we are all just stars with people names
At first, it is strange to have a shadow that burns so brightly. Moira Tonnerre has known only her own company and that of sadness for so long. Aspara would seek to pull her from her thoughts, and she would wear a smile for her dear niece when they went about for sweets and cocoa, or into the mountains to let the wind rake over their skin and feel the bark of the ancient trees strip them bare. Maeve would sneak into her library, nestled into the little alcove full of blankets and pillows where Moira would read to her and Elli of great tales beautiful and wild.
In the end, the heroine always wins.
They are too young for anything but this rendition of the truth, and Moira hasn’t the heart to tell them of the great sorrows waiting in the future. There, in those stolen moments, she finds she can smile.
Neerja would press into her skin and pull a rumble from her chest, a kiss from her mouth. She would snarl her displeasure when Moira never really opened as a flower should, blooming into the essence of the tiger as companions were meant to do.
Some hated their bonded.
Moira loves hers so much that she cannot bare to let the tigress feel her pain. So it was hidden like the rest of her.
When Michael returns and their tiff turns stale, she grows accustomed to the man again. His warmth is always near, always just beside or behind her. A guardian. A shield. A reminder that he is real. That he is here.
Gently he tucks strands away from her eyes, peering into those depthless gold holes with his own beautiful blue eyes. In his, she finds the sky. In hers, does he find hell?
Whatever he sees, he does not tell her.
Instead, Michael presses chaste kisses to her brow, brushes his cheek sensuously, teasingly along her own when he whispers into her ear. Moira feels her face heat when he’s near and is thankful all over again that she is already red, already bloody and beautiful and dangerous.
She pretends not to see the blush on his cheek. She pretends not to smile and only lets herself beam when it’s his golden backside that she sees. And it is an eyeful. And she is shameless in the way she stares appreciatively. Adoringly.
Moira reminds herself to breathe when he looks back, when he asks her how she is.
“Should you really ask that when you’re always here?” And there is no mirth to color her words, only mild amusement when she pulls a strand of his beautiful white tail, teasingly shaking her head. “I am well now, Michael. Better now that you are here.” How else could she be when color and light return to her life every time he walks into the room? Everything narrows until it is just him.
It’s always just Michael.
But Moira hasn’t told him that.
She hasn’t told any other horse.
They are slow to gather their apples, reaching to find those that would let their teeth press into crisp flesh and tear it like a gaping wound. Sweet, rich juice would flow and Moira knows it will be delicious.
She plucks red apples from the taller branches, sometimes bracing herself against the trunk to look higher and higher.
Flight still eludes her.
With a thoughtful hum at his words, she thinks again of her family. “My mother used to love to bake. Pies, I suppose. Antiope and Morr and the little ones could use some sweetness in their lives.” Wicked delight and that age old insecurity curl in the pit of her stomach. One is an adder ready to strike, the other a cobra with hood flared wide. Both demand to win, but she could no more choose a victor than she could discern the future in a crystal ball. Instead, she turns to her companion, almost vulnerable, almost soft. “Do you think they’d accept?” Does he hear the note of unease that threads through her voice like a fire? In her ashen song, there is always ruination.
After a heartbeat, Moira shakes her head. She does not look at him when her thoughts continue to bud from her lips with lives of their own. “And Aspera and Avesta, of course. I’ll make monsters out of them all so we can scour the world and find every delicious sweet.” There lies fantasy and truth. A future that is as possible as it is unlikely. Still, she looks to him now when she pulls an apple from a bough on high. Its red skin mirrors the red of her lips and the red of her ankles. Gold searches for blue in an endless sea of green. “Would you come...If i went?”
Would he follow her still if she left Denocte?
Moira has broached their future so few times. When she was upset and he returned. When she was drunk perhaps. When the moon was so full it demanded she not lie and he not lie…
Now she does. She does, she does, she does, and it sings to her as a broken bird. And then a broken bird sings louder.
Faint and fleeting and pleading the chirps demand an answer.
“Do you hear that? Something is hurting, Michael… We cannot leave them.” Turning, her shoulder presses to his as she seeks to guide them further into the trees, closer to the source of pain and possibilities.
In the end, the heroine always wins.
They are too young for anything but this rendition of the truth, and Moira hasn’t the heart to tell them of the great sorrows waiting in the future. There, in those stolen moments, she finds she can smile.
Neerja would press into her skin and pull a rumble from her chest, a kiss from her mouth. She would snarl her displeasure when Moira never really opened as a flower should, blooming into the essence of the tiger as companions were meant to do.
Some hated their bonded.
Moira loves hers so much that she cannot bare to let the tigress feel her pain. So it was hidden like the rest of her.
When Michael returns and their tiff turns stale, she grows accustomed to the man again. His warmth is always near, always just beside or behind her. A guardian. A shield. A reminder that he is real. That he is here.
Gently he tucks strands away from her eyes, peering into those depthless gold holes with his own beautiful blue eyes. In his, she finds the sky. In hers, does he find hell?
Whatever he sees, he does not tell her.
Instead, Michael presses chaste kisses to her brow, brushes his cheek sensuously, teasingly along her own when he whispers into her ear. Moira feels her face heat when he’s near and is thankful all over again that she is already red, already bloody and beautiful and dangerous.
She pretends not to see the blush on his cheek. She pretends not to smile and only lets herself beam when it’s his golden backside that she sees. And it is an eyeful. And she is shameless in the way she stares appreciatively. Adoringly.
Moira reminds herself to breathe when he looks back, when he asks her how she is.
“Should you really ask that when you’re always here?” And there is no mirth to color her words, only mild amusement when she pulls a strand of his beautiful white tail, teasingly shaking her head. “I am well now, Michael. Better now that you are here.” How else could she be when color and light return to her life every time he walks into the room? Everything narrows until it is just him.
It’s always just Michael.
But Moira hasn’t told him that.
She hasn’t told any other horse.
They are slow to gather their apples, reaching to find those that would let their teeth press into crisp flesh and tear it like a gaping wound. Sweet, rich juice would flow and Moira knows it will be delicious.
She plucks red apples from the taller branches, sometimes bracing herself against the trunk to look higher and higher.
Flight still eludes her.
With a thoughtful hum at his words, she thinks again of her family. “My mother used to love to bake. Pies, I suppose. Antiope and Morr and the little ones could use some sweetness in their lives.” Wicked delight and that age old insecurity curl in the pit of her stomach. One is an adder ready to strike, the other a cobra with hood flared wide. Both demand to win, but she could no more choose a victor than she could discern the future in a crystal ball. Instead, she turns to her companion, almost vulnerable, almost soft. “Do you think they’d accept?” Does he hear the note of unease that threads through her voice like a fire? In her ashen song, there is always ruination.
After a heartbeat, Moira shakes her head. She does not look at him when her thoughts continue to bud from her lips with lives of their own. “And Aspera and Avesta, of course. I’ll make monsters out of them all so we can scour the world and find every delicious sweet.” There lies fantasy and truth. A future that is as possible as it is unlikely. Still, she looks to him now when she pulls an apple from a bough on high. Its red skin mirrors the red of her lips and the red of her ankles. Gold searches for blue in an endless sea of green. “Would you come...If i went?”
Would he follow her still if she left Denocte?
Moira has broached their future so few times. When she was upset and he returned. When she was drunk perhaps. When the moon was so full it demanded she not lie and he not lie…
Now she does. She does, she does, she does, and it sings to her as a broken bird. And then a broken bird sings louder.
Faint and fleeting and pleading the chirps demand an answer.
“Do you hear that? Something is hurting, Michael… We cannot leave them.” Turning, her shoulder presses to his as she seeks to guide them further into the trees, closer to the source of pain and possibilities.
