T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
He remembers the temple where they first met. Where their magics warred together. She burned bright like the sun that night and he hungered, oh how he hungered!
Moira’s gaze had been dark as a bruise. So dark he could feel the throbbing pulse of her soul. But now it is not just a throb but a harrowing cry. Its voice rips from every part of her that grief has turned ragged and bitter.
The girl who stands before him is a shadow of the phoenix she once had been. He has never known Moira happy, he has never known her without tears beading like pearls upon her lashes. Though he has never known her any other way he cannot help but think this is not you. It was a cruel existence.
She rages. A gaunt, angular shadow of the creature she once was. A serpent of light slithers toward him. Her magic stings the air, it hisses with fire and heat.
Move monk, Moira snarls leonine, feral. He is not swayed. From the darkness his white-bright eyes glow, unlinking they hold her as the moon watches the night, serene, unmovable.
“No.” He says. Tenebrae’s voice is low and stones judder as the mountain quakes for the two who meet upon its side. That serpent of her magic twists itself around his ankle. She threatens as she did before. Moira is more untethered that she had ever been that night in the Temple.
He lifts his hoof and lowers it upon the slithering snake of light. Darkness billows from him, smothering, choking that small piece of magic.
“Moira, you look awful... There is no rest in you.” He says, seeing the chaos of her body, the battle that rages within her: how can one survive a broken heart? Yet her body clings to life, gaunt and savage.
“Will you come home with me?” That question is a gentle thing. It waits for her, yet in the monk’s eyes is something harder, sharp as a jet black blade. There is no question for her really. This is her intervention and she can come to it willingly, or Tenebrae will take her.
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