NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO TAKE CARE OF YOU
Fires come from feet unbidden, they slash out at the night air, the crisp air, demanding their sacrifice - their pound of flesh. It is something the emissary will not give. Her lips turn down as a disdainful look passes over Morrighan, disgust a growing seed in her heart, a shadow upon her skin. It stains her, it marks her as a sinner as she passes judgement on another whom Isra so chose to protect and defend their court.
The phoenix does not dwell, not yet. Instead, she turns. Night and day, two different sides of the same woman, the Emissary dips her head to Boudika and smiles. It is soft and it is true, if not tense for the presence of the third in their company. "I look forward to seeing you more and getting to know you, Boudika," and the words are honest and they are kind, they are the girl who grew up in the dark, the girl who determined to take her fate into her own hands, the girl who fought tooth and nail to save that which she loves and holds most dear.
They are good and they are true.
And so is - was? - the Emissary who turns.
Rounding on Morrighan, dark ears tip back into even darker curls that are pinned so tightly they seem on the verge of busting free if not fear of reprimand from the girl who wears them. "You speak for the Court now, do you, Warden?" Crisp, sharper than the air kissing their cheeks, she is a viper readying to strike. "Bold for the executioner to also be the judge, isn't it? I thought we had a Queen to decide what can and cannot be. Lest you forget, it is wise to learn from history. I can see there is little wisdom in your heated blood, though, and so I will not fault you for your anger, not yet. But please, pray tell, have I harmed you, Morrighan? Have I spit upon your feet as you spit at me?" It is not a hiss, not a scream, but something quiet and something frightening. No leveled glares, no ugly sneers light her face any longer.
Beside her Neerja's tail twitches, muscles bunch beneath alternating colored fur, blue eyes promise death if ever she is unleashed. But Moira does not let her companion devour every sinner in their court. Instead, bright eyes look to Boudika, the markets, then they look back - frigid in their intensity, terrifying in the glow that surrounds them - and she speaks once more. "I don't think I have, but you've a nasty attitude. I would suggest, as a medical professional, a doctor check that before it burns you."
She does not care what Morrighan will think, only that the very essence of the woman seems to irritate her. Perhaps it is because she is unlike anything - and everything - the phoenix was raised with. Volatile, hot-headed, something sickly and always needing to prove her worth. Tonnerres knew who they were. They need not prove a thing (unless you were a girl born with wings), and they were always certain their glacial facades never slipped. Not once would a hair be found out of place, not once would a cutting remark be so forward and pressed upon their lips. They are proper and they are terrible. But they are not hot-headed and they were not the fiery soul that the Warden is.
At last she sighs, shaking her crown, the dark fringe upon her brow shivers with her movements. "We're not here to be horrid, although some can't seem to help it. I don't mourn him, and I do not think Raum was good. I do not think many a thing you seem to believe, Warden. You put words in my mouth that I do not say. Curious, isn't it - perhaps the once-king would have done that to his people, too?" The barb is slipped in only because she knows it will upset the other, only because she cannot help the way she wishes Morrighan would leave and never return to her site. But Moira has always been good at running, that was never an issue before. Here, here she has a court and so many faces that bring starlight back into her life, bring color on a rainy day, bring delight and surprises and sweetness like she could not ask for before.
So she stays, and she does not run, and she puts up with the Warden like a thorn in her side. A rather ugly one at that. "I remember all that he did, I remember it well. You should not speak of that which you do not know and throw your words around so carelessly." Her admonishment continues, uncaring of those who hear her. If she could but scream and throw a fit and let fire erupt as the Warden did, perhaps she would be in a different place. Perhaps she would be the face that now looks at Moira with murder and loathing. With a flick of golden eyes to the painting and back again, the Emissary shrugs. Head high, she says "Burn it, I'll merely paint another every day and leave it on your doorstep. I don't think it wise to see the way she'd light them on fire, Boudika, but she is so horrid without reason. Such creatures I was lucky enough to not be raised around. Perhaps that is why she dislikes me so? Because I cannot stand her like this - so enraged with nothing but fury. It will devour her."
Turning away from the woman of fire and rage, she looks instead to Boudika, finds her way back in a sea of storms to the only lighthouse she can find. "That fire, it will burn and burn out. When her flames go, do you think she would, too? It's so awful to see the light go out of someone. The light left my mother a marionette, but I think she was charming before she was so hollow." There is a hollowness, an emptiness in her words, too. Hollow eyes only meet her when she looks into her memories, when she thinks of the woman who was red and beautiful and bold once. Now there is only a slash for a line of lips and tearstains on cheeks behind closed doors.
Once, Gizelle was breathtaking.
Time wore her down. Time destroyed her. Sniffing as though she smells something rotten, she says at last, "You," and pauses to think; then, "no, you're not charming at all." And perhaps you cannot teach a monster how to be a part of the genteel society, but some things are still yet in her power. Impressions be damned, this is a war and the phoenix is ready to battle.
The phoenix does not dwell, not yet. Instead, she turns. Night and day, two different sides of the same woman, the Emissary dips her head to Boudika and smiles. It is soft and it is true, if not tense for the presence of the third in their company. "I look forward to seeing you more and getting to know you, Boudika," and the words are honest and they are kind, they are the girl who grew up in the dark, the girl who determined to take her fate into her own hands, the girl who fought tooth and nail to save that which she loves and holds most dear.
They are good and they are true.
And so is - was? - the Emissary who turns.
Rounding on Morrighan, dark ears tip back into even darker curls that are pinned so tightly they seem on the verge of busting free if not fear of reprimand from the girl who wears them. "You speak for the Court now, do you, Warden?" Crisp, sharper than the air kissing their cheeks, she is a viper readying to strike. "Bold for the executioner to also be the judge, isn't it? I thought we had a Queen to decide what can and cannot be. Lest you forget, it is wise to learn from history. I can see there is little wisdom in your heated blood, though, and so I will not fault you for your anger, not yet. But please, pray tell, have I harmed you, Morrighan? Have I spit upon your feet as you spit at me?" It is not a hiss, not a scream, but something quiet and something frightening. No leveled glares, no ugly sneers light her face any longer.
Beside her Neerja's tail twitches, muscles bunch beneath alternating colored fur, blue eyes promise death if ever she is unleashed. But Moira does not let her companion devour every sinner in their court. Instead, bright eyes look to Boudika, the markets, then they look back - frigid in their intensity, terrifying in the glow that surrounds them - and she speaks once more. "I don't think I have, but you've a nasty attitude. I would suggest, as a medical professional, a doctor check that before it burns you."
She does not care what Morrighan will think, only that the very essence of the woman seems to irritate her. Perhaps it is because she is unlike anything - and everything - the phoenix was raised with. Volatile, hot-headed, something sickly and always needing to prove her worth. Tonnerres knew who they were. They need not prove a thing (unless you were a girl born with wings), and they were always certain their glacial facades never slipped. Not once would a hair be found out of place, not once would a cutting remark be so forward and pressed upon their lips. They are proper and they are terrible. But they are not hot-headed and they were not the fiery soul that the Warden is.
At last she sighs, shaking her crown, the dark fringe upon her brow shivers with her movements. "We're not here to be horrid, although some can't seem to help it. I don't mourn him, and I do not think Raum was good. I do not think many a thing you seem to believe, Warden. You put words in my mouth that I do not say. Curious, isn't it - perhaps the once-king would have done that to his people, too?" The barb is slipped in only because she knows it will upset the other, only because she cannot help the way she wishes Morrighan would leave and never return to her site. But Moira has always been good at running, that was never an issue before. Here, here she has a court and so many faces that bring starlight back into her life, bring color on a rainy day, bring delight and surprises and sweetness like she could not ask for before.
So she stays, and she does not run, and she puts up with the Warden like a thorn in her side. A rather ugly one at that. "I remember all that he did, I remember it well. You should not speak of that which you do not know and throw your words around so carelessly." Her admonishment continues, uncaring of those who hear her. If she could but scream and throw a fit and let fire erupt as the Warden did, perhaps she would be in a different place. Perhaps she would be the face that now looks at Moira with murder and loathing. With a flick of golden eyes to the painting and back again, the Emissary shrugs. Head high, she says "Burn it, I'll merely paint another every day and leave it on your doorstep. I don't think it wise to see the way she'd light them on fire, Boudika, but she is so horrid without reason. Such creatures I was lucky enough to not be raised around. Perhaps that is why she dislikes me so? Because I cannot stand her like this - so enraged with nothing but fury. It will devour her."
Turning away from the woman of fire and rage, she looks instead to Boudika, finds her way back in a sea of storms to the only lighthouse she can find. "That fire, it will burn and burn out. When her flames go, do you think she would, too? It's so awful to see the light go out of someone. The light left my mother a marionette, but I think she was charming before she was so hollow." There is a hollowness, an emptiness in her words, too. Hollow eyes only meet her when she looks into her memories, when she thinks of the woman who was red and beautiful and bold once. Now there is only a slash for a line of lips and tearstains on cheeks behind closed doors.
Once, Gizelle was breathtaking.
Time wore her down. Time destroyed her. Sniffing as though she smells something rotten, she says at last, "You," and pauses to think; then, "no, you're not charming at all." And perhaps you cannot teach a monster how to be a part of the genteel society, but some things are still yet in her power. Impressions be damned, this is a war and the phoenix is ready to battle.
e-cho & tibet-lama | @'Boudika' @'Morrighan' | it only took literal years to try and find the words
