I WILL ALWAYS WAIT FOR YOU
where the falling stars live
where the falling stars live
A
round her, the world is crisp and sharp, a medley of oranges and reds, of the peeling colors on her skin painted in nature. Or perhaps she stole the flame of her breast from the leaves in Denocte before she ever knew that this was to be her home. The Pegasus cannot say, she cannot tell you where her fire originated, just like she cannot tell you where the maples stole their own hue. But it is lovely.
The world is lovely and bright.
Not often is she awake during the day, much more likely to be found wondering the halls in the hours following morning, in the hours before dusk sets in, in the hours of the night when her court comes alive. She loves it, how she loves it and hates it. Every street holds a memory: just there, she walked hip to hip with Asterion through the snow; on that corner, she went towards the sea with Michael; over there, Moira saw Isra for the first time to answer Caligo's call so long ago. Oh, how time seems to fly and the phoenix does not know how many times she has been reborn. Once, a baptism of life when she came doe-eyed and dumb. Once, when she met Caine and he promised and promised her he'd teach her to fly, leaving her a crane that she still has, still hides, still hopes with. Once, when she met Isra and became Denocte's Emissary. Once, when they all left. When all of them left... Once, when she learned she could be okay, that she is okay.
Neerja felt all of it, knew the hum of it in her own wild heart, felt the cosmic repercussions when the phoenix shattered the earth, shattered her heart. The tigress was there for almost all of it, always just waiting to find her winged, flaming cub.
Now, Moira is awake again during the day. Neerja is off to the side, a silent sentinel keeping watch, keeping her safe. The phoenix' heart is a fragile thing, something easily spun into new shapes, new hopes, but just as easily plunged into abysmal despair. So she guards her cub now, a lioness ready to do battle, a dragon spewing smoke before the flame.
Moira does not mind her guardian, looks fondly at the flash of pale fur, blue eyes, the predatory gleam hungering for the jungles, for a run that the phoenix has denied her too long. Since her stay in the monastery, Neerja has not been in the wilds. Caged. Trapped. Suffocated within the Keep. Regret is a flower bleeding ichor and life; she has treated her companion so poorly when all the tiger ever did was love her, comfort her, tell her that she is strong and she does not need Asterion nor Isra nor Bexley nor Michael. All she needed was herself, was Neerja.
Together, they go to the lake. Neerja lopes off to some bit of grass, flopping in it, rolling in it, not yet travelling to the lakeside as Moira does. The Tonnerre girl looks to the trees lining the edge of Vitreus' surface, looks to their skeletal fingers reaching, climbing, hovering just below the blue blue skies. Below them is the youngest member of their court: Maeve.
To the branches and falling orange the girl looks, heavenward, never down. Does she dream of flying? Does she wonder why the world is so painfully beautiful?
No.
Innocence is pressed into the bones of her spine, the curve of her neck. She looks so much like Morrighan, but she is not her mother. So the phoenix smiles down to her with golden eyes and dark lips when a skinny rear brushes her chest. There is a moment where Maeve draws herself together, stumbles over her words. Moira only chuckles, dropping her head to fondly blow Maeve's scrappy hair out of her eyes. "Am I that scary, little lamb?" She whispers as a conspirator, as the girl's best friend might, and tilts her head to the side when she's at eye level with the child. "Better me than Neerja, she might grumble and swat your feet out from under you. Have you met her yet? I promise she shouldn't bite." Moira Tonnerre ends on a very matter-of-fact whisper, grinning like a jackal.
This is not a woman angry, this is not a woman hurt. Here, she is as soft as the daisies wilting, curling herself to speak eye-to-eye with Maeve as a peer, as something other than a child or a pet. She is the autumn leaves falling softly: beautiful in her rise, beautiful in her fall.
round her, the world is crisp and sharp, a medley of oranges and reds, of the peeling colors on her skin painted in nature. Or perhaps she stole the flame of her breast from the leaves in Denocte before she ever knew that this was to be her home. The Pegasus cannot say, she cannot tell you where her fire originated, just like she cannot tell you where the maples stole their own hue. But it is lovely.
The world is lovely and bright.
Not often is she awake during the day, much more likely to be found wondering the halls in the hours following morning, in the hours before dusk sets in, in the hours of the night when her court comes alive. She loves it, how she loves it and hates it. Every street holds a memory: just there, she walked hip to hip with Asterion through the snow; on that corner, she went towards the sea with Michael; over there, Moira saw Isra for the first time to answer Caligo's call so long ago. Oh, how time seems to fly and the phoenix does not know how many times she has been reborn. Once, a baptism of life when she came doe-eyed and dumb. Once, when she met Caine and he promised and promised her he'd teach her to fly, leaving her a crane that she still has, still hides, still hopes with. Once, when she met Isra and became Denocte's Emissary. Once, when they all left. When all of them left... Once, when she learned she could be okay, that she is okay.
Neerja felt all of it, knew the hum of it in her own wild heart, felt the cosmic repercussions when the phoenix shattered the earth, shattered her heart. The tigress was there for almost all of it, always just waiting to find her winged, flaming cub.
Now, Moira is awake again during the day. Neerja is off to the side, a silent sentinel keeping watch, keeping her safe. The phoenix' heart is a fragile thing, something easily spun into new shapes, new hopes, but just as easily plunged into abysmal despair. So she guards her cub now, a lioness ready to do battle, a dragon spewing smoke before the flame.
Moira does not mind her guardian, looks fondly at the flash of pale fur, blue eyes, the predatory gleam hungering for the jungles, for a run that the phoenix has denied her too long. Since her stay in the monastery, Neerja has not been in the wilds. Caged. Trapped. Suffocated within the Keep. Regret is a flower bleeding ichor and life; she has treated her companion so poorly when all the tiger ever did was love her, comfort her, tell her that she is strong and she does not need Asterion nor Isra nor Bexley nor Michael. All she needed was herself, was Neerja.
Together, they go to the lake. Neerja lopes off to some bit of grass, flopping in it, rolling in it, not yet travelling to the lakeside as Moira does. The Tonnerre girl looks to the trees lining the edge of Vitreus' surface, looks to their skeletal fingers reaching, climbing, hovering just below the blue blue skies. Below them is the youngest member of their court: Maeve.
To the branches and falling orange the girl looks, heavenward, never down. Does she dream of flying? Does she wonder why the world is so painfully beautiful?
No.
Innocence is pressed into the bones of her spine, the curve of her neck. She looks so much like Morrighan, but she is not her mother. So the phoenix smiles down to her with golden eyes and dark lips when a skinny rear brushes her chest. There is a moment where Maeve draws herself together, stumbles over her words. Moira only chuckles, dropping her head to fondly blow Maeve's scrappy hair out of her eyes. "Am I that scary, little lamb?" She whispers as a conspirator, as the girl's best friend might, and tilts her head to the side when she's at eye level with the child. "Better me than Neerja, she might grumble and swat your feet out from under you. Have you met her yet? I promise she shouldn't bite." Moira Tonnerre ends on a very matter-of-fact whisper, grinning like a jackal.
This is not a woman angry, this is not a woman hurt. Here, she is as soft as the daisies wilting, curling herself to speak eye-to-eye with Maeve as a peer, as something other than a child or a pet. She is the autumn leaves falling softly: beautiful in her rise, beautiful in her fall.
@'maeve "speaks" | a soft thing again | « r »
