Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
From her eyes flows her hair, gently tucked back into the dark fringe that sets her brows in a deep shade, and those wide doe-eyes in an even darker one. Black within black within black. Perhaps she is a demon with those dark eyes and honeyed smile. Perhaps she is an angel with her wings lit by the sun and golden light upon her dark locks. Perhaps she is just a girl who only knows that this was the boy there by her side when she walked and walked time and again.
He follows her every step.
For a moment, she smiles at the table, down into the reflection of her glass, and sees someone contemplative and serene. "It could be both, if you'd like" she murmurs with a flick of her eyes. Chuckling, the Emissary's head is up once more, darning and brave and bold.
Only after he swallows down the smallest of sips and grimaces does Moira press the glass to her lips. It lifts higher and higher, liquid pouring down, liquid warming her belly, liquid giving her courage when she's most reckless and afraid. As she pulls away and the gentle clink of the glass atop the table is the only thing left between them, there is a small grimace and wrinkling of her brow. A small cough, puffed cheeks, and a shake of her head before that little grin that dares even Death to face her is back.
"I'd prefer it be the second option, I'm so terrible with threats. But the truth, Michael, I will illuminate it all." Pressing her point, the soft lights bathing them flicker and strings are pulled. Strands of each twine together into a multi-hued tapestry that glistens before them. She pulls the dark light and paints the sea. She pulls that which is bright to weave a comet. She pulls the purest lights and puts in a pale cloud between it all; soft and dreamy and so easily changed, yet beloved nonetheless. Her tapestry is small and it is beautiful as it shines.
Somewhere, someone drops their glass when they look upon it, and Moira forgets how little she's used her Weaving skills in the public's eye.
There is something too warm in her belly to let her feel embarrassed or repulsed or ashamed.
But she knows -
oh, she knows -
if she were a true Tonnerre, it would be lightning or ice sluicing from her skin, not this feeble attempt at beauty and dreams.
They ask for nothing and take what they want. They are conquerors, it's simply in their DNA from the day they rose from the sea. All Moira Tonnerre ever conquered was their disdain for her wings with the delight they took in the magic of her mind. Their little angel, their prodigy girl who would never rise further than Doctor - Head Physician one day, perhaps - and never be allowed a family to lay claim to the Tonnerre name for fear of passing on her hated qualities.
Moira is too much and too little a Tonnerre and it bugs her.
But he does not bug her. Michael is a beacon, a lighthouse, a low-hanging cumulonimbus cloud that blocks her from so many of her regrets and heartache. "Do I?" She purrs, moving around the edge of the table so they are closer and closer yet. "Make you weak, that is?" And she wants to know, craves the knowledge of what she does to others - no, Michael - of what she does to Michael just as she wishes to know anything she does right and wrong to anyone she cares for. That makes her pause, tilting dark face inquisitively. Does she care for him? And if so, how?
Pursed lips, thoughtful, she hums low and sweet. "Perhaps there are too may surprises in me that are too horrifying to ever show or tell. I'd be much sorrier of a person if I lost you," too she thinks sadly after.
He follows her every step.
For a moment, she smiles at the table, down into the reflection of her glass, and sees someone contemplative and serene. "It could be both, if you'd like" she murmurs with a flick of her eyes. Chuckling, the Emissary's head is up once more, darning and brave and bold.
Only after he swallows down the smallest of sips and grimaces does Moira press the glass to her lips. It lifts higher and higher, liquid pouring down, liquid warming her belly, liquid giving her courage when she's most reckless and afraid. As she pulls away and the gentle clink of the glass atop the table is the only thing left between them, there is a small grimace and wrinkling of her brow. A small cough, puffed cheeks, and a shake of her head before that little grin that dares even Death to face her is back.
"I'd prefer it be the second option, I'm so terrible with threats. But the truth, Michael, I will illuminate it all." Pressing her point, the soft lights bathing them flicker and strings are pulled. Strands of each twine together into a multi-hued tapestry that glistens before them. She pulls the dark light and paints the sea. She pulls that which is bright to weave a comet. She pulls the purest lights and puts in a pale cloud between it all; soft and dreamy and so easily changed, yet beloved nonetheless. Her tapestry is small and it is beautiful as it shines.
Somewhere, someone drops their glass when they look upon it, and Moira forgets how little she's used her Weaving skills in the public's eye.
There is something too warm in her belly to let her feel embarrassed or repulsed or ashamed.
But she knows -
oh, she knows -
if she were a true Tonnerre, it would be lightning or ice sluicing from her skin, not this feeble attempt at beauty and dreams.
They ask for nothing and take what they want. They are conquerors, it's simply in their DNA from the day they rose from the sea. All Moira Tonnerre ever conquered was their disdain for her wings with the delight they took in the magic of her mind. Their little angel, their prodigy girl who would never rise further than Doctor - Head Physician one day, perhaps - and never be allowed a family to lay claim to the Tonnerre name for fear of passing on her hated qualities.
Moira is too much and too little a Tonnerre and it bugs her.
But he does not bug her. Michael is a beacon, a lighthouse, a low-hanging cumulonimbus cloud that blocks her from so many of her regrets and heartache. "Do I?" She purrs, moving around the edge of the table so they are closer and closer yet. "Make you weak, that is?" And she wants to know, craves the knowledge of what she does to others - no, Michael - of what she does to Michael just as she wishes to know anything she does right and wrong to anyone she cares for. That makes her pause, tilting dark face inquisitively. Does she care for him? And if so, how?
Pursed lips, thoughtful, she hums low and sweet. "Perhaps there are too may surprises in me that are too horrifying to ever show or tell. I'd be much sorrier of a person if I lost you," too she thinks sadly after.
@Michael | "moira" "neerja" | notes: the best way to be brave: alcohol says mo
