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
The air seems to crackle around Morrighan. Tenebrae wonders, if he looks close, if he might see her amber sparks lighting the air. If this woman is fire, then Tenebrae is the smothering smoke she leaves in her wake. He is not sure what that means for him, yet it whispers into the violent parts of him. The ones calloused by fighting and wielding black magic and obsidian weapons.
But Morrighan is wild, consuming fire. He can feel it. Her presence warms his skin. He looks to her and into her gaze, beneath the black arc of her lashes. A brief look and he might have foolishly dared to think her eyes the blue of the ocean, sharp like a shard of sapphire. Yet he looks now and recognises her blue with its blistering heat. There is nothing of Morrighan that is not hot with fire and spirit.
His words are gasoline, his looks are diesel. He can tell in the way she stiffens, the way her gaze darkens, bruises, grows dark, dark with smoke and ever hotter fire. It is no wonder that the blues of the arch’s light fall from her skin like water. But the reds, the golds, oh they lick like flame along her curves. A holy fire.
Morrighan’s retort does little to brush the smile from his lips. Yet he awards her a moment of respite as his gaze drifts back to the arch for a moment. It follows the crimson and golden lights to where the painted glass glows like fire - a retelling of fire upon Denocte’s mountainside.
Tenebrae might have afforded her, her secrets. Maybe a wiser, older man would have. Yet - ‘I saw the look within your eyes.” The monk says to her, soft like embers. His gaze rests like a dove upon her. It is liquid starlight from the glow of his white-bright eyes. “It’s okay to feel. I think we all are tonight.” Then he looks away, this time his own gaze darkening with tortured thought as he looks upon the glass and thinks of a night he should not have spent by a lake and a girl who waits for him in the sea. He sees gold and crimson, sun and sea in the glass. He feels as thin as the paint spread across the windows.
When his gaze falls back to her, now Morrighan is looking back upon the archway. He thinks of their passing glances, the way they each to and fro. The Regent grumbles and though she comments on the horror of a night of dragon fire, the deaths of hundreds, the loss of his Order’s first monastery int he mountains, Tenebrae laughs. It is a low, low chuckle, soft as winter’s first sigh.
“I think the new Regime have done a lot to heal the old wounds of that mess. Though those wounds sometimes still ache, that new archway has sewn together Denocte’s soul tonight.” Still Tenebrae does not look to the archway, nor lift his gaze from Morrighan’s skin. It offers his earnest words before her fire, uncaring if it should set them alight. “You are to be thanked tonight, Morrighan.”
@Morrighan <3
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