Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
His heart hums a tune hers is just beginning to learn, and together they are a pair of wistful and wizened and sorrowful things. Two birds whose voices were taken and scattered on the winds, only plucking at the lyre strings of their hearts in hopes that someone might hear. When no answers come, when there is only silence in the corridors, when laughter fades and light fades and smiles fade, what more is left but their thoughts, their memories, and a crushing wall of darkness?
It is a demon there to swallow her whole.
The shattered glass fades, the babbling voices fad, everything but that inner wall climbing higher and higher. Coldness creeps along her spine, somewhere, she feels herself shiver. Slowly, it ebbs out from her spine, it settles into her bones as a winter frost. Dark are those honeyed eyes, dark and shuttered like the ice at the edges of the window they sit nearest. Red light plays along red skin, crowning her in a halo of blood and gold.
Does he see a monster when he looks at the girl who is still figuring out how to stitch herself together again?
Somewhere along the way, she's stopped seeing a monster in every mirror that stares back at her.
"I think you'd be much lovelier if you smiled, Michael," she confides. With a creased brow, the Tonnerre girl scrutinizes him with the eyes of an artist. From the flaxen sheen of his coat to the silver and white strands of his hair, dancing over the scarf always about his throat (although the color changes so beautifully), to those blue, soulful eyes. She sees a man wanting. She sees a man trying.
Something in that dark wall cracks. A sliver of light wants to reach through so badly and hold him.
Moira has hardly ever wanted to hold another.
Ghostly hands trail along his brow, his spine. She spins small braids into the length of his hair under the table and threads a tendril of light into their midst. Within the hour it will die, burning out like she does over and over. But for now, candlelight flickers as a strand beneath them, a river of time reflected and shown along its short length.
At last, lips purse and then flatten, a breath drawn from her lungs on a sigh. Is he always meant to make her think so deeply? "One day, upon your golden brow I will put a wreath of starlight to match the light I'll find in your eyes." It is an intimate whisper, one she leans forward to give to him, a promise and a tentative smile. There is a blossom in her heart, and even Neerja cannot be annoyed enough to scratch at the barmaid's feet when she replaces the broken glass with something new, something stronger than before. Somewhere, she's found a trickling fountain of hope within her cub, and she will cling to that until their minds are as their hearts are: one once more.
"Mmm," the emissary hums at last, mulling over his recent questions. "If you are a rabbit, then even the slightest fright will send your heart beating too quick. So quickly that it will burst and you would die. Being that I do not believe you to be a rabbit," she muses, "I do not think you would die of terror. Seeing an old friend... It..." words halt, thoughts swirl, eddying in the churning dark waters. "It was," Moira Tonnerre says at last, something of a serene smile tipping her dark lips up, crinkling the corners of her eyes until even the gold is molten and warm. "I've missed him," she says, although she does not say who.
Patrons who are near would likely think that their Emissary thinks of the late Dusk King. A man of starlight who held her and made ephemeral promises in a forest that was always meant to be destroyed.
If only they knew of the twinkling heart miles and miles away. Of a northern light that taught her more than how to heal, that taught her how to survive and rise above. Eluoan, her heart whispers in thanks. One day, his soul would guide her just as the ghost in the woods had. There is a crystal in her hair that reminds her of this, that makes her smile a little broader with just the thought.
She is so caught up in the past that she almost doesn't hear the present. The silence that comes crashing down before soft words that fall like snowflakes. "Well, I think you're worthy."
And she wants to implore of what. Some part that is still fighting for recognition yearns to beg him to open his heart (his mouth) and pour honey down her throat until she knows what golden light he sees. Of course, neither of these things are done. Moira merely hides her eyes behind dark lashes, suddenly all too interested in the drinks and determined to ignore the blush she can feel creep over her cheeks, over her throat. The room is too warm and she is too full of questions.
Forward she presses her glass, offering a small nod of encouragement. "Try it first and tell me if it's good? Would you believe me if I told you I have very little experience in the art of alcohols?" Their eyes still do not meet, she looks instead to his lips, to his pink nose, to the way his throat bobs with every swallow. Anywhere but those honest, sweet blue eyes.
It is a demon there to swallow her whole.
The shattered glass fades, the babbling voices fad, everything but that inner wall climbing higher and higher. Coldness creeps along her spine, somewhere, she feels herself shiver. Slowly, it ebbs out from her spine, it settles into her bones as a winter frost. Dark are those honeyed eyes, dark and shuttered like the ice at the edges of the window they sit nearest. Red light plays along red skin, crowning her in a halo of blood and gold.
Does he see a monster when he looks at the girl who is still figuring out how to stitch herself together again?
Somewhere along the way, she's stopped seeing a monster in every mirror that stares back at her.
"I think you'd be much lovelier if you smiled, Michael," she confides. With a creased brow, the Tonnerre girl scrutinizes him with the eyes of an artist. From the flaxen sheen of his coat to the silver and white strands of his hair, dancing over the scarf always about his throat (although the color changes so beautifully), to those blue, soulful eyes. She sees a man wanting. She sees a man trying.
Something in that dark wall cracks. A sliver of light wants to reach through so badly and hold him.
Moira has hardly ever wanted to hold another.
Ghostly hands trail along his brow, his spine. She spins small braids into the length of his hair under the table and threads a tendril of light into their midst. Within the hour it will die, burning out like she does over and over. But for now, candlelight flickers as a strand beneath them, a river of time reflected and shown along its short length.
At last, lips purse and then flatten, a breath drawn from her lungs on a sigh. Is he always meant to make her think so deeply? "One day, upon your golden brow I will put a wreath of starlight to match the light I'll find in your eyes." It is an intimate whisper, one she leans forward to give to him, a promise and a tentative smile. There is a blossom in her heart, and even Neerja cannot be annoyed enough to scratch at the barmaid's feet when she replaces the broken glass with something new, something stronger than before. Somewhere, she's found a trickling fountain of hope within her cub, and she will cling to that until their minds are as their hearts are: one once more.
"Mmm," the emissary hums at last, mulling over his recent questions. "If you are a rabbit, then even the slightest fright will send your heart beating too quick. So quickly that it will burst and you would die. Being that I do not believe you to be a rabbit," she muses, "I do not think you would die of terror. Seeing an old friend... It..." words halt, thoughts swirl, eddying in the churning dark waters. "It was," Moira Tonnerre says at last, something of a serene smile tipping her dark lips up, crinkling the corners of her eyes until even the gold is molten and warm. "I've missed him," she says, although she does not say who.
Patrons who are near would likely think that their Emissary thinks of the late Dusk King. A man of starlight who held her and made ephemeral promises in a forest that was always meant to be destroyed.
If only they knew of the twinkling heart miles and miles away. Of a northern light that taught her more than how to heal, that taught her how to survive and rise above. Eluoan, her heart whispers in thanks. One day, his soul would guide her just as the ghost in the woods had. There is a crystal in her hair that reminds her of this, that makes her smile a little broader with just the thought.
She is so caught up in the past that she almost doesn't hear the present. The silence that comes crashing down before soft words that fall like snowflakes. "Well, I think you're worthy."
And she wants to implore of what. Some part that is still fighting for recognition yearns to beg him to open his heart (his mouth) and pour honey down her throat until she knows what golden light he sees. Of course, neither of these things are done. Moira merely hides her eyes behind dark lashes, suddenly all too interested in the drinks and determined to ignore the blush she can feel creep over her cheeks, over her throat. The room is too warm and she is too full of questions.
Forward she presses her glass, offering a small nod of encouragement. "Try it first and tell me if it's good? Would you believe me if I told you I have very little experience in the art of alcohols?" Their eyes still do not meet, she looks instead to his lips, to his pink nose, to the way his throat bobs with every swallow. Anywhere but those honest, sweet blue eyes.
@Michael | "moira" "neerja" | notes: <3
