Melancholy and joy, each a potent poison, chase one another round and round over and over again. To miss another is to miss a piece of oneself, and she wonders, briefly, why she ever lets herself become weak, become vulnerable, become fond of another so that they might take the bits of her heart she guards so carefully whenever they go. And go Michael did, on a breath of wind beside her Queen once more, some far off adventure she could not take part in, to explore and to make ruins out of demons who stole their smiles so long ago.
She is but a healer.
She is the Emissary of Denocte.
Her duties are clear, and so the phoenix goes out among her people, out into the world with her wings tucked tight. Bangles laugh upon her wings, anklets gaily tinkle about her feet. Moira dons them gladly as she goes to greet those who she has not yet known. There are so many faces to know them all completely, but one or two more could be lucrative, and are necessary, to continue on despite the absences of others.
Weaving and weaving, she is a flame in the crowds with a happy smile and watchful eye. The healer girl, the Tonnerre child, at last stops beside another who stands in silent repose. There, golden eyes glance sideways, and there golden eyes remain. “Hello," comes her smoky voice, her midnight voice of cigarettes and fading dreams.
