mighty is the hand that knows when to pick the pen and when to pick the sword
Despite their bickering and endless journey, the one that wound through great valleys and over dead mountains, that brought them so close to ripping throats apart, from going their separate ways and just letting the world devour her, they made it into the sand. It tore her throat to shreds, it swallowed her wings that only just kept out the small grains. Not that the phoenix knew how to fly (and that was no longer for lack of trying), rather, she would not leave one of her own court no matter how backwards and frustrated they became.
Moira Tonnerre is loyal even when that loyalty is untested.
Now, like water they rise over the sand, a great tidal wave from the distant shores of Denocte cresting a dune behind a boy. He looks back, nervous, eyeing the women with suspicion and curiosity. She wonders what he sees when he looks to her charming and lovely companion; a girl, a woman, dressed in chocolate and rubies with eyes like the moon. Minya is so lovely, and part of Moira, the part that is still a girl locked in those dark rooms within the Estate, is jealous of her the plainness of her. Oh, her skin is not plain, and her horns are not plain, but she does not wear wings upon her side as the phoenix does. She was not marked as a sinner before she ever knew how to sin.
They follow as though they are the ones to lead the boy to water, to the riches his kingdom has to offer now that the reign of terror has ended. And lead they do, into the throne room where the bangles always upon the phoenix' wings dance in a phantom breeze; where the anklets about her leg sing alongside the bangles upon the Scarab girl. They come in a sweep of jasmine scent and sweat, with heads held high and the beauty of Caligo spread at the foot of the throne as though a feast made only for him.
When they stop, when the hollowness of the hall they stand within echoes the hollowness inside the Emissary that still rings and rings and rings, Moira bows in unison with Minya. If her head is not so low to this king as it had been to another, then who is there to whisper into Orestes ear and let him know? If her eyes do not sparkle merrily as they had before with another ruler, who is to tattle?
There are none to say that she is not showing the proper respects, and as she rises, so does her voice. A seductive thing, a midnight song to lull a child to sleep or ease the pain of passing on fields of battle, oh she sings to him then as she was chosen to do. "Congratulations, King Orestes," she says softly, but not weakly.
The phoenix golden eyes trace Orestes and his young companion who led him toward his traveling party, the black swallows the gold as pupils dilate in the shadow. She drinks him down like a cat lapping at fresh cream. "The rise of a new ruler is always something eyebrows are raised at; the great lion of the sand chose you, and it is an honor indeed to come and greet the newly anointed King." Once, she'd met the sun god and wondered if his skin would burn. Then, a man dressed in black pulled her away, scared she might be set on fire. She wonders if he knew how the phoenix would burn time and again, how Time itself would cease to invade her body and pull the life from her, how she would never die - not even at the hands of the Sun.
She doubts he had any clue.
He looks to Minya then, and the Tonnerre girl is quiet as her companion speaks. A voice clad in secrets rises, a voice of deception rises, a voice of an angel comes to grace their ears and the Emissary smiles as though she is proud, as though this girl of her court is everything she'd ever want her people to be, as though they have known each other a lifetime. They have not, and it is a smile she does not feel. This is the face of the Tonnerres, their legacy, their facades they learned to perfect; children at court learn when to lay down their cards and when to bluff. Moira was raised in a nest of vipers with every other Tonnerre vying for the same positions.
Silence descends, ands he does not let it reach its pinnacle. A wing ruffles, extending over Minya in solidarity. Flesh against flesh, rib against rib, shoulder against shoulder, they look to the king as the woman in red says at last, "The world should not be traveled lest you have another at your side, no? Minya has kept me from becoming hopelessly lost in your vast kingdom and all its hidden riches." The Emissary only hints at what they may or may not have seen. The poverty is clear, starvation and corpses riddled their trek, and still they came.
The sands burned. Great beasts howled in the distance.
And still they came.
Nights threatened to freeze them. An island shaking threatened to tear the world apart.
And still they came.
Perhaps the women of Denocte were unstoppable. Or perhaps their determination was something to be feared and admired; respected by all as Caligo respected and chose them. "A reprieve would be most appreciated, if you so wish it. I must admit, I've only ever seen the edges of Solterra, and I am most eager to see her flourish under your care." Dark lashes hide golden eyes now, peeking from below them demurely with a softer smile, one that is not fierce but eager, yearning. This heat reminds her of Eik. The scents here make her think of her first days among Novus.
How little she knew then, how little she thinks she still knows. "As my companion said, we are pleased and thrilled to invite you to Denocte. Their are festivities afoot that every court is welcome to attend, for much has changed. We should all draw together for a moment in time, no?" With that, her wings come carefully to her sides, tucked tightly as they always were. It is more habit and comfort to have them pinned as though they were not there, but she cannot unfeel the way they are, not now when they've become something she's learned to move, learned to accept bit by bit. If there is still shame, she does not tell, she does not show it.
@
