m o i r a
and let it come to a close
with a whisper or a yell
with a whisper or a yell
T
ogether, they pirouette around words like ballerinas on display, pushed and pulled by forces neither can command, but trying to perform their best despite the faults in their stage. There is a frown now that mars golden lips, pulls them down, and the artist in Moira Tonnerre cannot help but to think how beautiful she is when she looks so pensive and so sad. If rain falls outside, if Florentine just stands in it, if she seems so distant in that it would have been breathtaking. But, everything about Flora is stunning, even when she stands still and the world turns about her. Round and around they go, circling one another with words and thoughts and ideas, gentle phantom hands pulling strand after strand just like the thoughts that swirl on phantom breezes between them. Both are drawn into their own worlds, floating within their own stormy clouds that make it so hard to see the world at times. Then, in a sudden flash of lightning everything is clear and the shadow and smile of another is bright and, for a brief moment, they are not so terribly alone. In one of those lighting flashes, the phoenix sees galaxies between them, sees the glimmer of magic on the once-queen's breath, sees endless opportunities and wishes and hopes and dreams. Then, in the blink of an eye it vanishes and the golden girl exhales words instead of worlds. "Blessed," the healer echoes in wonder, trying to figure out if that were truly so.
Again questions are raised, and the Tonnerre girl is not entirely sure she has an answer. Silence becomes her, passes on her skin like the summer storm that tangled Florentine's hair. It permeates the air, allows thoughts to scream into the void between them. "Must all meetings be done in silk and pearls?" She implores at last, thinking back to the Tonnerre Estate, to the clandestine meetings, the secret rendezvous behind curtains and in deep alcoves. They never dressed well for those, Moira noticed as a girl; actually, they hardly dressed at all for many. Prim and proper and well-pressed for the masses, but so many meetings where actual talks of power and exchanges of ideals happened behind closed doors (behind closed eyes). It makes her think, as she has not done in a very long time, of a time when the world was much simpler in grand swaths of black and white.
Here, now, nothing is as it was before. Estelle is gone and her black and white has become a horridly mottled mess of grey. Despite that, in spite of all that has changed, the Pegasus back is unbroken, her will is a blazing sword of light and determination, she will not break so easily when the rug is pulled from under her feet time and time again. Neerja find's the healer's head bobbing up and down in response to the broken cub's words, watches with blue eyes as smoky breath spools out in a slew of words. "That sounds like quite the adventure. I shall see to your wing then and visit Dusk after your return to be certain of your quick recovery."
She does not tell Florentine that part of this is for selfish reasons, just to see him again. No amount of anger or confusion can keep them from colliding, from being two black holes trying so desperately to grow and swallow each other hole. There is a bone-deep hunger, a soul-deep craving that only the sea and stars he offers can fill. And at last, the Time-girl mentions Asterion with a terribly devious smile, but the Emissary cannot help but mirror a shy one of her own. "Who's to say I want to see him so soon?" Upturned lips warble on a laugh withheld. She sets down the comb and Neerja rises, going forth to push through the door that Moira catches and holds for her companion. "Nevertheless, Flora, I shall accompany you and assure myself you get home safely. I cannot have you hurt, and Asterion would be devastated if his sister came back anything less than whole, I am sure." With that, the woman of fire and starlight and the splendors of the Night Court walks through a door with the girl who fell out of Time and landed in a fairytale. The swishing of tails is seen as the bathroom door closes, a single comb left on the counter with golden strands between its teeth and silence its only company remained.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: a quick, late closer <3
