sometimes I'm terrified of my heart;
of it's constant hunger for whatever it wants.
The way it stops and starts.
Like flies drawn to the remnants of a carcass rotting in the woods, so, too, are people tall and small alike to the sound of a plea for help. Or was it the wind? Moira does not know, and worse, she does not really care. of it's constant hunger for whatever it wants.
The way it stops and starts.
Something her tugs her towards that voice, the soft, sing-song voice that could be the breeze or it could be a girl crying and in need. There are bandages at her side again, tucked carefully under her wing where it will be safe from others who come and talk and annoy her once more.
So the healer went, so the phoenix ensconced in ice to devour pain and confusion comes, and it is with frigid, burning eyes that she looks to the woods and to the others gathered.
She sees Michael again, the back of him burnished and gold, disappearing into the copse of trees with the others who wear skins of brown and silver and dreams. So may are not of Denocte, so many stink of Dawn or Day. There is someone, somewhere, who carries the sea all the way from Terrastella here, and it burns her as the sun burns her eyes. Moira cringes from that smell, shies away internally, buries it deep, deep down where she cannot find it again.
"I'm coming with you," she echoes to him as he'd said to her just earlier that evening. Not because she must, but because she'd rather be with no one else than one of her own. Had she seen Katniss, perhaps she would go with the woman as well, or Isra, or Bexley. Anyone to keep the hollow hounds from baying in her soul.
"You're too kind, or is it curiosity?" she questions, her midnight voice of smoke and ash as soft as the wind that carried the cry. Moira Tonnerre does not know if she cares for the answer, nor why she asked, or decided to tag along, only that it is something to fill the hole, to fill the void. Even if only temporarily.
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