my hands reach for her, but she cannot be anchored.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.
He shrinks like she's slapped him when she looks back to him, nearly shaking, holding himself together by mere threads. She wonders what it's like to be on the other side of her stare, and then she remembers the Matriarch with her cool silver eyes and pale hair, her smooth skin tight, her brow perpetually displeased, a frown ever in place on perfect lips. Something about her always made Moira shiver, feeling more unwelcome within the very walls of her childhood than Denocte ever made her feel. Has she become like her great grandmother after all? Cold blooded, beautiful, untouchable?
Sadness is like an oil spill over the water, hiding everything beneath, shielding her, spreading. It is hard to contain, even harder to hold back. Her own brow furrows like an inchworm, her shoulders drooping as she shakes her head.
This is not who she is.
Moira is not involved. Is she?
"She got tired of my moping," the Emissary replies, sticking her tongue out at the door, sending that image to her beloved tigress and feeling a disgruntled huff in return. That almost draws a smile onto her weary lips, almost but not quite. When she moves again, it is to push Michael closer to the cushioned bed, maneuvering him next to it and then abandoning him just as he left her so many moons ago. Circling around to the other side, she settles onto the mass of it, pulling soft blankets over her shoulders, draping the many colors of them hidden under a larger quilt until it looks more like some strange circus tent than a girl's bed.
Looking to him once she's safely tucked behind her shields, she asks "Why have you come back? Truly?" And she begs for honesty with her golden eyes, pleads to his own pale blue gaze for a sliver of the truth, for a grain to swallow that would fill the void that only grows and gnaws at her as any starving beast does when left untended too long.
She hates not knowing, not when she's so invested in something, not when she cares as she seems to now. Something that is hers left, something sadder returned and she wants to know why. Here, where she cannot run, she seeks the truth at last.
"Speech"
Sadness is like an oil spill over the water, hiding everything beneath, shielding her, spreading. It is hard to contain, even harder to hold back. Her own brow furrows like an inchworm, her shoulders drooping as she shakes her head.
This is not who she is.
Moira is not involved. Is she?
"She got tired of my moping," the Emissary replies, sticking her tongue out at the door, sending that image to her beloved tigress and feeling a disgruntled huff in return. That almost draws a smile onto her weary lips, almost but not quite. When she moves again, it is to push Michael closer to the cushioned bed, maneuvering him next to it and then abandoning him just as he left her so many moons ago. Circling around to the other side, she settles onto the mass of it, pulling soft blankets over her shoulders, draping the many colors of them hidden under a larger quilt until it looks more like some strange circus tent than a girl's bed.
Looking to him once she's safely tucked behind her shields, she asks "Why have you come back? Truly?" And she begs for honesty with her golden eyes, pleads to his own pale blue gaze for a sliver of the truth, for a grain to swallow that would fill the void that only grows and gnaws at her as any starving beast does when left untended too long.
She hates not knowing, not when she's so invested in something, not when she cares as she seems to now. Something that is hers left, something sadder returned and she wants to know why. Here, where she cannot run, she seeks the truth at last.
