estelle
Tell the wolves I'm home
E
yes of fire set her spine ablaze. Estelle can feel the way it is gold gilding the curve of her back. Never once does she think that gaze belongs to another Tonnerre. Moira had left, slipping away as death slipped closer to Estelle. Still the silver woman can feel the way its fingers press deep into her throat. It set it’s icy grasp about her heart and stilled its fervent beating. And in those final throes all she felt is so utterly, terribly alone. How used to the cold had she grown? Enough that now, as Moira slips closer, the light of her, the blazing crimson of her blisters her cousin’s skin. Would you tell a truth or do you still prefer a dare? That voice is a balm to the burn and yet gasoline to the fire of it. Estelle does not turn, no matter how her stomach twists with delight and wild, unkempt anger. She lets the drink the bartender gave her slip down her thought like the ichor of the gods. Estelle would bring the gods to their knees if only to slip from this moment, ease from her body the cacophony of emotions her cousin stirs within her.
That burn feels endless in her throat, the alcohol warm and numbing. She waits until it settles in her belly, slaying the butterfly nerves that beat their wings at her abdomen. When the last of them has fallen still, then she finally turns her gaze toward her oldest love, her dearest companion. Moira’s eyes are gold, gold, gold, her skin brilliant red. The feathers of her wings press upon her slim sides. She is a phoenix in appearance, never a girl that should have been born into the Tonnerre house. But oh how Estelle had loved her, more a sister than a cousin. Their souls were bound, rendered together through turmoil and pain. From the time of Estelle’s death until now, they have been apart the longest.
Ah, and that is the source of her anger. Fires burn her when she thinks of how Moira had left her, dying and alone. I am still alive her ire whispers into Moira’s ears. Is that a truth you expected to hear, Moira Tonnerre? Estelle does not let Moira melt the ice that has formed, the branches of ice that fan out from where her heart beats frantic and alive, alive, alive. Her cousin left for help and never returned. It feels too much like abandonment. Estelle shudders with the ache of perfect sorrow and self-pity. Her teeth clench, no, she was stronger than self-pity.
Beneath the thick fan of snow-white lashes she gazes at her cousin and upon the delicate bones of Moira’s face she sees memory after memory. Some are agony, some are sweet joy, some set her soul trembling. Estelle tips back her silken hair and smiles a thing of beauty and cutting ice. “A truth, Moira Tonnerre.” She breathes smooth as satin, delicate as a rose. The surname hangs upon her tongue, decadent, poisonous. “A truth to honour all the things that have changed.”
She hopes the night is long, for every moment will hold a truth and Estelle plans to uncover each and every one.
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