I WILL ALWAYS WAIT FOR YOU
where the falling stars live
where the falling stars live
Amusement tucks itself into the corner of her lips, pressing them tighter and higher, sealing itself there quietly as Moira says “Bram is a very well behaved wolf.” If only his companion were not so hot-tempered, perhaps Moira would like him better. Of course, she knows that she cannot tell Maeve this. The phoenix knows better than to push her opinions on one so impressionable and young.
Even as sharp as Maeve is, and she’s rather bright, it is wrong to turn them against that which they love and their family loves. Moira knows the pains of familial fights more intimately than she’d like to think. While it was unpleasant, she knows it pushed her into what she is… And sometimes she thinks she’s an absolute idiot.
With the dandelion hovering between them, both look left and right then behind the other. The regent is nowhere in sight, and thank the ancestors of that, Moira doesn’t want a tongue lashing in front of Maeve. Some fights are best left behind closed doors. Paper thin walls are better than no walls at all. After a final look over the top of the girl’s head, the pegasus nods. “You’ve my world, little lamb,” she whispers.
Gently, she blows more seeds from the side, letting herself get lost in the way the light catches on white edges and bleeds gold into every fiber as it flies away. She wonders between thoughts of the past and the present, if she were to fly, would she turn into a golden, burning thing too? Would she float away into oblivion? Or would she crash and be remembered as only a meteorite exploding, burning the lives of too many?
It is hard to keep her brow from furrowing, but she holds onto the smile when she looks back to the child.
Maeve, who is so like Morr in her color and build, asks difficult questions to answer. Moira wants so badly to tell her that they do not hate one another - Moira Tonnerre most certainly does not hate the regent - but cannot. The anger, the rage, the boiling unease Morrighan radiates when she even looks in Moira’s direction is enough to know that it is more than dislike. And that is fine.
She tells herself this over and over. It is fine. Moira is so used to being hated for being different and disagreeing with the way things are thought of.
Instead, she purses her lips in thought. After a pause, enough to count their hearts beating, she replies. “Sometimes people don’t see things the same way and I think it upsets her. I am stubborn and resilient and I do not bend as she would wish me to…” The statement is left half finished as the Tonnerre girls’ brow wrinkles at last. With another soft and wicked grin, she leans closer, whispering. “You, little one, are the greatest gift for Morrighan, I am sure. I am so happy she has you.”
Memories of her own mother flood in. Gizelle singing, dancing, baking. Gizelle teaching Moira to love and be passionate and curious about the world. Gizelle...before she was what the Matron wished for her to be - broken, defeated, overtaken by ridiculous rules and beliefs built to cage anyone who was not Tonnerre by trial and torment.
No.
Moira’s mother, before she became what she was never meant to be, is one of her most favorite people. And she knows that her mother loved her dearly - loves her dearly still. Still whispering, the Emissary at last asks “Do you want to know why?”
Even as sharp as Maeve is, and she’s rather bright, it is wrong to turn them against that which they love and their family loves. Moira knows the pains of familial fights more intimately than she’d like to think. While it was unpleasant, she knows it pushed her into what she is… And sometimes she thinks she’s an absolute idiot.
With the dandelion hovering between them, both look left and right then behind the other. The regent is nowhere in sight, and thank the ancestors of that, Moira doesn’t want a tongue lashing in front of Maeve. Some fights are best left behind closed doors. Paper thin walls are better than no walls at all. After a final look over the top of the girl’s head, the pegasus nods. “You’ve my world, little lamb,” she whispers.
Gently, she blows more seeds from the side, letting herself get lost in the way the light catches on white edges and bleeds gold into every fiber as it flies away. She wonders between thoughts of the past and the present, if she were to fly, would she turn into a golden, burning thing too? Would she float away into oblivion? Or would she crash and be remembered as only a meteorite exploding, burning the lives of too many?
It is hard to keep her brow from furrowing, but she holds onto the smile when she looks back to the child.
Maeve, who is so like Morr in her color and build, asks difficult questions to answer. Moira wants so badly to tell her that they do not hate one another - Moira Tonnerre most certainly does not hate the regent - but cannot. The anger, the rage, the boiling unease Morrighan radiates when she even looks in Moira’s direction is enough to know that it is more than dislike. And that is fine.
She tells herself this over and over. It is fine. Moira is so used to being hated for being different and disagreeing with the way things are thought of.
Instead, she purses her lips in thought. After a pause, enough to count their hearts beating, she replies. “Sometimes people don’t see things the same way and I think it upsets her. I am stubborn and resilient and I do not bend as she would wish me to…” The statement is left half finished as the Tonnerre girls’ brow wrinkles at last. With another soft and wicked grin, she leans closer, whispering. “You, little one, are the greatest gift for Morrighan, I am sure. I am so happy she has you.”
Memories of her own mother flood in. Gizelle singing, dancing, baking. Gizelle teaching Moira to love and be passionate and curious about the world. Gizelle...before she was what the Matron wished for her to be - broken, defeated, overtaken by ridiculous rules and beliefs built to cage anyone who was not Tonnerre by trial and torment.
No.
Moira’s mother, before she became what she was never meant to be, is one of her most favorite people. And she knows that her mother loved her dearly - loves her dearly still. Still whispering, the Emissary at last asks “Do you want to know why?”
@'maeve' "speaks" | <3 | « r »
