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
There is no rest in her.
She rages like a sun as it dies and turns crimson and ravenous. She draws all to her. All the light floods down from the moon and the stars. All the light is hers.
She is a star exploding and he wonders when Novus will feel the ramification of her breakdown. Moira is the wild sea, her hair crimson and yet salt licked, coarse enough to strip the fabric of his soul into pieces.
He stands and watches her, even as she pulls the light out of the sky. His own magic snarls at such a display of magic. His own magic is as ravenous as hers. In her palm the evening light gleams, it halos her. Frraming Moira in divine light, painting her a celestial being, broken and intent on reaping her despair upon mortals.
The night is quiet and then she screams. Oh it pierces every part of him. Her voice is claws ripping at his heart, his soul. How broken is she now? She is a warning for him: the cost of falling in love is falling apart. Tenebrae will have none of it.
“Are you done?” He asks, his skull tilting, his voice low, steady, a rumbling snarl.
But Moira is not done.
When will she ever be simply done?
She builds a wave of light and Tenebrae watches it form. It rises like a tsunami. It gleams with celestial fire and vows to illuminate every piece of him. His nape arches, his chin pressing hinto his chest, his ears falling atop his skull. About him his shadows rally, they rise like her wave. They command the night. Ravenous they consume her light and bloom in eternal darkness. Darkness forms a wall upon which her wave can crash. It reaches tall between the mare and the monk. It is a pledge that nothing more will break this night.
Moira charges, screaming, savage and broken. The wall does not waver. It becomes passable only enough for Tenebrae to emerge from behind it: at first only a glow of two white eyes and a wicked half moon sigil. Then he is there, appearing from amidst his magic.
They are close, her scream splitting the air. Her magic, ropes of light tangle about his limbs. He trips and a sword appears within his grasp. It slices her ropes into pieces, over and over. Still his darkness blocks her path where light crashes upon it, as endless and terrible as a raging sea.
“Is this helping?’ He says, low, almost a snarl. His gaze searches out hers, where dragons live and wildfires feast behind her wicked bright eyes. “Do you feel better?” The monk asks and he does not think she can be, not when her screams tear them all apart. Moira Tonnerre is in pieces upon Veneror.
Tenebrae reaches for her. To grasp her, to hold her in ways no magic can. A vice about her sorrow; a friend to hold together the pieces of her that she no longer can. He thinks that it is nothing like the ways he has held anyone before. It is living, existing, holding a shattering world, even if it means being flayed alive.
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