(Untitled)
How sad droop the willows by Zalal's fair side,
If reality could scream, she would. Rather than the gradual fading of Morpheus, or the simple presence of the other Endless, Nyarlathotep has torn a hole between the Dreaming and the waking world. He is there, tall and black, cold and red-eyed. His hands rest on Moiraine's shoulders, tilted ( Read more... )
If reality could scream, she would. Rather than the gradual fading of Morpheus, or the simple presence of the other Endless, Nyarlathotep has torn a hole between the Dreaming and the waking world. He is there, tall and black, cold and red-eyed. His hands rest on Moiraine's shoulders, tilted ( Read more... )
Composed ...
*Moiraine looks absolutely serene, and her black eyes are blank and unconcerned. She smiles up at him.*
And here we are again, my lord.
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
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"So we are, my lady."
With my Moiraine I rov'd o'er the blossom-clad slope,
His lips curve, and he caresses her cheek with one palm as he lifts his hand off of her shoulder. The fingers dig into her hair, and he pulls her back against himself with the handfull, dipping to taste her lips. He then settles, and settles her next to him. In something which is concerned for her welfare, but sounds like command, he speaks;
Plucking white meadow-daisies and ferns by the stream,
"You will sup, and we shall observe."
As we laugh'd at the ripples that twinkle and gleam.
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And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
As you wish. *She glances about with vague curiosity, but every waitrat has vanished. Wise creatures.*
I dreamed that you bewitched me...
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
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The lack of wait rats is easily remedied. He coerces one out, even rats have nightmares, and it takes Moiraine's order. His hand remains tangled in her hair, and he watches the patrons with amusement.
The dear innocent charms of my Laeta's fair face;
"You are fond of the dress, yes?"
Not a thrush thrill'd the grove with a carol so choice
The question is an honest one. Which might make it more frightening. The majority of his attention shifts to her face when he asks, and lingers there. The rest checks on his dear little pawns.
As the silvery strains of my Laeta's sweet voice.
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the world inverts:
*Moiraine smooths her hand over the leather and trails her fingers delicately over one of the embossed flowers, then looks up to meet his gaze with a serene smile.*
It is lovely, my lord; and the design of it is quite striking indeed. I admit to not having worn such attire before, but I do admire this.
the fond admirer's
burning darts
*A trembling waitrat appears with a glass of blood-red wine and a delicately spiced fish entree, both of which it places on the table, immediately scampering off. She takes the glass and swirls the wine in it briefly before taking a sip.*
turn back to injure...
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He lifts his own glass of wine, and sips at it with a quiet noise of appriciation,
Strove to equal her beauty, but strove all in vain;
"I am glad that you enjoy it. I am pleased to have pleased you."
Yet no envy they bore her, while fruitless they strove,
He watches Tonks, and Divis Mal when they look toward the pair, then turns back to Moiraine.
For so pure was my Laeta, they could only love!
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With your wild furies...
*She smiles, and it seems somehow wrong, but evidently sincere. Moiraine picks at the fish for a little bit, then pushes it aside in favor of the wine, and settles back to look around the bar.*
There are a number of people here this evening, it would seem.
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"So there are."
And young Zephyrus rustled the gay scented bow'rs,
He points some of them out, one by one,
Ev'ry breeze seem'd to pause as it drew near the fair,
"My sibling. Its daughter. The Old One. The Auror. Mrs. Harker. Tom Riddle."
Too much aw'd at her sweetness to tumble her hair.
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and fury make head,
*She tilts her head, studying various people as he points them out. Dark eyes are flat and seemingly unmoved.*
All very intent on their conversations, it seems. So calm. It is refreshing.
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars...
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"Why? I do not understand why placidity is to be encouraged. The best of humanity is when it reaches against obsticles it may only fail to best."
In the ivy-grown temple beside the dark wood;
He sips from his glass, and then looks at her barely touched meal,
When our pledges we seal'd at the sanctify'd shrine,
"Eat, beloved. I do not wish you to waste away."
And I knew that my Moiraine forever was mine!
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How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
*She glances at the fish, and then up at him.*
If you insist, I shall... but I have no wish for food at present, and am in no danger of fading away from its lack, I think.
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And the forests with scarlet and gold were aflame;
"And do you weary of struggle, my love?"
Yet how heavy my heart when I first felt the fear
That my starry-eyed Laeta would fade with the year!
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Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air...
*She looks thoughtful for a moment, apparently considering this. Her tone is calm.*
I have, in the past. Peace has been a dream of mine before.
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He smiles, and dips his head to kiss her lightly; lovingly, with only a hint of teeth digging into her lip;
When I laid my lov'd Moiraine forever away,
"I am glad to hear it, my love."
And the river god pity'd, as weeping I pac'd
And he cups clawed hands around the sides of her face before drawing away.
Mingling hot bitter tears with his cold frozen waste.
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Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come back ... O memory, hope...
*She does not flinch as he kisses her, and she does not move as he pulls away; dark eyes meet his gaze.*
And yet, my lord, the Wheel weaves. There are things that I must yet do, and peace may not yet be mine to have.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again...
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Now the flow'rs have return'd, but they bloom not so sweet
As in days when they blossom'd round Moiraine's dear feet;
He has her, and yet. His head turns away, inscrutable. His feelings, likewise, are too alien to interpret.
And the willows complain to the answering hill,
And the thrushes that once were so happy are still.
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