which now being dead, dead i must be
There was a time once when the Tonnerre would have been frightened of her wings (she flinches still from time to time) and shied away from the wooded areas that could catch them and remind her of how different and wrong she had been within her family. The Estate was not a place for kindness, not a place for one to be different and stand out in the fashion that Moira Tonnerre had. She was a crime, a sin, a punishable being to be mocked and ridiculed. But now, all of that is in the past.
Estelle is a whisper on the wind that brings tears to her when the moon is dark and her tiger is the only one there to hold her. Only the jungle beast can see her weak, can see her crumble and fall. For the world, Moira is flame given breath and a beating heart in mortal skin.
Rendered piece by piece from the past and the future, she is the purring culmination of the skies on fire, of dreams unending, of something more, something wanting. How she wants then looking over large fronds that beg her to taste them, to kiss the dew from their palm. A rumble sounds nearby, and soon the brushing of fur cuts along her hip. From the shadows a tigress came, a mother and sister and lover and secret keeper finding home once more, and there she embraces her winged, strange cub.
The Pegasus cannot frown, not when her companion (so concerned with that frown, with a half snarl and bared fangs upon dark and pale lips) came so far. "Neerja," the phoenix breathes. In that moment, she is not a flame, not stars falling, not breaking dreams being rebuilt. She is merely Moira and the tiger is merely Neerja. A girl and beast, but which is which, Moira does not know. "Denocte…?" She asks, brows furrow to match the grim line of the jungle cat. 'Fine,' rumbles the cat, annoyance wrapped with a bow in a single word. 'I didn't eat anyone. You're welcome.'
And the girl laughs, a grin breaking like the dawn so few hours ago at last.
"You must have run all night."
'For you, I would go further.'
"Let's look now then, shall we?"
