Isra of the wordless tale
“I can't go on, I'll go on.”
Of course she is in the room that looks like the sea.
Everyone is looking for her in the gardens, at the mask covered tables or perhaps in a corner weaving a story to anyone brave enough to listen. Only those who know her closely might thing to look here, but tonight they are all off weaving their own adventures.
Tonight Isra is alone.
Although perhaps, she thinks, this room feels a little like home and a little like drowning in gold and green and strange, shifting light. The silk winding about her neck (hiding the still there wounds) and flowing down over her shoulders before pooling at her side looks as if it is made from the walls of this room. Each stitch glitters in the low-light, and there are a million of them, and each stitch curves to make a scale. The sheer fabric ripples like fish-skin as she moves beneath the hanging aquariums.
Each ring of her hooves across the marble rings like a bell. She fills the room with a melody that only she knows the words too. Over and over she moves between the walls with the light streaming through the suspended orbs of water reflecting on her horn. Eventually she starts to hum a low, sad tune and her skin feels alive with the electricity of it.
Isra hums and thinks of the sun and how a dune of sand might swelter and burn beneath it. She thinks of metal flowers and blood as red, red, red as the color of her heart. Ghosts, dragons, thunderbirds and drowning: she thinks of so many things and each makes her tune a slower and lower. A tear falls down and glistens faintly on the fabric rippled around her hooves and her dance falters just a little.
“How strange,” she sobs to the quiet room with only fish to keep her company,. “that I have no words for this story.” There is nothing here but shadows and scale to answer her back, not that Isra expected any reply at all.
But then, there is the sound of hoof-steps in the hallway and she blinks back her sorrow and her song and tries so very hard to look like a queen instead of a unicorn hiding the mark of teeth across her throat.
Doubt never darkens horizons so lit with the bright light of a life devoted to others. Moira does not know what it is to regret the decisions she's made to be a healer, to save a life rather than take it, to feel the blood upon her hands and bathe in it until all filth and grime and stains are washed from her patient's being. But times like these, she wonders what it would be like to have chosen something her mother once enjoyed.
Gizelle Tonnerre. Not a Tonnerre by blood, merely the aristocratic daughter from the kingdom over - the kingdom with winged creatures and their floating houses and castles, the kingdom of artistry and beauty and laughter, the kingdom that never slept when the moon was high. Passion was a fire in her blood, pushed the drumming of her heart ever faster, further along. How she once would weave between the Estate's pillars in a merry stream of scarves that would fly about her as though lifted by invisible hands! Moira remembers when her mother would still paint and come to read stories covered in colors that she could not yet name as a girl. Surfacing still are the gowns and gypsy attire that Gizelle once wore when she flew across the stage to perform for the great family.
All watched her mother, and while they did not like her for her wings, her talent was unequivocal.
Music is a thrumming in Moira's own heart, stroking the strings until she moves and sways with the sun and moon left upon her face from a young prince still so gentle in his youth. As the halls pass her by, the sounds follow her like a shadow, clinging to her like a second skin unwilling to be removed.
She remembers another festival full of laughter and dancing. There, flowers were woven into her hair and a starry eyed man stood beside her. Sweet wine tasted like sugar on her tongue and only the stars remained sober and bright enough to ever see her secrets and sins. Here, corridors block out the moonlight, but rooms and mazes are set up to enthrall and wow any who visit their home.
If Thunderbirds did not kill their brave and brazen court, then a gala where gypsies that Gizelle would adore and hearts sigh happily should be the least of her concerns.
She roams like a ghost through the halls, dodging away from the crowds that laugh and bellow, the bonfires blazing into the night, the tinkling of glasses and jewelry alike, to breathe for a moment in solitude and contemplation. Rumors flew more swiftly that the swallows when Springtime comes, and breezily her mind floats to the unicorn who fell asleep in a pile of rags and stories with her. Isra. Her sweet Isra had been attacked - that's what her court says. A throat now raw and red, a wound she tended to just hours after it happened to stave off infection. Oh, she's been so careful when dressing it and applying her salves, never ready to disrupt the calming complexion of Denocte's mighty queen.
Tonight, she should have gone to clean it once more, but Moira had been pulled in too soon by little Reggie and Milo before she could make her rounds for the day. Now, it is the sound of tears and bittersweet sorrow that guide her to a door.
Upon the frame whirlpools and dolphins play, dancing in the woodwork, a living story before her eyes. Of course the absent queen would be within these walls where the sea calls to her soul. In a way, Isra reminds the phoenix woman of Asterion - both drawn to the sea, both stormy and soft in equal measure, both so dear to her heart she could burst from it all. Slowly the Tonnerre child opens the door, pushing inward until she gasps at the floating ponds with koi and goldfish staring back at her. Among it all, through distortions of water and moonlight, Isra stands with a brightness to her eyes that betrays her.
How the Pegasus rushes forward! Red in the room, burnt orange upon the ground, a sunset flying to meet the night and embrace it so tenderly with wings hesitantly folding about them once more. Only with Isra does she let her wings move, allow them to flex and extend without fear or reprimand. There are no words as the healer holds her queen, nothing but a soft sigh and a kiss to her cheek.
"I never saw to your throat today," is all that she offers, brows raising infinitesimally. But she does not pull back or withdraw from the embrace, does not comment on the sadness which is a perfume upon the air. A healer does not pry like that, they do what is necessary for their patient with what they know is wrong. If comfort is all she can provide, then comfort shall be given. After all, even the strongest of stones erode with the passing of time.
Isra dressed in sea-light and sea-foam
“If I let you I think you would treat my heart tenderly.”
There is still that sad song tingling on her lips and sorrow whispering below her eyes like a glittering sea. But when Moira is the one to walk into the room her sorrow and her sadness disintegrates into joy and something hot, like hope, like young fire. Isra looks at her and thinks that sadly they are becoming relics, the last of the ones left to whisper of floods and birds and gods who break their hearts with betrayals.
And if the sea of sorrow below her eyes rises like a tide, who can blame her?
The distance between them quickly whittles down to nothing more than a breadth of heat and fondness. Each feather whispering against her skin feels like a prayer, a thing whispered to Caligo that says, we have this still, no matter how shattered you left our hearts and our hopes. Isra turns and buries her nose in sunset feathers. She ignores how the movement stretches and pulls as scabs and fresh scars.
“Always worried about everyone but yourself.” Fondness turns her smile into a bright, moonlit thing. All the bright bowls of fish and silver orbs seems pale in comparison to the thing that lives in her gaze. Another sort of love, she thinks, another thing to bank the rage instead of fuel it. There is very little fury left in her now, the last of it drained away by her red and black and golden friend.
A harp song pours faintly in from the crack in the door and the places where the stones in the wall don't quite meet evenly. At her back the night goes on, draping the room in moonlight and sea-light and a song soft enough to sound like the shore. It's almost easy to glaze over the salt stains around their hooves, easier still when each bit of earth touching Isra's hooves turns to grass stalks made of silk.
“My injuries are fine for the night, Moira.” Her lips brush sweetly against the healer's dainty cheek. A hair tickles her nose and she sneezes before tucking the wild strand behind Moira's ear. “Tonight is for dreaming and wonder.” The moon shifts behind a cloud and the scaled curtains turn black as space and they only light between them is candle-light and sea-light and Isra chuckles.
Even inside they cannot hide from the night.
“Tell me what your perfect night looks like and I shall see it happen.” Something bright and playful sparks in her eyes as Fable flies through the door to land across her back. Her spine bows slightly under the weight of him, but her hooves still feel light as air as she dances away from sunset feathers into the kaleidoscope of blue and silver light floating over them.
Tonight is for dreams and Isra knows, when the ground changes to moonstone and glass and feathers rising up like weeds, there is nothing she cannot create for Moira.
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Pursed lips meet stubborn eyes as a brow raises, as the woman finally clicks her tongue and shakes her head with a small smile upon her lips. The rage, the pain, all of it is washed from Isra's sweet eyes once more an they begin to dance, to simply glow with life and possibilities and mischief. Like schoolgirls, like crib-mates, they fall against one another as even the walls darken with all the familiarity their worlds have to offer. A streaking creature swoops in, dancing on the air as Moira once danced in towering halls with chandeliers high above that seemed to simply be suspended with nothing. Perhaps it was magic that put together those grand balls, the great debut every season for those who were eligible, the fond memories of insidious chatter and bubbling laughter. Quick as an adder it takes shelter atop Isra, her queen carrying the weight of her companion with all the grace and dignity that is expected of the position.
Humming she watches Isra go, silently letting her know that before the night is through her wound will be tended to one way or another. When there are those who are sick and needing cared for, Moira will not rest until every last one is seen.
Still, temptation nips at her, lingers on her fingertips as she thinks of the stories she's heard, the many places she's read of yet never seen. Caught up on the homeland her mother told her of, the city in the clouds, the phoenix can't quite get the image out of her head. At last she sighs, eyes closed and head tilted up in thought. "There are clouds and birdsong and koi ponds. Cobbled streets line great avenues in the sky that lead off into nothing but mist and mystery. A glass spire is at the center; a beacon, a haven, a home. There is laughter that dances on crystal shops and everyone wears wings or horns or puts on magic like a new set of gloves. Artists line the corners and streets, peddling their silks and sweets alike. No one wears any shame, they do not show their sorrow - only pure, unfiltered joy works as the gravity which holds them all together."
When she comes up for air, the silver balls before her sparkle like the tears upon her cheeks. How long has it been since she last kissed her mother's cheek? Was Gizelle still well or had she fallen so far into a decline that even the pepper-uppers stopped working? Moira smiles through the tears, laughs and looks to the ground, brushes them onto her shoulder as though they mean nothing. "It is the place my mother once called home, a place where only those with wings or magic may enter, a place where an artist might go to find a kindred soul, a place where peace is valued despite the war and disdain for land dwellers who cannot reach their heights. It is where she once was happy," the Pegasus offers as an explanation.
After a breath, two, she paces, turning toward a wall that shivers with color and indecision, watches as it tries to read her and fails. At last it settles on some foggy scene, a pool with twin boys smiling her way, a silver man holding his bag full of tools, a red woman and pale gentleman side by side and somber. Beside them all, coming forward is Estelle. Lightning dances beneath her feet, her smile is broader than any she's seen here in Denocte or all of Novus, and the color of her cheeks as a blushing maiden only go to make Moira laugh and mourn her cousin. Much like the silver woman, Isra calms the Pegasus and pulls her from her reveries, insists she turn to see the wonders freely offered, gifts given from the heart with no strings attached.
So she turns and gasps at the splendors before her.
Isra of the glass spire
“Now the night's breath responds to the sea, which I can scarcely hear from here, as it reminisces about its shipwrecks.”
Isra is learning to treasure the bits of history that pour from Moira with her tears. Each word is a broken bit of wonder, of hope, of a world that was as flawed as it was lovely. She cannot help but to think of her own city, her own palace full of wonder and pray that all the horses see it as a peace offering for charred mountains and homes ruined by the gods.
There is only thing in the world Isra would hoard, only one stain on her soul in the color of avarice (and that stain is gray, gray, gray).
She gathers what tears she can from Moira's face before she dashes them on her wings. Each tear the queen touches turns to a diamond, so that her friend isn't shedding sorrow but wealth enough to feed a city. It's a promise too, wordless, but one that says I will take all your tears and heal them. Isra will make Denocte whole again through the wealth of their sorrows and their brokenness.
She has more than stories to give them now.
Fable alights from her back and twines himself around Moira's legs. His wings are cool, like moonlight and sea-foam given flesh and form. He moves between the two mares and makes another knot between them, another link, another bond.
Watching Fable twine around Moira is all the answer she needs to a question she didn't know she was waiting to ask.
“We could make Dencote like that place. We could have spires of light, and art enough to crack even the hardest of souls. We could have peace with none of the disdain or war.” This she says after her friend has pulled away to pace. In between each of her words Isra steps towards the wall and towards the darkness still lingering there.
Isra lays her check against the stone and it turns to glass, a spire made of glass and light that makes even the moonlight look pale. And when Moira turns back to her Isra only smiles and laughs brightly, like all her joy has finally cracked out and drowned all the fury and sadness. “We could have it all, if only you'll help me.” She moves to close the distance between them and Fable moves too so that he is between the two mores.
Her touch is gentle when she brushes it against the hollow of Moira's cheek. It's full of promise and hope and her eyes blaze brighter than the sun on a summer sea. “Will you be my emissary, Moira?” Isra holds her breath, waiting.
Fable fills the weighty silence with a happy purr (as happy as a dragon can sound).
Interlocked, interwoven, they are two pale threads in a grand tapestry unwinding about them, the weavers still weaving and their lives still lengthening. Diamonds sparkle as they fall to the ground, bouncing below their feet and quickly forgotten as the young drake ties them together in another sweeping, intricate knot that is just as unbreakable as Moira's adoration, love and devotion the unicorn. Slowly her eyes widen, honey and ochre brightening until it seems they glow, glow with the magic and hope that Denocte represents. Glow with the hidden stories and long history outsiders do not yet know, are not allowed to learn of. Glow with the fires of a better future and the knowledge, the pure, unhindered belief that Isra will help raise them up.
Is this, the phoenix wonders, what it's like to be a part of something that is bigger, that loves you for you, that has seen your weaknesses and accepts you despite your shortcomings? Agitation, upended emotions, worry - all of it vanishes in a puff of laughter as the spire rises higher and higher, as Isra whispers quietly an offering.
The Empress stands before Moira as she is - the ruler of this wonderful place that has grown in the pegasus' heart. She stands before her as another woman, but more than that... Isra stands before the phoenix woman set ablaze in the purifying light of Gizelle's home as a dreamer and reaches back to offer her those same dreams. Dreams they will blaze and forge together, dreams that will coalesce in the beautiful tones of a symphony, dreams that will be as unending as the heavens above them even after Caligo's fall. Dreams... hopes that the Tonnerre child is eager to help make.
It is not sorrow that slips from her now but jubilation and merriment. It echoes off that glass spire and the walls unfolding in marvelous mutli-colors around them, bouncing from surface to surface like a singer's sultry yowl. With each echoing sound she nods, a smile warmer than the sun blossoming to match the beauty of her Empress.
Stepping forward, nearer her dearest companion in Denocte, the phoenix dips her head, bows low with the purr of the dragon to whom she wings. Upon raising, her head is tilted high, her eyes full of mischief and aspirations; when her voice rings out, it rings true and soft. A smoky sound, a grateful sound, but an acceptance nonetheless. "How can I deny one who offers something so wholesome? Isra of Denocte, Empress to the land I call home, and my dearest friend... Would you allow me, I will serve in your court as your Emissary. Together we shall welcome all the dreamers of Novus into a brighter world where there is no war, where sickness is wiped from the streets and where laughter rings as true as a person's heart. For as long as you'll have me, Empress Isra of Denocte, I will be your companion through this walk of our lives."
Isra who has learned to lie
“When truth is replaced by silence,the silence is a lie.”
There is a universe that is born in Isra the moment Moira bows. It sparks like star-fire and it's as cool as the moon (and as broad). Gravity pulls them closer and closer, the bright mare and the dirt-colored unicorn. It pulls them into they are not revolving around each other, but tangled and sinking together. It pulls them until there is no division between the two.
Isra has never had a sister, or a cousin. She has only ever known the bond between slaves forged in suffering and blood. Already she knows that to the death she will defend this fresh tether between the two of them-- the universe made of them, and moonlight, and nothing else. Her lips tilt in a smile brighter than that bright glass spire at their backs.
For a moment is is the brightest thing in the room. Isra is made lovelier for Moira's devotion (brighter still with her own devotion to her emissary). Tonight they are the things religions are made of-- gods of the night, and grace, and hope. Tonight they are a beginning.
“Until the end of time.” She says as she presses their noses together. At her hooves the stone glitters like gold and marble, and it shimmers like the night-sky. The brightness is a clever way to hide that smear of darkness that shifts across her eyes when Moira talks of war.
Isra doesn't have to heart to tell her that there is a small war she's looking for. A beast of violence is blooming in her heart. It grows as slowly as an oak, but each day there are more and more rings of rage circling her heart like a planet.
Fable brushes his head against her chest and says in that sea between them, the time has come to hunt. She blinks so that Moira will not see the flash of a monster in her heart.
And so she presses their noses together harder, wishing that they were exchanging innocence instead of touches and devotion. She wishes she could share her secrets, wishes that Moira would brush her hair from her face and deck her in armor and send her off to war with a smile. But only one of them in innocent now (although Isra pretends that for tonight she is).
“Tomorrow will we start,” She smiles and tries not to think how Fable feels like winter against her, and how something in her that knows how stories change whispers to her that she is lying. “after you dress my wounds.” Her wink hides the shiver of fear and worry running through her like lava.
Isra pulls away. “Fable's hungry. I will find you again after.” She lies, but she still looks back over her shoulder, just one single time. She can't keep the dark sadness from her eyes then nor the quake of her skin that feels like a ghost nipping at her skin.
we give everything for a glass of this, we give our minds for a sip.
S
he cannot know - does not know - the devastation to come, and so she smiles that tear-bright smile as Isra's nose presses against her own. As Eskimo kisses go, she rubs back and forth with all the gentleness of feathers on the wind, floating as though they are too light, too insignificant to matter yet possessing all the beauty of those dreams that fly, disconnected from everything but themselves. Their touches are reassuring, gentle things that ignite dreams and hope in her chest. Like a new spring, something soft begins to bud, begins to brighten and begins to bloom. Something more made for healing, something that cares. It is a creature she does not know, but a creature that the phoenix is almost eager to meet when so near a dreamer as the Queen of the land.
"Until the end, and even after," she says, resolute.
Too soon there is a great expanse between them as Fable calls Isra away, a gap that grows and grows despite the glitter and gold on the ground, despite the dreams and hopes between them that are so new to their lives. It is a beast of inky depths that rears, separating them by more than steps. The healer does not see the hunger for war growing in her queen's eyes, does not feel it in their bond that is not something of a family, but something deeper. Before Isra disappears completely, Moira sends those phantom hands forth.
So careful is she to cup her friend's face, staying far from the wound upon her neck that is yet to be seen to. Phantom fingers try to push strands of hair back behind dark ears, and Moira smiles that rare, shy grin that only Isra really gets to see. "Hurry back to me, Isra. The night is longer when you are away." And the confession has never been more true, for the storyteller forces the darkness from the corners and cleans cobwebs from halls ripe with mildew and growing things that she'd rather not explore.
With that parting smile, Moira dips her head and lets her queen go, turns to the orbs that float and dance, to the wall of light that reaches higher than it had before. She smiles and watches it ripple, watches as fire takes hold from her imagination, watches as everything in the room begins to burn until it is as black as that raging emptiness within.
@Isra | "speaks" | notes: a smol closer <3 let's thread again soon my dear
