she looks into her mirror, wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Petals fall from trees, float off of flowers like raindrops, and through it all Moira wears a smile. Paint is washed from her skin, the water pours in cool waves over her face, her arms, until only the ghost of a rainbow and passion are left to tell others of her heart now back on a canvas. Sweet breads are offered, cake stands proudly on tables with drinks for all to partake of, and Moira pulls a slice and glass towards herself.
Life is too short to not enjoy the little things.
Having seen her cousins die too young, having caught a sickness that even her instructor could not heal, she has suffered alongside them. From their death, she learned to appreciate life more fully despite having closed off too many to count.
A sigh slips from her at last as she looks about, wondering what Asterion has gotten himself up to. After their departure, she slipped away to paint and let her heart bleed out in reds and blues and purples. Upon her neck, a small patch of indigo still remains, as though smeared while deep in thought and missed upon cleaning. The ends of her hair are tinted white from stars too brilliant, too bright. Smiling, she remembers the shooting star now drying on the canvas and hopes that leaves have not gotten stuck to the surface. Perhaps the man of twilight and midnight dreams, of sea songs and starlight would like the painting of this life, or perhaps she'd burn it for the imperfections she could see. The Matron has burned many of Moira's paintings before, and with every crumpled, ashen painting and drawing that was not suitable, she felt her heart splinter and her spine stiffen. "You are a doctor," the Matron would say with cold eyes, remind Moira over and over what she'd worked so hard for. So they were put in trunks and hidden in attics, painted in the dark with only moonlight to guide nimble fingers as they worked for hours on end as though performing a surgery. Once it was finished, she would shred what was not good enough, what the Matron would tear apart, and destroy another hope, another dream, another fear given form.
Often times, Moira painted fire and chains, other times she'd paint the rose bushes in the gardens, the tulips in the window boxes, and portraits of family members. The twins often found their way into her paintings, flinging mud from balconies, pushing one another into ponds full of lily pads and frogs. They brought light into her life. It was these precious moments she's saved. And now, at the heart of the painting full or light and dark, a clashing of two worlds, Estelle sits in all her silver glory with a cloak of emerald and eyes of scorn. Would she be upset with Moira, or happy for her?
She bites her lip in the place that's been worn so thin, so raw still from the last time it'd bled with her inquietude. Only when the pain lashes from her lip to her neck and down her spine does she let it go. Turning with her drink floating nearby, the phoenix runs smack dab into the side of another. With a gasp her drink falls to the ground, her flower crown she'd asked for so that Asterion would look losing petals in the collision, and her cake smeared down the side of her wing tucked against her ribs to appear as though they do not exist. Horrified, she takes a startled step back, shaking her head and looking at the mess. "Are you alright? I didn't mean to, oh... I'm so sorry. Let me help clean up my mess. I'm sorry," stumbling over words, her soft voice wilts with every syllable. Like little lights blinking out, if you look in her eyes you can see the stars dying. And it had been such a good day until now.
The night is dying, at long last, and the thing that blooms in Bexley’s chest is undoubtedly relief. She feels the ache of a long travel in her bones like a drumbeat; her muscles whine with each extended stride. For quite a while the festival kept her sated, kept her always balancing on a high, always full of energy as she whirled from one stall to the next, from one merchant to another, from band to dancer to artist - celebrations have always been her weak spot - but now more than one serving of sweet mead fizzles in her veins, warm and numbing, and the music is starting to quiet, and Bexley is fighting to keep a smile on her face as she wanders the festival in search of somewhere quiet.
Still, the crown of waxy plumerias rests comfortably on her head, and her eyes glitter with something justifiably dangerous. Not even exhaustion can rip Bexley’s sharpness from her. Head dropped close to her chest, she weaves snakelike through the crowds, beautiful but, for once, quiet. Those already familiar with the Solterran would find such inaction strange, and it is for this exact reason that she thanks Solis, quietly, for setting her far away from anything close to a friend. Thank you for leaving me alone. Tonight is for strangers. For acquaintances at the very most. For untapped opportunity, for the feeling of sinking into something, somewhere new, no matter how fleetingly nervous it might make her, no matter how strange she might seem, slinking alone through the crush of people with purpose but with no aim.
Not that her strangeness bothers her much at this bound.
She hears a pocket of quiet open up somewhere to her left, and Bexley’s head jerks up to seek it out, white curls erupting around her in a maelstrom. The moon-silver scar on her face bursts into vision. With predatory precision she zeroes in on the slice of empty field, just barely visible over the heads of the dissippating crowd, and, breathing out a brief sigh of satisfaction, pushes toward it -
Only to be knocked nearly off her feet by a bodily weight crashing against her ribs. Letting out an involuntary squeal of surprise, she ducks sideways, leaning in and out in an attempt to regain balance, and in the flurry of a few quick steps manages to stand up straight again, this time planted firmly in place. Annoyance already hot in her blood, the golden girl whips around to catch whoever has the gall to nearly run her over, and, flush with characteristic Solterran anger, she’s already poised to speak when she meets the eyes of the perpetrator. But just as quickly as her jaw snaps open, it shuts again.
Whatever she was expecting, this was not it. She feels guilty, now, for even thinking of snapping at such a stranger: small, unthreatening, dulcet, the ringlets of her hair doll-like, the gaze that looks back at Bexley far too soft and starry to ruin.
Bex's heart slows. Perhaps it calms. She swallows her anger, pushes it deep. Accidents happen. From the Regent's mouth, it seems almost sarcastic, but still there is a cool, genuine curiosity in her eyes as she watches the stranger, noting the paint that freckles her skin and hair, the cake crushed against her wing, which Bex frowns at. There's water over there, she starts, head jerking toward a nearby well. I can help you clean up. And clean myself up while I'm at it - she adds, glancing down to find an icy trickle of Moira's drink running down her leg.
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
All of her paintings turn to ash in her head when she looks at the women who is more a living flame than the Pegasus will ever be - confined to a body too small, too expressive, just too much for it to hold so much fire within. She sees hair flying, brows drawn and teeth bared. She sees harsh movements, she hears the squeal of shock, the stumbling of feet. And then she turns her head to meet eyes softening, anger fading as some other emotion that Moira knows too well bubbles to the front. Square shoulders meet square shoulders, lilting words rush to meet red-tipped ears that are on fire for every reason but what color they were painted at birth.
Although the phoenix does not know what she expected, it is not the cool, delectable words that rumble out as more of a sarcastic growl than anything. Surprise raises her brows high, and still they inch higher as Bexley offers to help clean up. It is not her job, after all, to help a clumsy little waif like herself. Grateful, Moira nods. "You'd never know I can stitch up a wound without a patient hardly feeling a prick with how clumsy I am here, would you?" Wryly, she attempts humor, glancing from under her curls to the woman who seems to stand so much taller than she. Is it her personality? Moira could feel it from a mile away, and for that she chides herself even more for the mess she's made.
Maybe a new friend will come of it.
Hope lifts her heavy heart once more, and a grin falls into place. Not the half-cocked thing she offers so many times - something distant and concerned as any medical professional should be - no, it's real and alive and full of those secrets and dreams she's never really said aloud. With the accidental collision, a new hope is born.
"I'm Moira Tonnerre and at your mercy for directions. I once got lost on my way home and ended up in some desert. They have the most charming insomniacs though," light laughter follows as she thinks of Eik once more. He should be featured, she thinks, in some painting or another. Perhaps he would stand tall over the sun with this golden woman beside him. Silver and gold, like night and day, reigning supreme in a world of fire and sand and falling petals that turn to ash. How pretty it would be, but she'll have to find the time for that later. Turning outward once more, yellow eyes seek blue, then look further to pinks and whites and golds upon Bexley's head. On a lesser woman it could have been intimidating, something so bold and bright, yet on Bexley it seems to fit. She's already larger than life, and the diadem is perfect to showcase such a gem.
Under a thick mat of lashes, the Regent’s blue gaze grows cool and almost bemused as she waits so many long, long moments for Moira to speak, for an acknowledgment, for a reaction. Yet the world is quiet around them. Heartbeats pass in stunning silence. The girl stares and stares and stares, and Bexley stares right back. All her life these kinds of looks (and kinds even worse) have followed her, sometimes from friends, more often from strangers, and the warm weight of Moira’s yellow gaze - as unfamiliar as it is - doesn’t have the same effect on Bex as it might on a lesser woman.
Then the girl nods, and the faint smile washed across Bexley’s lips deepens slightly. I’m sure you are, she agrees with a dry edge of humor, Though, truly, I hope I never have to bear witness to you proving it. The comment might’ve come off bitter if it wasn’t accompanied by a quick, almost-flirtatious wink, one that Bex offers with a practiced casualness before turning, in an elegant arc, toward the well. In the corner of her eye, she sees the smile on Moira’s face, and it almost mirrors the one on her own.
It’s been weeks - months, maybe - since any interaction came as easy as this one. Since her promotion, even the most basic tasks have become infuriatingly difficult. Bex has turned from a social butterfly into something cocooned and near-militaristic, totally conscious of the target on her back, the anger in her blood, the weight of the Day Court’s future slung across her shoulders, and now is the first time in forever that she feels that weight torn away. Instead of war and betrayal and the scent of smoldering wood, Bexley is thinking simply of the flickering torchlight overhead, incense and light harp floating through the air, and the girl at her hip, so beautiful and trouble-free.
What a relief.
A desert! Bexley responds in light surprise, head turning over her shoulder to catch her company’s gaze. She raises a brow. It wouldn’t happen to be the Mors, would it? I happen to know our insomniacs very well. Something like humor puts a lace edge in her voice. She turns forward again, moving in a casual saunter through the dissipating crowd. The night is growing darker, and in it Bexley is a gilded flame, slipping easily in and out of the insubstantial shadows: still her eyes, that fervid blue, glow like lanterns in the dimness. I’m Bexley Briar. Nice to meet you, Moira.
With that she draws to a stop and begins to wash the stains from her skin.
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
There would be a frown on Moira's carmine face now were she not looking at Bexley's own mirrored reflection. Corners of golden lips turn upward, eyes tilt and the creases about them tell the truth of it all - she is just as amused as Moira is about the whole of the situation and winks. Words have hardly faded between them before the phoenix woman jumps to her own rescue, choosing to defend her noble practice as best she can when she's so near laughter already after moments of nostalgia and sadness passed. "You'd be in good hands, if it were ever you. I won't say we're friends because we've just met, but even so there is no suffering under my care. What's best yet, I'd even sneak you caramel treats." And with that she does laugh, the little strands of silver hair curled just so flies as she tosses her head. Moments pass, her heart beats furiously, and there is a stain upon her cheeks hidden by the crimson. Lucky her she is painted as a sunset or her new companion might see how easily she is wearing her heart on her sleeve.
The heart is a dangerous thing though, something to be treasured and hidden, not a toy to be sewn to cuffs and pinned proudly for all to see. Tonight, on this night of smoke and mirrors and celebrations, she's forgotten that most important lesson. It's almost nice to feel so freely with someone - even if the cake did ruin everything at first.
Instinctively Moira falls into step alongside Bexley, letting the other woman go but a step ahead to guide her toward the pool that would cleanse all but the hardest stains from their skin. Walking alongside her, she almost feels like she's in the halls as a girl. There, she was to be seen, not heard. Her voice was a silent thing, like a caged bird who could not sing for its tongue was tied and eyes were blind. She sees this and then lets it drift off, go with the clouds that gather overhead, pushes it into the depths once more where it can fester and dwell and become a writhing thing too long ignored. It will not trouble her tonight. After all, even Asterion told her tonight is not a night for sorrows. With a stiff upper lip, the phoenix woman turns towards the harps that play, towards the gentle strumming that pulls her nearer, brushes alongside Bexley as she does so.
A furious blush crawls up along her throat until it is a fire upon her face.
Grinning at the ground, she's quick to nod at the ashy words thrown her way. "My geographical skills are rather abysmal, and the names of them even moreso. But I met a man of snow and dust there, we played a game. He's quite curious, Eik is... I think he's sweet. Someday, I intend to paint him."
Only by the blue of Bexley's eyes does Moira manage to follow through the shadows that deepen about them, cutting them off from the others who slip toward the stages, meander about the crowds. Should her heart fill with fear or exhilieration? Should she follow so close to a stranger so that she could rech forward and touch her or leave and make her own path? But surely something so awful wouldn't happen at a celebration. No poison has yet to pass her lips, and there have been no bodies upon the ground. So it's safe, she decides, and pulls herself up to Bexley's side once more in time to catch her name. "Bexley Briar," Moira murmurs, tasting the syllables, dissecting them as you would an insect to learn how it flies, and finding them rather appealing. "Is it nice, even after drink and cake? Let me help you wash," moving near to the water she guides it, pressing it upon Bex's arm until it is a swirling mass. The push and pull is easy for Moira, for she's cleaned a million gashes, enough to last a lifetime. She's learned the way to roll it over your skin and pull away the droplets, to feed the plants with sullied water and not the others in her family. And so she helps, thoughtlessly, letting the cake dry on her own skin until the task at hand is finished.
Only when red is washed from gold, when the fiery woman is dry once more, when they are inches apart, does Moira let the water fall to the ground and offer that kind smile. "There, like it never happened right?"
Moira’s laugh sparks something like warmth in Bexley’s chest, and it even glimmers in that usually-icy blue gaze as she gazes at the Denoctian, a slow, burning kindness that very few are lucky enough to see. As they walk and the jasmine scent of Moira’s homeland floats through the air around them, Bexley pushes her questions to the back of her tongue - do you know Reichenbach? How is he doing? Has any of the Night Court noticed Acton’s leaving? - but they are not friends, Moira said so herself, and besides all that, the title of Regent lays heavy across her shoulders, holds her back from asking too many questions about the Night Court.
It might look suspicious, now, if she were to dig too deep. Nevermind her and Reich’s meeting on the plains in Ruris, the first person she ever came across in Novus - nevermind her heartbeat and how it quickens in her chest when she thinks of Acton trailing her out of Denocte.
Never mind all of it.
Eik, she repeats. A specter of a smile crosses her ivory lips, and she glances at Moira sideways, coy through those dark-stained lashes. He’s a kind man. Hopefully your painting will do him justice - and with that she tilts her head, smile curling into more of a smirk, cool humor painting her voice, and can only hope that Moira recognizes the joke inside of it, the element of teasing. Bexley has little doubts that the girl is probably a talented artist, but it’s in her nature to approach comments like that with some measure of skepticism.
By the time they come to a stop outside the well, Bexley’s trepidation has been replaced with a faint admiration of this girl - heart on her sleeve, both wild and charming, and unfettered by the chaos around them, never mind the embarrassment that brought the two of them together. It takes courage, she thinks, not to plan your every move. Not to think too hard about how you come off. Not to put so much emphasis on each and every curl, not to measure steps, not to wait, to wonder, to calculate. For all her confidence, that easy carelessness is something she’s never quite been able to grasp.
Like it never happened, Bex muses in agreement. She glances down at the lack of space between them, feels the heat of Moira’s skin almost pressing against her own, and, except for a dark, casually brow-raised glance at the silver-haired girl, doesn’t remark upon it. You are good.
"You tease, Bexley Briar" Moira breathes out, soft as a dandelion being blown, laughter evident around the edges of every syllable. She likes saying the lion woman's name. It rolls smoothly like a rich glass of scotch, easy to swallow, easier to let it slip out. Still, for a moment she wonders if she can do him justice? Eik is a complicated conglomeration of white and gold and red and gray; a storm on a sunny day, a man of many colors who wears silver the best. He'd look good in a suit, she thinks, pondering if he should have clothes in the image. But no - that would simply be too much. In all his simplicity, he would make a fine subject for a king. "You know Eik then? I think he's quite charming." Thoughtfully she sucks on her lip, looking into blue eyes that seem to have softened since they first met.
They are so close, the phoenix woman can feel herself blushing furiously at Bexley's next words, wonders if she can see it on her own face too. If she listens closely enough, she's curious to know if she could hear what's running through that blond head. Logically, the woman within her that believes wholeheartedly in sciences, that has given her life to the study of life and the cause to further it, knows that this is not possible. But the dreamer, the child, the artist that breathes just as much as the more logical part cannot help but to let itself be known. "Practice helps," she murmurs at last, smiling like the cheeky, young girl that she is. "I can teach you." The honesty, the earnestness - it's all there in the simmering look she offers back.
With another blush, the moment has passed and Moira Tonnerre moves herself away from Bexley's side, quickly settling beside the well once more to draw up the cool water to wash her own skin. It spills like milk and honey over her wing that is gingerly (loathsome and terribly) stretched out. The movement is so foreign, and it is easy to tell that the appendages make her off-balanced. Unlike others who were born for the skies, she does not know how to use her own wings, how to feel comfortable within her own skin despite the confidence she feigns.
In all parts of her life, Moira sought to be an expert and in control. In all parts, that is, save for one that is as much a part of her as the air she breathes.
With her wing wobbling, seeming as new as a newborn chick's, she begins to push the water over each feather. Gentle are her movements as she holds in a cringe, two, and then more. Touch is still hard, a foreign thing. Estelle is the only one who dared nestle close when they were girls. Even her parents did not touch her wings, let them become as alien to her as she was in Novus when first coming here. For a moment, Bexley is gone and the ice is back, the chains are back, the fire is nipping at her feathertips. And how it stings as the night does not, pulls a gasp out, a startled breath, until she's wide eyed and apologetic. "What made your temper fall before - when you were ready to strike but found me instead of your attacker?" A distraction from the sensation washing through her wings as much as it is a way to start a new conversation, Moira finds herself looking imploringly to Bexley again.
Quite charming. When Eik’s name comes up, Bexley thinks back to their first meeting and smiles. How young was she then? No scar, no guilt, no court title slung across her back like a drowning-weight - before either of them had fallen into the wasp-infested nest of Novus politics and were simply two Solterrans new to their own home, exchanging stories across the just-rippling surface of the oasis. When they cross paths now, this is still the scene she thinks of, backlit by a bleeding sun and the promise of something new.
Charming, she repeats. Sure. Maybe not the first word Bexley herself would have picked, but the more she thinks back on her meeting with the Emissary, the more she falls into the trap of agreement. Charming, indeed, in his own strange way. His unapologetic strangeness and the gossamer way he spins otherworldly stories with less effort than it takes to fold a blanket. Moira is charming, too - but somehow, her charisma shows itself quite different than the way one could find it in Eik’s quiet masculinity, or the Regent’s own brand of flirtatious vitality. Something more muted and genuinely beautiful. Bex watches the gentle lines of her face with something like admiration, wondering if she has ever been as soft as Moira is now.
So caught is she in her own thoughts that she hardly notices Moira cleaning up her own spill. The lilting, honeybee-hum of music around them makes Bexley’s pulse slow, calms her overactive brain, pulls a quietness from the place in her heart that is usually loud and reckless; the smell of incense and food fills the air, and it is so familiar, so safe, that Bex can’t help but fall into the atmosphere head-first. Parties have always been her solace, able to drown her in soft lights and warmth, to consume her worries in a way nothing else can. But then the Decoctian speaks, breaking the quiet between them in that bell-ring of a voice, and Bexley startles back to wakefulness.
Her gaze flicks upward in an attempt to meet Moira’s, but it is too-quickly distracted by the sight of a red wing unfurled. Bex raises a brow in quiet surprise. Moira is, perhaps, the first pegasus she’s seen who’s done a good job pretending to be something she isn’t; most of them, at least the ones Bexley’s had the good luck to encounter, have always been far too proud of their heritage, too puffed up with the freedom their wings bring and always proud of how easy it is to use them, but Moira seems… the opposite. Completely. Her wing trembles like a newborn child's.
Would it be rude to remark upon it? There’s another question to be answered, anyway - Would’ve ruined the party mood, Bex responds at last. It’s said half-seriously and half-smirking. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be blamed for starting a brawl, at least around this many people. You don’t use your wings often. The addition is tossed out casually, as if an afterthought to her own opinions, but the intelligent glint in Bexley’s eyes says even her most nonchalant moves might be calculated.
A furious blush, an embarrassment running wider than the world, a loathsome, dark look at the ground. Moira is taken off guard by the final statement. She coughs, choking on air for but a moment, afraid she might have to talk again as she did to Caine that horrid night so long ago. Or was it recent still? Unable to recall when exactly, unwilling to let that fight, that untamed fury roll onto her skin as rain does when the sun refuses to show its brilliant face, she offers instead a small shake of her head.
Curls bounce, but even they seem to have fallen more limp with the inquiry. It's as though she's placed before a firing squad with all laser pointers aimed at her heart. And what a pathetic thing it is - left to bleed and be patched up with band-aids covered in hearts in hopes for happier days. An aching, pulpy mess that won't quite let her wash away the sins of her family - the sins of her parents and her very conception, making her wish for the purity that the golden lion-girl before her has and doesn't even realize. Bexley is a creature so beautiful it fills Moira with both jealousy and admiration. The way she so easily holds herself tall, as proud as any King before. The way she is in completely control of every little aspect of herself - or so it seems. Everything about the regent is enviable.
"I've never used them," the phoenix woman croaks at last. Words taste like ash in her mouth - bitter remnants of the past still stuck in her teeth, loose shrapnel she's unable to swallow down or take in stride. An ugly duckling in her family, set up to take every fall, put on display as the fool to gawk and laugh at. It all tumbles in and out of her mind, even as she forces herself to shrug as though it means nothing, even as the pain threatens to swallow the lightness of those amber eyes that before danced so easily for the lion-girl.
"Lucky you, I was not raised for brawling. That, I'm afraid, is an acquired art form I never mastered nor learned. Do you brawl often, or are parties more your style?"
Where before it was so simple, so easy to meet lightning blue eyes, now she looks everywhere but them. Cornflower hair hangs long on her. Such a lovely mane and tail, too. it would be beautiful with more than the crown of flowers that so easily sits atop her head. But even that simple thing is rather becoming. Through it all, despite the pushing and finagling for information, no matter the circumstances and the scar upon the other woman's face, Moira finds her lovely. Like a flower that is yet to blossom, a youth still uncouth and learning the ways of the world, and a woman far too much like a flame than would ever be appropriate, Bexley is eternally mercurial and drawing the phoenix back again.
Almost immediately Bex senses a shift in the atmosphere. Every part of Moira’s face falls; her wing drops; even her hair seems to flatten as her hair drops and she chokes on air, so obviously flustered and caught off-guard that the Solterran feels guilty for asking, something she hasn’t felt in a long while. But underneath that guilt curiosity still roils, and she can’t help looking at Moira with a careful pin-prick gaze, unnaturally sharp and watchful.
I’ve never used them, the Denoctian admits, and Bexley is not even a little bit surprised. In that moment she wonders why but stifles her nosiness at least enough not to ask out loud; she wonders why, if she were blessed with the option of flight, the idea of a soaring freedom, she wouldn’t use it. Perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side and Bexley is simply glamorizing a life she’ll never be privileged enough to know. But there’s no way to find out, is there? Especially when Moira’s already changed the subject, a subtle tactician angling away from the source of her anxieties.
Good for her.
Oh, they’re the same, really. A salacious, wicked smile crosses Bexley’s face as she explains it away matter-of-factly, eyes drifting upward to the white spattering of stars and dim clouds overhead. Parties and brawls. All about practice, you know - being charming or being smart, or both. She levels a warm gaze at Moira, as if to say it’s something the girl should know already. For Bex it is simply an end product of experience, a philosophy she’s known since childhood, thanks to her family, her homeland, her ingrown desire for luxury, champagne, friends and lovers -
For a moment her blue eyes lose focus, swallowed up by the starlight. But she returns to her body in half a moment and tilts her head at Moira in subtle teasing, brow raised with an expression of muted curiosity.
