Moira Tonnerre, you feel it in a way that makes you tired to your very bones
He meets her challenge of light and hollow fury with the beckoning of his own, darkness spreading into wings, into the crevices of her skin. She cannot stop it, for darkness is merely the absence of light. Without Light, the world would simply exist in some sort of gloom where shadows eat shadows. She illuminates the truth, she holds hope in her hands, and with the leaving of one, the altar of remembrance of a single man, the Tonnerre girl crushed it in her hands, too.
She does not mind looking up into those moonlit eyes, finding them brighter than the stars that dapple and freckle her skin. She does not mind the disdainful, thoughtful frown upon her dark lips that fall darker than even him. They are the shadows he sews stained with blood, the same shadows that kiss the hollows of her cheeks, casting them in black like the world around them. Together, they make a dashing pair of broken and unbroken; of light and dark; of night and day; a duo so alike and so unlike. From the outside world, they must have been breathtaking.
Moira finds nothing breathtaking about the situation. As his shadows rise to swallow her light, she watches, intrigued, when the forces spear at one another. At last, her phantom lights all gather around. She lines them up one by one between the two of them.
A glint in her eyes is the only warning, and then the moonlight and candlelight orbs begin to crack.
How they crumble and shatter. Pieces break off like icebergs shattering. To the ground they topple in silence, only to clang upon the stone. Only when they are ensconced in the shadows @Tenebrae makes does she speak, "Is that what you think, I am here to worship in this temple?"
When their breathing is the only thing left between them, when her feathers are neatly tucked against her side, when her blood stops shaking and shivering from the rush of cold fire, when she is just a hair's breadth from him, only then does her midnight smoke voice ring in his ear again. "You're wrong."
And then the woman brushes past the Disciple, moving toward the center of the structure, looking up into the high, vaulted ceiling. Eyes go to the windows with swirling artwork, stories carved into the very fabric of glass and stone. It is a masterpiece that must have taken years to complete - it leaves her breathless in a way nothing of flesh ever can.
She drinks her fill of it by the light that filters in, and then, she lets the Stallion who Swallowed the Sun drink down her words, too. "If I say yes?" It is a bit of a breathless whisper. She wonders what secrets her magic can unlock, what her blood never told her. Is this magic from her mother? Or is there hoarfrost in her veins and water sluicing thicker than blood from the Tonnerres who came from the sea, the forgotten history of her people that was not written and has been kept by word of mouth in only the most elite and secretive of members?
Oh, she watches and waits and wonders; she's left to wonder if they both are the thing that hunts in the night, or if one will be the lion and the other the lamb.
boy oh boy, do i have other threads? yes. do i have an addiction here? also yes.
