my hands reach for her, but she cannot be anchored.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.
She is a pool of longing and pain, of loss and gain, something old and something new, something entirely unlike the stained glass put in the fire before they'd all left. Now, she needs a sieve to sift through all the minute facets of her emotions, laying them bare under a LED light, tweezing out flaws like glass from a wound that festers, full of puss and poison left too long unattended. Bit by bit they roil beneath the surface of her shattering pond, wishing so desperately to be heard, to be known, to be seen.
But Moira Tonnerre hates being a spectacle.
To be a Tonnerre, to be a woman, to be a child of that family is to be seen, not heard; to be prim and perfect, to present a face to the public that is as cold as ice, harder than bulletproof glass; if there are any faults they are hidden just as all the rabble of the family is swiftly cast aside.
She will not be another casualty of their cold war. Her steps are echoed by his, and he is quick behind her, so close that the heat of golden skin nearly presses into her trembling side - should he touch her again she'd surely shatter. His very nearness is draining and exhilarating, eliciting responses she'd rather bury a hatchet into than let see the light of day. Stiff lipped and bright eyed, Moira marches forward without uttering a peep to the man that is her golden ghost, her nightmare and every dream. Pale hair brushes the tips of her wings and she shivers, casting a glance to Michael that would shatter stone or melt it, but he does not falter.
Steadfast, sturdy, a companion returned with glue guns in hand and ready to pick up the pieces. The phoenix does not ask what battles he's seen, and she does not dare whisper of her own unbecoming. There are secrets they both hide in the crevices of their skin, lying in the hollows of their collarbones, tucked neatly into the pleats of their hair. Some demons only come out when libations are plenty and tongues waggle loose.
Once, she lost that battle with him.
Once, he was hers by the moonlight.
That once is gone.
Moira murmurs briefly to a guard they pass, asking for extra blankets and pillows to be brought up to her room before sweeping into the hallway that will take them to somewhere more private, perhaps too intimate, but she is weary and she is tired and the only other home she knows are the walls of books and shelves of stories that would take her further than Michael could ever dream of going. So she does not go there, does not turn into the well-trod path to the library that would soothe her more quickly than any cup of tea or midnight tale. Instead, she glides through the doors of her chamber, pacing over to the wall to put up curtains and covers over splattered canvases, covering the part of her room that might be more of a disaster than anything she is right now.
Bookshelves line another wall, her bed with its billowing black curtains of gossamer and smoke take up the back center of the room. From there, she rules over her domain with a hawk's eye and iron fist. From there, hidden from the world, she is safe.
Moira does not retreat, she turns to Michael and watches when he places a plate and loaf of bread on the table she reserves for occasional meals that Neerja forces into her and heaps upon heaps of books. With a raised brow, she lets silence be their only conversation.
"Speech"
But Moira Tonnerre hates being a spectacle.
To be a Tonnerre, to be a woman, to be a child of that family is to be seen, not heard; to be prim and perfect, to present a face to the public that is as cold as ice, harder than bulletproof glass; if there are any faults they are hidden just as all the rabble of the family is swiftly cast aside.
She will not be another casualty of their cold war. Her steps are echoed by his, and he is quick behind her, so close that the heat of golden skin nearly presses into her trembling side - should he touch her again she'd surely shatter. His very nearness is draining and exhilarating, eliciting responses she'd rather bury a hatchet into than let see the light of day. Stiff lipped and bright eyed, Moira marches forward without uttering a peep to the man that is her golden ghost, her nightmare and every dream. Pale hair brushes the tips of her wings and she shivers, casting a glance to Michael that would shatter stone or melt it, but he does not falter.
Steadfast, sturdy, a companion returned with glue guns in hand and ready to pick up the pieces. The phoenix does not ask what battles he's seen, and she does not dare whisper of her own unbecoming. There are secrets they both hide in the crevices of their skin, lying in the hollows of their collarbones, tucked neatly into the pleats of their hair. Some demons only come out when libations are plenty and tongues waggle loose.
Once, she lost that battle with him.
Once, he was hers by the moonlight.
That once is gone.
Moira murmurs briefly to a guard they pass, asking for extra blankets and pillows to be brought up to her room before sweeping into the hallway that will take them to somewhere more private, perhaps too intimate, but she is weary and she is tired and the only other home she knows are the walls of books and shelves of stories that would take her further than Michael could ever dream of going. So she does not go there, does not turn into the well-trod path to the library that would soothe her more quickly than any cup of tea or midnight tale. Instead, she glides through the doors of her chamber, pacing over to the wall to put up curtains and covers over splattered canvases, covering the part of her room that might be more of a disaster than anything she is right now.
Bookshelves line another wall, her bed with its billowing black curtains of gossamer and smoke take up the back center of the room. From there, she rules over her domain with a hawk's eye and iron fist. From there, hidden from the world, she is safe.
Moira does not retreat, she turns to Michael and watches when he places a plate and loaf of bread on the table she reserves for occasional meals that Neerja forces into her and heaps upon heaps of books. With a raised brow, she lets silence be their only conversation.
"Speech"
