moira
we never had to force love
we were drowning in it the moment we met.
we were drowning in it the moment we met.
She does not dare hope, barely even breathes, as Tenebrae’s warm breath whispers over her eyes, her cheeks, dancing over her nose. There are scents of the sea, of his sorrow, of something that is entirely him - but even those can be faked. Suspicion is a heavy blanket, and she is not yet ready to trust her eyes, her senses, when so often they’d tricked her into thinking Michael would be just in the corner there waiting for her to finish in the kitchens; that Isra would be at the top of the stairs with a ready smile for them to sip cocoa and reminisce about their days; that Eik would be ready to laugh and offer his sea-song words to her, always calm and patient and wise, while his and her Queen’s (Isra would always be her Queen) children gallivanted about. Moira was always ready to offer them a pastry, a smile, a hint of mischief as they ran about.
The phoenix’s heart throbs as his brow presses, at last, against her own. Her eyes shutter and close and she lets her light - pulled from reflections of them on dusty surfaces, it is silver and wanting - spool out and press against his skin. It brushes lightly over his lips, his cheeks, his closed and broken eyes. Lovingly it curls up, caressing his ears, plunging down his neck, his spine, his sides. Moira pulls it back in, feeling as it feels, and lets a sigh fall at last. Petal-soft.
Between them, a tear slips down her cheek. ”Ten,” she whispers. It is half her voice and half croaking; years of silence passed her, and now she must make amends for that lost time. ”Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me they are not gone.” She would beg for them, for their return. Moira Tonnerre, lacking in little pride and so unwilling to beg for anything save that she loved, would plead with whatever half-baked god that would listen for her family to come home once more. Under his touch, she trembles, and she is not yet willing to set foot in a world where they are not.
"Teach me how to breathe again, my friend, for I cannot bear this weight in my chest.” Not even the claws of Neerja’s mind raking through her own, its spark of joy and fury a tempest beating at the walls, could bring Moira to rise. How do you live, she wonders, when all is lost again and again? What is the purpose, the point?
If you lean in close enough, you could hear her heart shattering all over. Time and time again, she burns into nothing but a memory.
