At first, the golden girl, Solterra’s daughter, Moira’s beloved friend, sags and withdraws, sullen, seeping into herself, absorbing light and life from the world as though a black hole ready to devour, to consume, to become something rabid and alone. She is limp against the emissary’s side, and Moira cannot help but be concerned, but squeeze tight with gilded wing, press close flesh against flesh and withhold the tears that beg to surface, beg to run free into the world, beg so much that her voice falters for but a moment as she speaks of Estelle.
Then, it is not she, but Bexley Briar who rages forth, on a sob after a sigh, telling of all she’s lost. And Moira cannot blame her. And the world cannot fault her for her sorrow and fury. And so she lets Bexley simper, lets her refuse food for a moment, lets her feel the ugly parts of life that need not be closed off forever. Even the phoenix had to realize that, had to feel the burning sting across her face, let it drown her and carve her bones until they were hollow and decorated and beautiful but empty, let herself fall… And she fell. Gods above! How the phoenix fell and fell and fell until all that she was and all that she wanted and all she would become were shadows of who she is now.
If the sudden movement of a girl of fire, a girl trapped, a girl breaking through ice that’s caged her for so long after such a loss, startles the pegasus then Moira does little to show it. Slightly she withdraws her feet, giving Bexley space, giving her time to see she is not hurt, not in harms way.
A healer asks for the breath from your bones only when life is ending.
Bexley has so much left to live for.
Moira presses gently onto the woman, “Bexley, breathe, please breathe,” words whisper onto golden neck, they are as calm as the surface of Vitreus Lake that echoes back reflections so perfectly it could be a mirror. Soft voice is husky, is smoke, is a warm hand curling over scarred cheeks and dimpled sides. It caresses her as the pegasus cannot - will not - in such a state. And it is welcoming, it is forgiving. Moira cannot condemn Bexley, and she would not even if she could. She is a sensible lady, mostly, and partakes in the proper actions and notions that such a station presses upon her. To one so dear, she can do nothing but offer herself to heal and soothe and mend.
“I’ve already given up everything for her, and it was not enough.” Now, it is the phoenix’ turn to let her sorrow be her bleeding heart, slay it within her chest, to dig a grave she cannot hope to fill and pray that Bexley never tells. “Estelle is my cousin - distant, but beloved - and the only one who thought to help me when I was burning and tarnished. She was my first confidant, my first friend, my first love if you will --” and what a sweet love it had been. The innocence of girlhood staining chapter after chapter of their lives together.
Those chapters closed and ended one by one when she came into Novus, when she spread her wings for the first time in a fit of temper directed towards a dark man, when she became kin to a unicorn and sought to heal a nation, when she fell in love with the breath of the sea who looks at her like he’s dying when they are together.
And it hurts.
Raw, unfiltered pain flits down her spine, makes the woman stop midbite and set the tray of food aside. Cinnamon and clove scents in cocoa draw her attention, attention that is minutely focused on the liquid as it sloshes around with her phantom stirrings. More sugar is poured in, brown crystals falling into darker liquid and dissolving like her ties to the past. “If she were here, I would bring her into this life as she brought me into the last, but I would not - could not - give up those I love here. I’ve worked so hard to find you,” and with those words, honey gaze seeks out troubled blue, holds tight when she finds them and tries to express that she is one of those people. She is cherished and treasured and loved, and the press of teeth against spine and cheek against skin is not unwelcome, not now when they are both so torn open and needing.
“Did I answer wrong?” Moira breathes at last, letting dark lips dip into the indent of Bexley’s collar.
“speech” | @Bexley | echo
Then, it is not she, but Bexley Briar who rages forth, on a sob after a sigh, telling of all she’s lost. And Moira cannot blame her. And the world cannot fault her for her sorrow and fury. And so she lets Bexley simper, lets her refuse food for a moment, lets her feel the ugly parts of life that need not be closed off forever. Even the phoenix had to realize that, had to feel the burning sting across her face, let it drown her and carve her bones until they were hollow and decorated and beautiful but empty, let herself fall… And she fell. Gods above! How the phoenix fell and fell and fell until all that she was and all that she wanted and all she would become were shadows of who she is now.
If the sudden movement of a girl of fire, a girl trapped, a girl breaking through ice that’s caged her for so long after such a loss, startles the pegasus then Moira does little to show it. Slightly she withdraws her feet, giving Bexley space, giving her time to see she is not hurt, not in harms way.
A healer asks for the breath from your bones only when life is ending.
Bexley has so much left to live for.
Moira presses gently onto the woman, “Bexley, breathe, please breathe,” words whisper onto golden neck, they are as calm as the surface of Vitreus Lake that echoes back reflections so perfectly it could be a mirror. Soft voice is husky, is smoke, is a warm hand curling over scarred cheeks and dimpled sides. It caresses her as the pegasus cannot - will not - in such a state. And it is welcoming, it is forgiving. Moira cannot condemn Bexley, and she would not even if she could. She is a sensible lady, mostly, and partakes in the proper actions and notions that such a station presses upon her. To one so dear, she can do nothing but offer herself to heal and soothe and mend.
“I’ve already given up everything for her, and it was not enough.” Now, it is the phoenix’ turn to let her sorrow be her bleeding heart, slay it within her chest, to dig a grave she cannot hope to fill and pray that Bexley never tells. “Estelle is my cousin - distant, but beloved - and the only one who thought to help me when I was burning and tarnished. She was my first confidant, my first friend, my first love if you will --” and what a sweet love it had been. The innocence of girlhood staining chapter after chapter of their lives together.
Those chapters closed and ended one by one when she came into Novus, when she spread her wings for the first time in a fit of temper directed towards a dark man, when she became kin to a unicorn and sought to heal a nation, when she fell in love with the breath of the sea who looks at her like he’s dying when they are together.
And it hurts.
Raw, unfiltered pain flits down her spine, makes the woman stop midbite and set the tray of food aside. Cinnamon and clove scents in cocoa draw her attention, attention that is minutely focused on the liquid as it sloshes around with her phantom stirrings. More sugar is poured in, brown crystals falling into darker liquid and dissolving like her ties to the past. “If she were here, I would bring her into this life as she brought me into the last, but I would not - could not - give up those I love here. I’ve worked so hard to find you,” and with those words, honey gaze seeks out troubled blue, holds tight when she finds them and tries to express that she is one of those people. She is cherished and treasured and loved, and the press of teeth against spine and cheek against skin is not unwelcome, not now when they are both so torn open and needing.
“Did I answer wrong?” Moira breathes at last, letting dark lips dip into the indent of Bexley’s collar.
