Listen, girl, there is nothing fragile about you.
Inside you rest a host of predators, waiting to be unleashed at your command.
Inside you rest a host of predators, waiting to be unleashed at your command.
She thinks of his voice, how it was religion to her; sacred, pure, and offering guidance where she would have set fires. He washed over her in ways no other could; moving stones, carving canyons in the wasteland of her heart, hollowing her emotions until she became something new, something sweet.
But he never meant for it to last.
You cannot tether a black hole to a sun.
One will fall and the other will explode.
For a moment, she believed impossibilities would become possible. When her heartbeat skipped, when her breath hitched, when her eyes instinctively sought out him in the world of moving feet, moving hands, moving clothes and stinking scents that drove her crazy, Moira Tonnerre would look for *him*.
He wasn't there.
He would never be there again.
A part of her crumbles at the realization. Another part is cushioned by the thick tiger fur that rests against her heaving sides. When had her breast started to tremble? How had she let herself get so lost, fall so far, from where she was before? What would Estelle say now, the phoenix wonders while she folds herself into Neerja's side.
"Tell me a story?" The phoenix implores, whispering into the base of Neerja's neck, letting orange and black tickle her nose.
There is a sigh and the rustling of fur, and then...
"It is whispered, a long, long time ago before you and I were born, before the sun rose and the moon chased him through the sky, before storms slashed the seas to keep all others out and to keep us in, that our borders were open. Magic lit the skies and artists painted the heavens each night. They placed their stars up high and light singers wove into them pieces of the souls that put them there." She gives a pointed look to the Pegasus, watching as the woman in red hoists herself onto her feet. When Moira moves to stand before the mirror, beginning to braid her hair into rivers bleeding black upon her neck, Neerja continues. "There was music, ancient and dark like Caligo herself, that wound its way as a drumbeat that sounded like a heart. Some said it came from the island itself, calling others here from other worlds."
The phoenix drapes silver starlit bangles upon her wings, letting them reflect and shine with the glow of her skin. Kohl paints her eyes, pushing golden gaze further into black depths. Black holes that swallow the sun, that are too hungry to let anything go, too possessive to watch it leave.
The tiger continues, tail curling back and forth in the candlelit chambers, "There was laughter. There was chaos. Disorder raged over the civilized world. Soon, they began to flood into the forests, into the oceans, into the deserts. Our homes were destroyed and metropolises were built. They sprung up overnight with strange magics, with wild magics." Blue eyes seem to glow with rage, with fear. "The earth recoiled where their poison began to fall. It is said that Tempus grew angry, to see his creation so desecrated by those he did not create and did not bring. With the growing of his rage, the animals began to rise up, to rebel, to attack those who came to destroy as much as they created."
Moira crosses the room, putting away the canvases whose paint has now dried. Charcoal is tucked back into a pouch, easels are pushed into a corner, and at last a curtain is pulled over it. She sweeps her eyes over the corner, wincing at the silver starlight mark upon the floor, at the brown winking beside it.
Her heart weeps.
Neerja feels the chaos in the phoenix' chest, curls her lips at it. Fur bristles as the story goes on, as Moira prepares to leave her room at last. "There was carnage. A great divide between kingdoms came. Tempus killed them. There are skeletons at the bottom of the sea where he brought water to trickle into their lungs. There are mass graves in the jungles, unmarked and flourishing with life, carnivorous plants nourished by the bodies of those who will never rise again. With his great act of sorrow and vengeance, it is told that he closed off the borders. We were trapped, we were saved."
"That's terrible," Moira breathes at last, looking toward Neerja and wondering of a world where she would have had to fight her most beloved companion. She would rather die.
"It is only whispers, my cub," Neerja purrs. She rises from the blankets and pillows, from the incense that wafts around the curtains, and pads over to the phoenix' side.
Together, they burn orange and red and beautiful. Fae lights from the candles dance in the air, reflect in blue eyes that seek out gold. They always seek out gold, even when the gold looks for someone else, a god in a sea of stars.
Like the smoke that is her voice, the pair moves silently from her chambers. Behind her, the door is sealed, locks clicking into place and key tucked into the waves of her hair. Tonight, it falls down her neck, a dark halo atop her head, and she looks beautiful if only a little dead.
"Let's go, Neerja," she whispers. Walls still keep them apart, she closes off that which is closest to her, fear gnawing at her heart as moths do to linens left too long in the attic. First Estelle, then Caine (oh, but he is not truly gone, is he?), and then Asterion. Even Isra has been so busy that she has hardly had a chance to dine with the kin to her heart. Everyone leaves, and once again she is left alone.
So alone.
In the dark.
Terrified.
So she slams the gates, locking herself in a fortress of ice, of pain. Only the strongest of waves make it to the tiger, and she is left to mope and glower in equal measure. Slowly, so slowly, the bonded chips away at the obsidian stone. One day, she knows, it will break open again.
"I will always follow you," is the tiger's only response, claws tapping the stone beneath their feet, letting the phoenix know she will not leave so easily.
Together, as one soul, as a single body, they make their way down and out of the castle. From there, Neerja slinks into the shadows to follow the Emissary's wake.
Smiling faces turn to Moira, and she paints upon her lips that faux face so many Tonnerres wore before her. She says their names like litanies, like midnight prayers, and then they pass: ships in the night. Occasionally, the phoenix stops and talks for a while, listening to grievances or offering advice to sooth the nerves, calm the mind, ease the stomach when it expands too much or is in knots.
She greets her people with joy, pushing that sadness into its compartment to be locked away again.
There, among the streets, she is a dancer, she is a poet, she is a painter, she is a writer. Her eyes follow torchlight along the streets, following swaying bodies of lovers moving together - sometimes more than two joining in the party. Everything comes alive when Night opens her eyes. The people who live within Denocte are no exception. So she follows their example and throws back her head to bark a laugh, goes in circles when they begin to dance. At last she extricates herself, retreating to Neerja and tamer streets.
Turning a corner, the phoenix finds the baker and cocoa-maker with their stalls kitty-corner to one another. A fresh smile, true all through, rests at last upon her face as she approaches them. By now they know her, for she comes twice a week to pick up sweet rolls and cocoa and roam the night, and they call out warm welcomes whenever she passes. Forward the baker rushes, toothy smile and kind eyes the first to reach her, and pecks her on the cheek. A blush steels over her face, head dipping down with a chagrined smile. The cocoa-maker embraces her next, her soft cow-brown eyes as warm as the golden wings wrapping around the Emissary.
"Almost missed you this week," the girl chimes.
"Fraid you got lost on your way here. The first snow always brings them out to celebrate," the baker says.
"And miss out on good company and better sweets? Even Caligo could not stop me," she whispers conspiratorially. The two chuckle and quickly begin to gather Moira's usual order. It's ready within minutes; piping hot cocoa with flecks of cinnamon, steaming sweet rolls buttered and sprinkled with sugar - all of it is quickly packaged and handed over.
Kissing them both on the cheek, the Emissary puts coins in their hands and settles on the bench nearby. "Even our bakers at home could not make something so wonderful as this," she offers up to the man. His grin grows and he blushes. With a mumble, he turns back to tend something else on the shelves.
It is there she sits, there she pulls apart a roll to pop into her mouth bit by bit. Thoughtfully she devours it, unaware of the way Neerja has joined, curling by her feet and keeping watch. Every now and again, the girl with doe-eyes looks over and smiles, almost saying something and then deciding better of it. Silence is golden, resting heavy on them as a swaddle covers a babe fresh in their mother's arms.
