost eyes, as she meets amethyst in a sea of gold. Neerja pulls herself forward, feeling the distress on the tip of Moira's tongue. How swiftly she comes between the two, easily brushing along the phoenix until her wings quake no longer, her breathing steadies, and her heart does not echo the staccato rhythm of a rabbit's ready to burst.
Together, as one, the duo moves to the mirrors artfully placed so that all angles can be seen, observed, and attended one by one. "Many sleep at this hour, but you look as wind blown as the sea. Are you restless, too?" Carefully she begins to unplait the braids along her neck, letting loose waves of ebon hair that fall like sins upon her neck. Inch by inch she is covered until the white of her shoulder, the white of her wing, is blanketed in her riotous hair. She plucks up a comb from the counter, kept often for times just like this, and carefully begins to brush through the tangles until they are none. Only then, when it cascades like a waterfall instead, does she look to the woman who could break her heart with just her words, and offer that secret, sweet smile. "Hair can be so unfortunate," and it is as though a secret between them is shared, an amusing bit of gossip she dare not say again, an olive branch for peace, for flowers of friendship to spring up beneath the heavy snows of winter when they thaw at last.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: I am so thrilled to write with you ! ;u; let the harassment interrogation begin <3
