Moira - - from books and words come fantasy, and sometimes, from fantasy comes union.
A bashful smile plays on the corners of rosewood lips, shock quickly covered echoes in glacial eyes that quickly glance over Moira and find her harmless. What harm could a woman such as she wish upon a child, after all? No - Moira is a healer, a doctor: her duty is to her patient's and the well-being of all mankind. To harm one, unless knocking on death's door, is unthinkable, unspeakable. Golden eyes would betray that, the gentility that scrapes along her spine, that sings within the smoothness of her movements. Such easy confidence is in those steps that bring the phoenix nearer and nearer, a beacon before night, a torch in the dark, a smile when all hope is lost and the world is darkest. Someday they will be corpses for carrion birds that circle high above, someday they will be flowerbeds nourishing daffodils and daisies, but today they are the song of the woods that whistles around them. Today they are a woman and child on such uneven ground that Moira settles near enough to the girl that she can feel the other's skin radiating heat, but is too far to touch her, to pose a threat. Ah, and that chirping voice that weaves into the tapestry between them, it is uncertain, a warbler's song in the morning, still finding out who it is. "What a lovely name," she says at last, breaking the silence that stretched so far, so thin. An icy surface shatters when she picks a dandelion and offers it to the roseate girl that is a ghost of who she will someday be. "Make a wish and I'll tell you a story, Sabine." For there is life that dances within her honey eyes now, mischief curling the edge of carmine lips, and magic in the air that sparkles and twines about them. Oh, Isra may tell stories that bring the nation to its knees, but Moira knows the song of a sorrow-laden heart when she hears it. She knows the words of darkened nights and the sound of silence that can be more deafening than the roar of any crowd. There are dark caverns in her that still ache with the need to be known, to be heard. And those caverns are teeming with beasts, pooling with monsters that raise their head and roar to whatever starry skies she paints tonight. Scaled things slither in those pits as she settles deeper into the mossy bed beneath her, wings tucking neatly against her sides. Perhaps they both need a story of something warmer, something brighter. Maybe they're both looking for home in all the wrong places tonight. So she picks her own dandelion and blows, watching the seeds spread into the air, lifted up on some woodland breeze and carried to where faeries will plant them and new dreamers can start the cycle anew. What Moira wishes for, only her heart ever knows. |
