Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
Lost. Captured by a sea of greys and whites and blacks that swirl at the tip of her brush, a sea of monochrome that is not the same classic coldness of the Tonnerres, but something much more. Something, if she dared ever say, that would reveal too much should one stare at the painting coming to life under her careful ministrations. Concentration paints her a pretty hue, a softer shade than that of the burning girl moments ago. Such focus, such intensity, would spark even the wettest of woods if ever turned on anything but the canvas at hand.
There is a smile there as she stares at dark eyes.
Eyes of paper and ink. They stare back at her; as sweet and dreamy as the night skies that giggle above them. The crowd is all but vanished as she grins back at the man's face. It is there on the page and then it is there behind the canvas and there is a gasp in her throat and a fluttering in her stomach and something wrenching her heart from her chest to throw at his feet.
There is no shyness, no hesitation, in those honey eyes. "Asterion," she breathes so informally, lighting up from just the whisper of his name on sanguine lips died darker with berries. Moira will blame it on the wine if he asks about the excitement building and growing, she will not admit to anything. She cannot. "I knew you would come. I hoped you would come." As though this were not his party and one of her own!
Oh, the boldness, the sweetness, as the woman curtsies with all the elegance and grace and poise every Tonnerre is taught before they even know how to run or dance. Lashes hit her cheeks and she cannot meet his eyes. If there is a canyon between it she bridges it, flying and falling and soaring as never before. "I never can get your smile right, it's much better when it's much closer." The lilt of her husky words, her midnight words, they are the beating heart of her art as she looks to the canvas and the King again and again. He does not smile though, not with a breath hitched in his throat. What is it he has left that aches to come out?
"Florentine is lovely. She told me you talk of me," and a secret smile returns. "It is nice to see such happiness and life. Terrastella is beautiful," and she longs to tell him that he is as well. She longs to count the constellations on his sides, to run her lips along his cheek, to learn what it is to let him kiss her and kiss him back. The phoenix exudes that flirtatious charm, that siple confidence in knowing who and what and where and how she is. She is a black hole pulling and tugging those in her vicinity closer.
He is the star that holds her at bay.
"I'm sorry," she sighs at last. And Moira Tonnerre is sorry for so many things. She's sorry with how she responded and did not respond. She's sorry that she did not come sooner. She's sorry that Isra is gone and Lysander is sent to war again. She's sorry that she was a fool. She's sorry....
And although it is an olive branch between them, she can feel the tension sliding thick against her skin, against his skin, and knows it would take much more than that. There are so many times she has apologized to the stars and the sun and the moon and the crevices of every wrinkle in her sheets. There are countless portraits and sketches and renditions of the same thing over and over all tucked away and too many burned. But how does a phoenix who breathes fire and cries tears that will heal every wound but her own tell the sea and waters how sorry she is? They would only sizzle and vaporize before he ever knew the depth of that burning within, the brimming possibilities.
There is a smile there as she stares at dark eyes.
Eyes of paper and ink. They stare back at her; as sweet and dreamy as the night skies that giggle above them. The crowd is all but vanished as she grins back at the man's face. It is there on the page and then it is there behind the canvas and there is a gasp in her throat and a fluttering in her stomach and something wrenching her heart from her chest to throw at his feet.
There is no shyness, no hesitation, in those honey eyes. "Asterion," she breathes so informally, lighting up from just the whisper of his name on sanguine lips died darker with berries. Moira will blame it on the wine if he asks about the excitement building and growing, she will not admit to anything. She cannot. "I knew you would come. I hoped you would come." As though this were not his party and one of her own!
Oh, the boldness, the sweetness, as the woman curtsies with all the elegance and grace and poise every Tonnerre is taught before they even know how to run or dance. Lashes hit her cheeks and she cannot meet his eyes. If there is a canyon between it she bridges it, flying and falling and soaring as never before. "I never can get your smile right, it's much better when it's much closer." The lilt of her husky words, her midnight words, they are the beating heart of her art as she looks to the canvas and the King again and again. He does not smile though, not with a breath hitched in his throat. What is it he has left that aches to come out?
"Florentine is lovely. She told me you talk of me," and a secret smile returns. "It is nice to see such happiness and life. Terrastella is beautiful," and she longs to tell him that he is as well. She longs to count the constellations on his sides, to run her lips along his cheek, to learn what it is to let him kiss her and kiss him back. The phoenix exudes that flirtatious charm, that siple confidence in knowing who and what and where and how she is. She is a black hole pulling and tugging those in her vicinity closer.
He is the star that holds her at bay.
"I'm sorry," she sighs at last. And Moira Tonnerre is sorry for so many things. She's sorry with how she responded and did not respond. She's sorry that she did not come sooner. She's sorry that Isra is gone and Lysander is sent to war again. She's sorry that she was a fool. She's sorry....
And although it is an olive branch between them, she can feel the tension sliding thick against her skin, against his skin, and knows it would take much more than that. There are so many times she has apologized to the stars and the sun and the moon and the crevices of every wrinkle in her sheets. There are countless portraits and sketches and renditions of the same thing over and over all tucked away and too many burned. But how does a phoenix who breathes fire and cries tears that will heal every wound but her own tell the sea and waters how sorry she is? They would only sizzle and vaporize before he ever knew the depth of that burning within, the brimming possibilities.
@Asterion | "moira" "neerja" | notes: WHOOPS
