Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
No light leaks into his face, none of the brightness that shimmers in her blood (would soon shimmer on her skin) is etched into the curve of a smile. Only a ghost of one as he turns to leave reminds her of the beauty of him, the vitality of him, the essence of him that she just can't quite catch. He is the elusive winds on the cliffs where they'd first met.
But if the King thinks he should retreat, that he ever stood a chance of escaping, she will be glad to show him how wrong he is. Black slippered feet tap on the ground, and quick as a cat she's beside him once more with raised brows and pursed lips. "You're emptier than the day I met you, Asterion, and isn't that an awful way to be?" She knows the hollowness that howls through him, shakes his bones with the screaming of gusts of wind when all else has fled; she knows and does not know the depth of emotions and loss as he does.
Moira lost her family in coming here, in following a lightning girl with a storm-bright smile. She did not lose their beating heart. And before even that she'd lost her mother and father when they sent her off for her apprenticeship. She'd lost her little brother. Perhaps she should be thankful then she'd never had a lover to lose.
Moira will not lose Asterion, too.
Whatever ghosts he has, hers twine about them and watch on as she keeps at his side. Somewhere along the way, the Emissary has plucked up another flute of champagne and thinks nothing of how it tears down her inhibitions and walls. Before the snow-flecked night is through, the phoenix may very well be a bleeding husk of a girl before him once more, or in the bed of some stranger, some other who is willing to pick up the pieces of her that she wields now like weapons.
All those shattered fragments are spears, are spires of determination, are the new blossoms of wanting to be selfish. Moira is so careful about what she cares for, what she claims as her own. But she is not careful tonight.
"You sipped dandelion wine with me once and ate cake, you wear a frown now that your people would hate to see at such a time of merriment. I won't ask you to dance, paint with me?" Share my heart for just one night she implores with those golden eyes that rake over every niche upon his brown skin. His eyes are pools of chocolate so deep and dark she would drown in them if she dives in tonight. So she does not, she holds back just as he does but for entirely different reasons.
The phoenix will not shatter any longer. Every particle of her that broke and exploded and was left torn off now shines, filled with lights of every color like stained glass coloring her soul, lighting her from within. Every shattered piece is her future and her love and dreams and everything she will become.
War hangs heavy in Denocte, but she will be their light starting here, starting now beside the boy she's come for.
So she asks him to paint with her - something so private and sacred that carried her through those long nights alone, through tears and rage and torment and isolation. Only her heart and her art...and now him.
But if the King thinks he should retreat, that he ever stood a chance of escaping, she will be glad to show him how wrong he is. Black slippered feet tap on the ground, and quick as a cat she's beside him once more with raised brows and pursed lips. "You're emptier than the day I met you, Asterion, and isn't that an awful way to be?" She knows the hollowness that howls through him, shakes his bones with the screaming of gusts of wind when all else has fled; she knows and does not know the depth of emotions and loss as he does.
Moira lost her family in coming here, in following a lightning girl with a storm-bright smile. She did not lose their beating heart. And before even that she'd lost her mother and father when they sent her off for her apprenticeship. She'd lost her little brother. Perhaps she should be thankful then she'd never had a lover to lose.
Moira will not lose Asterion, too.
Whatever ghosts he has, hers twine about them and watch on as she keeps at his side. Somewhere along the way, the Emissary has plucked up another flute of champagne and thinks nothing of how it tears down her inhibitions and walls. Before the snow-flecked night is through, the phoenix may very well be a bleeding husk of a girl before him once more, or in the bed of some stranger, some other who is willing to pick up the pieces of her that she wields now like weapons.
All those shattered fragments are spears, are spires of determination, are the new blossoms of wanting to be selfish. Moira is so careful about what she cares for, what she claims as her own. But she is not careful tonight.
"You sipped dandelion wine with me once and ate cake, you wear a frown now that your people would hate to see at such a time of merriment. I won't ask you to dance, paint with me?" Share my heart for just one night she implores with those golden eyes that rake over every niche upon his brown skin. His eyes are pools of chocolate so deep and dark she would drown in them if she dives in tonight. So she does not, she holds back just as he does but for entirely different reasons.
The phoenix will not shatter any longer. Every particle of her that broke and exploded and was left torn off now shines, filled with lights of every color like stained glass coloring her soul, lighting her from within. Every shattered piece is her future and her love and dreams and everything she will become.
War hangs heavy in Denocte, but she will be their light starting here, starting now beside the boy she's come for.
So she asks him to paint with her - something so private and sacred that carried her through those long nights alone, through tears and rage and torment and isolation. Only her heart and her art...and now him.
@Asterion | "moira" | notes: pleasedon'tbreakheromg
