Between them lies a galaxy, atop them a blanket strewn from stardust and fallen rocks and velvet is lain, and below them the world slips into nothingness as they curl together, side by side. The world stills even as Bexley’s heart beats furiously, as her mind blazes a trail of rage and confusion and loss. She is in a freefall that Moira felt the day she left Estelle and the many lonely months that followed.
Then, there was no one to pick up her broken pieces and make sure she ate. No gentle brush of skin on skin for comfort, or sweet whispers to remind her she is still alive, she is still alive, came from the mouth of any she held dear.
Those months were so cold and lonely. Moira had gone into a robotic state, merely surviving from desperation to save a life, merely moving her feet and swallowing down pale, dull, tasteless mouthful after mouthful of grain and water for the sake of another, not for herself. Nothing then had been for herself, it was all for the one who awaited her, the one that needed her, the one that she cherished (cherishes?) above all else.
The phoenix scarcely remembers those days - blocked out like the many other traumas and agonies afflicting her life, littered in the annals of history and nothing more now.
Sometimes, they come like thieves in the night to remind her who she is, who she was. Like the stars that blink sleepily in the heavens, they are whispers cold and barbaric scuttling over tender, supple flesh that shivers and flinches from her sins. She is sure if you peel away her skin to find her soul within that it would be black and dripping with tar and stains and death.
The phoenix is not an image of purity.
But she burns stains from the world all the same.
Hands heal, phantom strokes arc across Bexley’s cheek as lips turn to the edge of red and black mouth, begging for pomegranate seeds that Moira cannot give. Confusion swirlds, strange and low, as Bexley presses into her shoulder.
What is it she wants? How do you comfort someone who has lost near everything?
Eyes close as she curls her neck over the flaxen haired woman’s, sheltering her with a blanket and wing, welcoming her into her home (into her heart) as she’d wished someone would have, or could have, done when she needed it most. “I dream of smoke sometimes, and the smoke dances with faces I know. Some rejoice and some sing threats and sorrow. None of them embrace me as they once did, and their absence is a howling hole that I don’t think can ever be filled.” As she speaks, she pulls a plum from the tray, slicing it absently and offering part to her companion. Water slakes her thirst, sloshing down dry throat until she feels her voice will not waver and these secrets can be shared in her smoky voice made for midnight taverns, made for voluptuous curves, made for men with greedy hands for ample flesh and smiles. Pink tongue darts over dry lips and she wonders what it is to lose a lover over and over and over.
“There was a girl once, who is out there still, named Estelle. When we were children, she was the only one to befriend me. And we were close, so close. I had to leave her to save her. I had to leave her and I will never forget the press of her skin or whisper of her lips. She is the only reason I made it here, and I still talk beneath the old willows in the woods that cry all day long, I still ask them to send her back to me someday.” As her words fade, as the firelight crackles more merrily than it should for such a somber mood, as Moira offers a pomegranate at last, watching red seeds pass like blood over her own lips, over Bexley’s, she can do naught but smiley sadly, sweetly, and let a tear fall to the pillows below. “They are not gone forever,” she whispers into Bexley’s ear with a tender kiss to pale, scarred cheek.
“speech” @Bexley <3
Then, there was no one to pick up her broken pieces and make sure she ate. No gentle brush of skin on skin for comfort, or sweet whispers to remind her she is still alive, she is still alive, came from the mouth of any she held dear.
Those months were so cold and lonely. Moira had gone into a robotic state, merely surviving from desperation to save a life, merely moving her feet and swallowing down pale, dull, tasteless mouthful after mouthful of grain and water for the sake of another, not for herself. Nothing then had been for herself, it was all for the one who awaited her, the one that needed her, the one that she cherished (cherishes?) above all else.
The phoenix scarcely remembers those days - blocked out like the many other traumas and agonies afflicting her life, littered in the annals of history and nothing more now.
Sometimes, they come like thieves in the night to remind her who she is, who she was. Like the stars that blink sleepily in the heavens, they are whispers cold and barbaric scuttling over tender, supple flesh that shivers and flinches from her sins. She is sure if you peel away her skin to find her soul within that it would be black and dripping with tar and stains and death.
The phoenix is not an image of purity.
But she burns stains from the world all the same.
Hands heal, phantom strokes arc across Bexley’s cheek as lips turn to the edge of red and black mouth, begging for pomegranate seeds that Moira cannot give. Confusion swirlds, strange and low, as Bexley presses into her shoulder.
What is it she wants? How do you comfort someone who has lost near everything?
Eyes close as she curls her neck over the flaxen haired woman’s, sheltering her with a blanket and wing, welcoming her into her home (into her heart) as she’d wished someone would have, or could have, done when she needed it most. “I dream of smoke sometimes, and the smoke dances with faces I know. Some rejoice and some sing threats and sorrow. None of them embrace me as they once did, and their absence is a howling hole that I don’t think can ever be filled.” As she speaks, she pulls a plum from the tray, slicing it absently and offering part to her companion. Water slakes her thirst, sloshing down dry throat until she feels her voice will not waver and these secrets can be shared in her smoky voice made for midnight taverns, made for voluptuous curves, made for men with greedy hands for ample flesh and smiles. Pink tongue darts over dry lips and she wonders what it is to lose a lover over and over and over.
“There was a girl once, who is out there still, named Estelle. When we were children, she was the only one to befriend me. And we were close, so close. I had to leave her to save her. I had to leave her and I will never forget the press of her skin or whisper of her lips. She is the only reason I made it here, and I still talk beneath the old willows in the woods that cry all day long, I still ask them to send her back to me someday.” As her words fade, as the firelight crackles more merrily than it should for such a somber mood, as Moira offers a pomegranate at last, watching red seeds pass like blood over her own lips, over Bexley’s, she can do naught but smiley sadly, sweetly, and let a tear fall to the pillows below. “They are not gone forever,” she whispers into Bexley’s ear with a tender kiss to pale, scarred cheek.
