M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Boasts of his own manners and sweetness fall on deaf ears that are turned back with distaste. Even though his eyes lighten, shadows fleeing from them as crows away from a disturbed corpse, her own eyes are narrow. She does not care that he says pretty words, for her own family teaches one how to speak so that others will listen. It is an art form, one that is easily mastered if given an attentive student. Moira has always scored the highest marks in any class (save history, bless her heart) she's taken. That may not have been the one she was most interested in when young, but it certainly serves well now.
With a hmph the phoenix dances nearer, a smile that could cut glass, a pure provocative dare, testing everything he was, is, and will ever be, and at last speaks. "Actions prove the worth of a man, and yours have proven nothing."
There is a harshness in her words, a coldness to the look as though she is measuring him and finds him wanting. She knows that look only too well, the one that now is upon her face and bearing down with full force upon the Pegasus. How many times have her uncles and aunts looked at her with the same disbelieving disdain that strips you to your soul, shows all that you are, splits you open until you are nothing but starlight and dust and bones? How often were those very looks following her around long corridors when she'd helped tend to others, change rooms over and over, learned to be a part of the Tonnerre's and still held separately from them all? The weight of it should have crushed her, would have were it not for Estelle, and then the twins when time came for her to join the ranks of the Family.
Moira turns from him, books in hand, before he can answer her next question. Heart beating too quickly, palms sweaty, eyes so focused on the darkness that looms ahead, pulls her nearer and further away from the gaping maw of memories that drip down from sharpened teeth just waiting to sink into her soft, supple flesh. The phoenix believes she's escaped, a sigh almost running from her lips, tasting freedom and fresh air.
But there is no forgiveness today.
Instead, wings envelope her as the books are plucked harmlessly from her hands, the man's words a mere blur in the darkness she's now cocooned in. Briefly she wonders how something so wicked can be this warm and gentle. But those thoughts don't even have a chance to grasp at life before visions flash before her, memories surging and roiling in a sea she's avoided for so long. Ashes are on the ground, they surround her just as broken feathers do, just as the burning smell of her wings do. Hair is not something that has an appealing smell, when you catch wind of that, you know something awful is happening. Over and over, season after season, Moira remembers how she was held down, screaming until her throat was raw and her lips bled, crying for help when no one would come, only to have those precious wings burned and chained. Feather after feather plucked or trimmed or set afire. Bandages would often cover the tips of those flaming wings after, sore and raw for weeks on end even as they were chained to her sides. Not even allowed to flex them as a child, to learn what it was to move them as a part of her own body, as an extension of herself. Caged over and over until it became a living monster, the terror that arose, every time her feathers grew back. She knew what would come shortly after they were long enough for her to reach the skies. But she never tasted the wind or the rain as those of her ilk should.
So with his wings around her she lashes out. A hard blow to his chest, his shoulder, tears glittering in amber eyes as Moira lurches from his grasp and knocks the books from the air. "I said I'd do it," she snarls, looking every bit a frightened, cornered animal. "You say you have manners, but you don't even listen. No name given, cloaked in darkness, you think so highly of yourself don't you? Able to come waltzing in like some bastard prince." It's a raw growl, her low voice as shredded as her heart right now. Even his accent, as musical and beautiful as it is, is lost on her. "I can put them up myself." She gasps at last, picking the fallen books from the floor, wincing at the broken spines that are as shattered as she is. How has she let it come to this? For a second she longs to be among her family - familiarity where they let her alone unless they had need of her. Instead, she is stuck with the likes of him. And his name, should she learn it, would forever be a curse in her mouth, ash on her tongue.
@caine 8I this did not go as planned.
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Boasts of his own manners and sweetness fall on deaf ears that are turned back with distaste. Even though his eyes lighten, shadows fleeing from them as crows away from a disturbed corpse, her own eyes are narrow. She does not care that he says pretty words, for her own family teaches one how to speak so that others will listen. It is an art form, one that is easily mastered if given an attentive student. Moira has always scored the highest marks in any class (save history, bless her heart) she's taken. That may not have been the one she was most interested in when young, but it certainly serves well now.
With a hmph the phoenix dances nearer, a smile that could cut glass, a pure provocative dare, testing everything he was, is, and will ever be, and at last speaks. "Actions prove the worth of a man, and yours have proven nothing."
There is a harshness in her words, a coldness to the look as though she is measuring him and finds him wanting. She knows that look only too well, the one that now is upon her face and bearing down with full force upon the Pegasus. How many times have her uncles and aunts looked at her with the same disbelieving disdain that strips you to your soul, shows all that you are, splits you open until you are nothing but starlight and dust and bones? How often were those very looks following her around long corridors when she'd helped tend to others, change rooms over and over, learned to be a part of the Tonnerre's and still held separately from them all? The weight of it should have crushed her, would have were it not for Estelle, and then the twins when time came for her to join the ranks of the Family.
Moira turns from him, books in hand, before he can answer her next question. Heart beating too quickly, palms sweaty, eyes so focused on the darkness that looms ahead, pulls her nearer and further away from the gaping maw of memories that drip down from sharpened teeth just waiting to sink into her soft, supple flesh. The phoenix believes she's escaped, a sigh almost running from her lips, tasting freedom and fresh air.
But there is no forgiveness today.
Instead, wings envelope her as the books are plucked harmlessly from her hands, the man's words a mere blur in the darkness she's now cocooned in. Briefly she wonders how something so wicked can be this warm and gentle. But those thoughts don't even have a chance to grasp at life before visions flash before her, memories surging and roiling in a sea she's avoided for so long. Ashes are on the ground, they surround her just as broken feathers do, just as the burning smell of her wings do. Hair is not something that has an appealing smell, when you catch wind of that, you know something awful is happening. Over and over, season after season, Moira remembers how she was held down, screaming until her throat was raw and her lips bled, crying for help when no one would come, only to have those precious wings burned and chained. Feather after feather plucked or trimmed or set afire. Bandages would often cover the tips of those flaming wings after, sore and raw for weeks on end even as they were chained to her sides. Not even allowed to flex them as a child, to learn what it was to move them as a part of her own body, as an extension of herself. Caged over and over until it became a living monster, the terror that arose, every time her feathers grew back. She knew what would come shortly after they were long enough for her to reach the skies. But she never tasted the wind or the rain as those of her ilk should.
So with his wings around her she lashes out. A hard blow to his chest, his shoulder, tears glittering in amber eyes as Moira lurches from his grasp and knocks the books from the air. "I said I'd do it," she snarls, looking every bit a frightened, cornered animal. "You say you have manners, but you don't even listen. No name given, cloaked in darkness, you think so highly of yourself don't you? Able to come waltzing in like some bastard prince." It's a raw growl, her low voice as shredded as her heart right now. Even his accent, as musical and beautiful as it is, is lost on her. "I can put them up myself." She gasps at last, picking the fallen books from the floor, wincing at the broken spines that are as shattered as she is. How has she let it come to this? For a second she longs to be among her family - familiarity where they let her alone unless they had need of her. Instead, she is stuck with the likes of him. And his name, should she learn it, would forever be a curse in her mouth, ash on her tongue.
@caine 8I this did not go as planned.
