people are people
and sometimes
we change our minds
and sometimes
we change our minds
Even in the murky sea, there are lights that bob below the surface. Silver eyes that watch, golden scales that gleam, and siren's song that whispers over misty waters into the ears of sailors just waiting to drown.
The man is a siren to her, his voice heard above the crashing of her mind, above the frigid temperatures still dropping like the blood upon her hip from claws that bit and teeth that tore. It all blends anyway, and so the phoenix does not bother to wipe away the red that bleeds into red when the musician, the magical man, the mysterious man who comes and goes finally finds his way to her side. Once before he'd been there, and then he'd helped to bring Isra home.
Only this memory - for there is no flicker inside, no spark in her darkening heart - halts the woman dressed more for war that merriment. Moira tilts her head, raking those dark and bright eyes over the curving form, shot like an arrow from Isra's bow, now in step beside her. Even in stillness his body hums with life, with the quietude and pulchritudinous sense of peace he seemed to know and possess intimately. Moments ago, perhaps the immortal girl, the crying girl, would have wondered if she would know that peace again.
Briefly, an island tries to rise in her mind.
Fingers of frost and foam wash it down, drown it into the glistening remembrance of a strange leaf, of bleeding flowers and hearts, of pearly walks on even stranger paths.
Nothing survives the frost.
"Michael," the Tonnerre girl says at last, inclining her head toward the entrance.
Too soon, too soon, too soon another voice breaks the roaring in her head, the silence in her head. It is soft and whimsical, music on the wind. Moira always loved and hated music so fervently. It made her mother dance, it made her mother cry, it was an art she had mastered at a young age and been forced to perform like a monkey in the circus over and over and over. Recitals until it was perfect, punishments if it was not.
The coyote moves in the moonlight, in her eyesight, like a flame upon her lands. Once, she, too, had been a candle to draw towards.
It seems she still is as the men close in.
"You smell of Day," is all the phoenix says with a delicate sniff. With that, golden eyes glance over him in all his glory. These are not companions, these are wolves waiting to shred her skin and make ribbons from the strips. With pursed lips and a warning glance toward Neerja, the phoenix at last walks forward. "A maze in Denocte has become a terrible thing. Tonight, I feel rather a terrible thing inside, too." Nothing more is said, but her words float around them as a corpse upon the sea. Blank eyes staring into a void below, water-logged skin going grey, losing all sense of self.
She is a lost girl out at sea and her lighthouse is gone. Sunk. Blown to smithereens. Destroyed in a hurricane. It didn't matter how it went, only that it was not there. So she, too, would assimilate, would know the Darkness and its innermost workings. She would be a lost thing too.
Come, she breathes to Neerja, letting the faintest of streams pass between them. It is too small for warmth to leak in, but there is a purr, there is a whine, and it sits in the back of her head. A guillotine blade is still waiting to fall.
@Michael @Ramses | "Speech" | notes: those are both so beautiful and inspiring ! please don't mind me while i try out my ten million new mo tables.
The man is a siren to her, his voice heard above the crashing of her mind, above the frigid temperatures still dropping like the blood upon her hip from claws that bit and teeth that tore. It all blends anyway, and so the phoenix does not bother to wipe away the red that bleeds into red when the musician, the magical man, the mysterious man who comes and goes finally finds his way to her side. Once before he'd been there, and then he'd helped to bring Isra home.
Only this memory - for there is no flicker inside, no spark in her darkening heart - halts the woman dressed more for war that merriment. Moira tilts her head, raking those dark and bright eyes over the curving form, shot like an arrow from Isra's bow, now in step beside her. Even in stillness his body hums with life, with the quietude and pulchritudinous sense of peace he seemed to know and possess intimately. Moments ago, perhaps the immortal girl, the crying girl, would have wondered if she would know that peace again.
Briefly, an island tries to rise in her mind.
Fingers of frost and foam wash it down, drown it into the glistening remembrance of a strange leaf, of bleeding flowers and hearts, of pearly walks on even stranger paths.
Nothing survives the frost.
"Michael," the Tonnerre girl says at last, inclining her head toward the entrance.
Too soon, too soon, too soon another voice breaks the roaring in her head, the silence in her head. It is soft and whimsical, music on the wind. Moira always loved and hated music so fervently. It made her mother dance, it made her mother cry, it was an art she had mastered at a young age and been forced to perform like a monkey in the circus over and over and over. Recitals until it was perfect, punishments if it was not.
The coyote moves in the moonlight, in her eyesight, like a flame upon her lands. Once, she, too, had been a candle to draw towards.
It seems she still is as the men close in.
"You smell of Day," is all the phoenix says with a delicate sniff. With that, golden eyes glance over him in all his glory. These are not companions, these are wolves waiting to shred her skin and make ribbons from the strips. With pursed lips and a warning glance toward Neerja, the phoenix at last walks forward. "A maze in Denocte has become a terrible thing. Tonight, I feel rather a terrible thing inside, too." Nothing more is said, but her words float around them as a corpse upon the sea. Blank eyes staring into a void below, water-logged skin going grey, losing all sense of self.
She is a lost girl out at sea and her lighthouse is gone. Sunk. Blown to smithereens. Destroyed in a hurricane. It didn't matter how it went, only that it was not there. So she, too, would assimilate, would know the Darkness and its innermost workings. She would be a lost thing too.
Come, she breathes to Neerja, letting the faintest of streams pass between them. It is too small for warmth to leak in, but there is a purr, there is a whine, and it sits in the back of her head. A guillotine blade is still waiting to fall.
@
