m o i r a
our hearts tell a tale
that the world may never know
that the world may never know
A
ll is quiet, all that she knows is the beating of three hearts, the breathing of three bodies, the sighing of three girls. These moments of quietude are memories pressed like petals in a book, immortalized forever in the annals of time. One day, time may see fit for them to find their way onto pages, into journals the Moira keeps stashed in her room, onto canvases that are burned less and less. Someday, these moments will be told to children around a fire: moments of friendships born and bridges built, of the hollowing of hearts and their filling, too. But for now, the phoenix meets the eyes of her not-quite-lover's sister, looks into purple pools as endless as Asterion's. How it hurts to see such honesty!
Words spear her as knives, remind her of who she is, what she is, and all the Tonnerre girl can do is grin that barbaric grin. "A phoenix never stops burning itself to ash," is her simple reply. And the truth in that dusky voice, that husky voice, the truth that matches the primitive smile that paints a candid shade of red even brighter and harsher, it is the unleashing of a dam. A phoenix is almost always ready to burn, almost always ready to die for a cause it believes in.
Would love ever be that cause? It makes her turn her head away, makes that grin disappear and lets Florentine's head dip down to brush along Neerja's. Somewhere, Neerja rumbles her unhappiness into Moira's head. But lips do not peel from teeth as the Pegasus lets her beloved be caressed, not when she can see the peace it brings to the Time-girl before her. Easy, she soothes instead, moving her hips nearer to Neerja until they brush skin on skin. This one will not harm us, let her remember what it is to be happy until I can do so for us both.
With a huff the tiger settles, eyeing her strange cub and the other winged woman (with a wing that does not work as Moira's should). She listens to the cadence of Flora's voice and wonders as Moira does of the magic tigers might have.
"You sound much bolder that I," the phoenix says, wondering how quickly she would have been stripped of her Tonnerre name should she have acted out. If she'd been as Estelle was, committing such treachery, sinning as her sweet cousin did, much harsher punishment would have been exacted so much sooner than Estelle's had been. "Your hair is like a newborn babe's, it is silk and it is a disaster." She laughs as the comb moves through golden strands. Tangles are undone from the ends to the top, gently pulling until they are gone, until Flora's wild hair are stocks of wheat swaying in the wind. "There are many things I do not know, but I am willing to learn should you wish to teach me," for she is a student - always a student devout to the pursuit of knowledge and the truth and healing.
And so she begins to braid the golden girl's hair, gently plaiting it and pulling it loose. It curls like a snake about the center, like a croissant being buttered before a feast. The dandelion yellow, the sun-bright gold, the stalks of maize - colors begin to pop and glimmer as they are curled round and round. Moira pulls a tie from her own hair and fastens the first rose tight near Florentine's ears. As she begins another, she tells of the styles they wear. "A waterfall braid is in mine - they are simple but effective. With curls, it can be much harder to tame and groom so I try to keep my hair up and braided as much as possible. It's simply easier to work with it out of the way. Yours, yours we are braiding and twisting until flowers are born. They look lovely in gold and complement your amethyst petals well. You look as a queen does," a shy smile is there at last.
Isra is wild and beautiful and as endless as the ocean (as immortal as the waves that always come back again). Asterion is soft like the night, but he is strong like the sea that comes and goes. Caine is hard and dark - an obsidian mound with molten lava that still melts within. Eik… Eik is cheese - he simply gets better the longer she knows him. Somewhere, thoughts of Bexley glimmer and she thinks that Flora would like the wildness of that woman. The woman who has lost her lover - lost Acton as Denocte has lost him. Does her soul ache?
But Bexley would make a beautiful queen.
And Florentine would shine just as brightly beside them all, just as brilliantly. Moira cannot help but grin at the thought of it. What beautiful paintings they would be! "Your tiger, she sounds like a lovely companion. Neerja cannot turn things to gold, if she could I fear half of Denocte would never move again." Laughter falls like starlight, bright and soft and pure. Neerja rumbles her agreement, glaring for but a moment at Flora to confirm she would be one of the first victims for being too near. "What happened to your wing?" she asks at last, finishing another small flower and moving to the next. Down Flora's neck, a trail of flowers begin to take shape, soft waving hair fall lightly below them only to be looped back up, arching carefully over her neck, and put into the next braid, the next rose.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: i simply adore these girls thank you
