Moira - - pulling petals one by one - he loves me, he loves me not
Love. The statement barely has time to bounce around in her head before his lips are upon her, like a wolf too long starved of flesh, taking what he wishes and showing the cards in his heart without any confirmation from the winged woman. Oh ! Hasn't she asked for this with every coy glance, every shy smile, every timid touch and brush of skin against skin when snow falls or wine runs quick from cups? Isn't this what her body has begged for even when her mind does protest, screaming and yelling until...until... Eyes shutter, gloriously golden, molten eyes turn cold, close off, seem to darken as the girl's wings fall to her sides, mouth is limp. Before him, she is nothing but a doll, an unresponsive plaything that is numb to his touch, numb to her heart that pounds furiously beneath her flesh. Flesh that is so hot to the touch it is a wonder she does not ignite, burn the palace to the ground. If she could, she would wonder if this is what it was to be in shock from something other than so much pain that all one can do is turn off, off, off! But she cannot, no. There is barely any response as he pulls back, as he looks at her for the heartbeat of a moment with such intensity even Persephone would be jealous, even Hades could not compare in his love and adoration, as though she has hung the stars and the moon and set the sun aflame. Moira does not reciprocate. The boy stutters behind them, gaping, and still she sits as though a statue. Asterion rises, a phantom, a man with a new take on life, a god among mere mortals such as her. He wields his heart as a weapon, aiming carefully for her own and striking true. So many words stick on his tongue, and at last she seems to come to life. Moira stands abruptly, the bench falling to the floor behind her, biting her tongue and cheeks so hard they might bleed. "Safe travels," she says automatically, a hollowness, an emptiness, building within each breath, exhaled with each word. She does not wait to see the confidence in his step. Only when the ringing of his footfalls is no longer echoing in the kitchen that stares and stares and stares as though she were an alien thing, a circus freak to be gawked at, an abomination in their midst, only then does she erupt. The cups shatter against the wall, tea spills quick and hot down into the entryway where he left. Rage and confusion eat her stomach until it is acid, it is lava, it is a churning mass of poison that she can't get away from. Gold eyes sizzle when they land on each of her friends, her family, and she feels nothing when she hisses at last: "Never utter his name again." With her words still darkening the staff's morning, she sweeps from the room, fleeing to her chambers where she collapses. On her bed she falls, into blankets and pillows and scarves and paintbrushes. Into charcoal and dreams and nightmares and blood. Into sweat. But at last, she falls into a devastated heap of tears that are as unending as the oceans that Asterion loves so dearly, letting it swell and swell and swell until her sobbing is the only music she thinks she will ever know until she dies. And what a sad, broken song it is in the first light of the morning when her throat is raw and eyes are far more red than gold. |
