What if I'm tryin', but then I close my eyes And then I'm right back, lost in that last goodbye? And what if time doesn't do what it's supposed to do? What if I never get over you?
How does a star fall apart?
It is a question Moira wonders time and time again, over the course of her life, without ever, truly, finding an answer. Slowly, she thinks, and then they collapse in a beautiful display before they become something much worse than what they are. She wonders if she's doomed to the same gravities and forces pulling her apart and pushing her too far together until she's only left as a black hole ready to tear the world asunder.
There is a beast that rages in her breast and a fire in her blood and an ice in her soul that is impregnable and impenetrable and more terrifying than she can comprehend.
The sadness in her veins is a disease, a curse, that eats her alive. Caine. Asterion. Michael. Bexley. Isra. Isra. Isra. Isra.
Her heart knows only these names. And she has forgotten the sound of her voice. Neerja cannot find her in the darkness that swells like birdsong, some dark melody pulling Moira into a fitful repose. She's half hungry, half mad, half girl, half god when she wonders into the mountains. Thorns brush her legs from bushes she didn't care if she walked through, blood pools on the surface and drips a red trail onto the patterns of the leaves.
Bruises stain her knees, but she can't feel them anymore. Too many cold nights were already spent begging her ancestors to bring them back on stone floors where only forgotten gods would listen.
It didn't work.
So Moira left, a single note for Antiope, telling her she will return and be ready to resume her duties. Then, like a flame flickering out, she was gone.
The Phoenix of Denocte, a flaming, blazing light when Isra was stolen, snuffed out in the blink of an eye.
For what?
For the heart that beats in her chest, offered to another and another and another.
Returned more shattered every time.
She can't.
She can't any longer.
So she goes.
