He is birdsong and he is beautiful. Elusive. Ephemeral. Eternally scarred across her heart. Searing eyes seek to breech her own depthless gaze, her own flaming amber that devours everything in its path. If he could read her, he would see the portraits did not end that day he refused her, that day she vowed to love him enough for both of them until he saw the newborn bird in the midst of ashes and flame and ruination. Oh! Were he only omniscient then Asterion could read into the clandestine heart of the red crowned woman, the many twisting turns and paths and harrows she fought to come this far.
But hers is not a tragedy she will admit to.
So the phoenix lets her wings flare out, lets her gaze burn as it turns upon her king once more, lets his agreement stoke the fires for a moment longer. She is a blaze that burns and dances only for his eyes, only for his taking, only for his pleasure and agreeableness. “I do much for my people, and it is my job to help protect them and learn of the world. I am their bridge to unity with all but our docks and seas and I could not be so selfish as to hurt them. You need not worry about any midnight hunt with the moon and wind’s kiss as my only companions.” And she settles, flames cooling, embers winking up at him, trailing phantom hands of smoke and stories down turpentine spine of chocolate and silk. As her skin cools and wings fall, as her temper settles and jealousy - a cruel and terrible mistress - settles into a half-lidded slumber once more, Moira Tonnerre looks to the Crown of Dusk for comfort, for answers, for that soothing balm only his presence seems to provide.
“I know so little and so much of you, Asterion. You are as depthless as the ocean we met beside, and I fear that I will never reach the bottom without drowning first. But I would drown for you,” it is almost like a secret, like a plea, and like a prayer as it falls from black and red lips. People so often confuse her, and this man, this creature, this pure, wonderful being is the most perplexing of them all. He says yes and then says no, he gives her whiplash with just one look. He is almost everything she wants, so deeply, so badly, that it hurts when she closes her eyes.
And Moira always goes back to those brown eyes. They ground her, they draw her forward once she is confined in herself again, once she is in control.
Words of command, a request she not call him what he is, they lash out at her, they beg her, they fall like bricks upon her spine! How cruel, how cold, for him to turn her away again and again. But she is stubborn. She will not give up. The tilting of her head sends bangs falling softly to the side, ears tilting forward and she shakes her nose ‘no’. “I will not lie and call you something you are not. Isra is my Queen, my kin, she bears my heart within her own. But you, Asterion, are my King. Court borders mean little in the face of this feeling, and although you might deny it in yourself, you cannot deny me the right to what I feel. Such a will you have over me, too! I would give almost anything to see you happy, to see you smile. The frown upon your brow is a dagger to my heart, I can hardly breathe when I know I am the root of so much of your unease and unhappiness. Tell me what it is you want of me or tell me to leave you - like the old oak stands tall against buffeting winds that seek to unroot it, I will not fall until I know the war is lost.” Why, she wonders with a breaking voice, does it always seem to come to this when they are together lately? How simple it had been before!
Brushing shoulders and coy glances were enough.
Soft words and dancing was enough.
Now they meet with trepidation and caution, they meet with something that burns and is denied time and time again. She comes seeking a meal and goes home hungrier than before. The Tonnerre girl is starving for his affections, wilting day by day, brooding day by day, becoming something wild and tortured day by day.
Can’t he see what he does to her every time he walks away? Like the wolf that is left to howl their sorrow to the moon, she, too, stands alone in a world passing her by. Waiting - forever the phoenix is left waiting and wanting.
But hers is not a tragedy she will admit to.
So the phoenix lets her wings flare out, lets her gaze burn as it turns upon her king once more, lets his agreement stoke the fires for a moment longer. She is a blaze that burns and dances only for his eyes, only for his taking, only for his pleasure and agreeableness. “I do much for my people, and it is my job to help protect them and learn of the world. I am their bridge to unity with all but our docks and seas and I could not be so selfish as to hurt them. You need not worry about any midnight hunt with the moon and wind’s kiss as my only companions.” And she settles, flames cooling, embers winking up at him, trailing phantom hands of smoke and stories down turpentine spine of chocolate and silk. As her skin cools and wings fall, as her temper settles and jealousy - a cruel and terrible mistress - settles into a half-lidded slumber once more, Moira Tonnerre looks to the Crown of Dusk for comfort, for answers, for that soothing balm only his presence seems to provide.
“I know so little and so much of you, Asterion. You are as depthless as the ocean we met beside, and I fear that I will never reach the bottom without drowning first. But I would drown for you,” it is almost like a secret, like a plea, and like a prayer as it falls from black and red lips. People so often confuse her, and this man, this creature, this pure, wonderful being is the most perplexing of them all. He says yes and then says no, he gives her whiplash with just one look. He is almost everything she wants, so deeply, so badly, that it hurts when she closes her eyes.
And Moira always goes back to those brown eyes. They ground her, they draw her forward once she is confined in herself again, once she is in control.
Words of command, a request she not call him what he is, they lash out at her, they beg her, they fall like bricks upon her spine! How cruel, how cold, for him to turn her away again and again. But she is stubborn. She will not give up. The tilting of her head sends bangs falling softly to the side, ears tilting forward and she shakes her nose ‘no’. “I will not lie and call you something you are not. Isra is my Queen, my kin, she bears my heart within her own. But you, Asterion, are my King. Court borders mean little in the face of this feeling, and although you might deny it in yourself, you cannot deny me the right to what I feel. Such a will you have over me, too! I would give almost anything to see you happy, to see you smile. The frown upon your brow is a dagger to my heart, I can hardly breathe when I know I am the root of so much of your unease and unhappiness. Tell me what it is you want of me or tell me to leave you - like the old oak stands tall against buffeting winds that seek to unroot it, I will not fall until I know the war is lost.” Why, she wonders with a breaking voice, does it always seem to come to this when they are together lately? How simple it had been before!
Brushing shoulders and coy glances were enough.
Soft words and dancing was enough.
Now they meet with trepidation and caution, they meet with something that burns and is denied time and time again. She comes seeking a meal and goes home hungrier than before. The Tonnerre girl is starving for his affections, wilting day by day, brooding day by day, becoming something wild and tortured day by day.
Can’t he see what he does to her every time he walks away? Like the wolf that is left to howl their sorrow to the moon, she, too, stands alone in a world passing her by. Waiting - forever the phoenix is left waiting and wanting.
