two lovers went hand in hand;
A frown mars her face, turning red lips down and drawing brows into a furrow. They sit heavily there, golden eyes dark and brooding. So many nights were once spent concentrating as she does now - away from her art (his face is slathered there, in every crevice of those canvases, in every star she looks at when the moon is darkest) and away from that mirror pool that once was a retreat when her library could not be. She is a bell, chiming and loud and bright, but a crack found its way in. Disrupted, disturbed, conflict rages within her stone-faced heart. But she's made a promise, a silent vow (or had she told him aloud how she would count the ways he was wrong and show him how right they could be?) and she will die (or be reborn again, and again, and again) until that is fulfilled.
She is a healer, a medic.
A regent.
The phoenix is not raised by gentle hands to plant a garden and watch the flowers grow. To be a lover had never been in her future, her destiny. There were no dreams of a husband, of children, of a life beyond the walls of the medical bay to help other's children, husbands and wives... Until now.
Now, hope and desire are a crackling fire that sear her ribs, running dancing fingers meant for pianos and passionate nights along her galloping heart. How do people live with it in their throats like this?
Frustration feasts upon her. Neerja's purring stops as a growl (as a scream) slips out. Delicate ears pin back as the cat hisses, swatting the painted girl. 'You should not screech, you'll wake the dead.' And how she bares her teeth then!
Moira could be a beast if she wanted...
But they are interrupted, the hunter and her cub, with a knock on the door and a wide-eyed courier hurrying to tell her there is a girl at the doors and Isra was out. There is no time to waste, no thoughts to be given to the starry eyed man a court away, when duty calls her name. Rising like a wave, like a breeze, she pulls herself from the masses of feather pillows and golden duvet. Lightly, Neerja hops down beside the winged Regent, prowling nearer the boy and hissing until he goes skittering ahead of them. Far enough so that the tiger cannot have a meal so fresh. A wing hits the tiger's head, a golden eye slanting sideways as the phoenix sighs.
"You can't eat everyone," Moira says. 'But I can try,' retorts the tigress.
Together they approach the door, nodding to the guards posted to open the Keep. When they do, it is not who Moira expected, but she is not disappointed. A squeal slips past red lips, a half sob choking her. Mindless release, unthinkingly, she throws herself upon the golden girl with white hair. Dark nose buries in ivory strands, curls protectively over the edge of a straight neck that has seen and carried too much (far too much), she thinks. "Bexley!" and her name is a hiccup, half amazement half sorrow, as it explodes from Moira. "Get out of the cold, you need food." And so she pulls her in, bobbed bangs flying up, bobbed tail almost wagging excitedly like some hound's would. But not quite, oh no. Too much has happened, too many words that can't quite come out.
But they will... With time (and treats), they will.
