oh, but sweetheart,
i am a goddess
i am a goddess
H
onesty. Truth. Reality. It is rarely what one wishes it to be, and she knows this. Moira knows it most desperately, yet it pains her to tell Tenebrae that which does not fit with his grand plan or answer every question. To let past her lips raw, unfiltered reality of the situation and the choice before him is harder than she would like. His pain, his suffering, is no salve upon her heart.
No.
New wounds are ripped into the threads of her, painting the canvas of her soul wish splashes of red and dashes of darkness that tears and tears as his shadows do. Sometimes, Moira is left to wonder how the light still filters in to reach that battered, beating thing that still fights even when she does not want to. Now, she does not cry any longer. She cannot cry when her dearest friend is still before her, on his knees, with every sob empties from his belly and every tear unleashed upon the fury of the ocean.
Moira Tonnerre waits. She lets the shock settle into him, let it wind itself around his thoughts until he is able to take a breath. Then, ”Could I take the pain from your flesh and paint it upon my own I would, Tenebrae, I would.”
She does not whisper.
She does not yell.
Moira only talks softly, calmly, and listens in much the same way. She looks to him as though he is every star in her galaxy and she depends on their light every night. She looks at him like he’s a map and she’s still learning how to read. And when the monk is done with his questions, with his heart wrenching secrets piled onto her like weights about her neck, Moira tells him another truth.”The heart is fickle and it is cruel.”
Between them silence stretches. Cold. Cruel.
She wonders if her words are too hard, too sharp. Would they slice him? Would they help him?
When did she forget how to comfort? Or is it that she’s never truly known how? Moira knows how to comfort loss and pain, to kiss the brow as a last breath is drawn and walk away with dry eyes. Now, here, the living have not died and his confessions are not yet in their graves.
Patience courses through her while he gathers himself, rallying for a final blow. At last. At last it spills from him and Moira’s heart stutters.
Elena?
Her brows draw together, but before the woman can speak a word, her friend flees. Only his shadows are left for her to wish well. ”Stay safe, my friend.”
Moira goes to the water and prays.
{ @Tenebrae "speaks" notes: <3 }
