this is the story of a girl,
who cried a river and drowned the whole world
who cried a river and drowned the whole world
The moon wears a blueprint to the pegasus' heart, pulling her along just as it strings tides onto shorelines as pearls on a thread. Waxing, waning, eclipsing, every version of it draws Moira into the night, into the dark, into the smoke over and over. Only when sun-bright eyes wear silver streams around their edges and pale greys sprinkle over the red of her, the sin of her, does Moira find some semblance of peace in the whirlwind of her emotions.
The moon does not care what the world thinks or if her pull will force chaos on the ground.
The moon does not care.
Briefly, largely, the phoenix wished for that to be her - to not care about those she does care about. Caring hurts too much, feeling hurts too much, being hurts too damn much. And it is a monster with claws dug deep into her heart.
Moira Tonnerre is much more emotional that she likes, much more a monster than she cares for, and much more a sad thing on her trek into the mountains that she'll ever admit to anyone. Not that they can't see the truth of it in the chain of mountains upon her back that serves as a spine, or the shadows and the hollows of her eyes that are craters on her pretty face. Even as much as she's neglected herself, Moira is still beautiful, if only allowed to be the terrible sort to look upon.
Her walk is quiet and unhurried, as soft as the breeze blowing through charcoal and ivory hair. Dark fringe is only just contained, longer now, almost enough to cover golden eyes. The wind whispers to it, just as the moon whispers to the girl, and pulls it away so that her path is clear. There is only one way out, and that is through. So she takes a step, and another, and another. Black hooves land, red sides heave, dark crown surges forward over and over. Like the red sea parting, Moira makes her way out of the city with a nod to the men and women on patrol, a dip of her head, and then she is a ghost once more.
There is a graveyard of ghosts that hide in the trees when she passes by them, or perhaps they are mere shadows that her mind makes into demons and monsters. Leering eyes. Screeching mouths. Upturned noses.
They're all the same.
Full of fury and disappointment and disgust.
Full of nothing but the misery that pours from her like whiskey at a tavern.
The path is dark and quiet until it is not. It is hers and hers alone until it is not. When it is not, it is Elena who comes into view - golden and glistening and beautiful and so utterly like the boys and girls who leave that it makes her brows furl and her frown deepen. Who is this stranger? Have they moved into her home when she wasn't looking, when she was too busy letting the beasts devour her whole, when she was neglecting everyone and everything - especially herself?
No. No. They are too far for her to know them or make out any details other than the complete gold and pain of them. They are too far for her to know anything outside of the ache in her heart and the knot in her belly. The phoenix stops. Every muscle a spark, a livewire waiting to burn. Her head tilts like Neerja's might when she's eyeing food. Her eyes are half lidded and she's ready for a fight. Who is she who is she who is she? The voice whispers, demanding, daring, a crooning like a siren that she can't get out of her head.
Moira must know. She can't turn away from gold, even when it burns her with its brilliance time and time again.
"Speech"
The moon does not care what the world thinks or if her pull will force chaos on the ground.
The moon does not care.
Briefly, largely, the phoenix wished for that to be her - to not care about those she does care about. Caring hurts too much, feeling hurts too much, being hurts too damn much. And it is a monster with claws dug deep into her heart.
Moira Tonnerre is much more emotional that she likes, much more a monster than she cares for, and much more a sad thing on her trek into the mountains that she'll ever admit to anyone. Not that they can't see the truth of it in the chain of mountains upon her back that serves as a spine, or the shadows and the hollows of her eyes that are craters on her pretty face. Even as much as she's neglected herself, Moira is still beautiful, if only allowed to be the terrible sort to look upon.
Her walk is quiet and unhurried, as soft as the breeze blowing through charcoal and ivory hair. Dark fringe is only just contained, longer now, almost enough to cover golden eyes. The wind whispers to it, just as the moon whispers to the girl, and pulls it away so that her path is clear. There is only one way out, and that is through. So she takes a step, and another, and another. Black hooves land, red sides heave, dark crown surges forward over and over. Like the red sea parting, Moira makes her way out of the city with a nod to the men and women on patrol, a dip of her head, and then she is a ghost once more.
There is a graveyard of ghosts that hide in the trees when she passes by them, or perhaps they are mere shadows that her mind makes into demons and monsters. Leering eyes. Screeching mouths. Upturned noses.
They're all the same.
Full of fury and disappointment and disgust.
Full of nothing but the misery that pours from her like whiskey at a tavern.
The path is dark and quiet until it is not. It is hers and hers alone until it is not. When it is not, it is Elena who comes into view - golden and glistening and beautiful and so utterly like the boys and girls who leave that it makes her brows furl and her frown deepen. Who is this stranger? Have they moved into her home when she wasn't looking, when she was too busy letting the beasts devour her whole, when she was neglecting everyone and everything - especially herself?
No. No. They are too far for her to know them or make out any details other than the complete gold and pain of them. They are too far for her to know anything outside of the ache in her heart and the knot in her belly. The phoenix stops. Every muscle a spark, a livewire waiting to burn. Her head tilts like Neerja's might when she's eyeing food. Her eyes are half lidded and she's ready for a fight. Who is she who is she who is she? The voice whispers, demanding, daring, a crooning like a siren that she can't get out of her head.
Moira must know. She can't turn away from gold, even when it burns her with its brilliance time and time again.
"Speech"
