Post by Moira ap Eiluned on May 15, 2014 13:53:57 GMT -8
Moira hummed quietly to herself as she put the finishing touches on Zirnitra’s chapel. Magic, all kinds of magic, were represented here, rendering in three dimensions the web of interconnectedness between them all as best as she knew how. Stone and wood and paper, blood and wax and steel, smoke and flame and water, patterns of light and scent as defined and entwined as the ones in more permanent media, all forming a pattern greater by far than the sum of its parts, and still far less than the whole of the Truth.
If only the other patterns in her life made as much sense. It had taken death to make her love life, and learning to love life to make her stop fearing death. For the first time since Hans had made his deal with the Dreaming, Moira was content. The secret to flight truly was to throw yourself at the ground and miss. So now she flew, and everyone around her was trying to pull her back down to earth…
She didn’t understand why people kept thinking she was sad. She tried to tell them she wasn’t, but she just kept getting the same looks. Looks she didn’t understand. After all, how could she be sad? Her goddess had saved her from death, permitted Moira to complete her promise to stop the Winter Queen. She had, all unlooked for, been permitted to redeem her word. She wondered when they would stop giving her those strange glances. She expected the latest apocalypse would distract them for a while at least. What did this make it…three? Four? At least, depending on how you counted them. Moira was glad, at least, that this one had waited until the last one was over. One overwhelming Deity of Evil at a time was quite sufficient.
She’d made preparations for this one months and months ago. It would be sufficient, or it wouldn’t. She would die, or she wouldn’t. She knew It wouldn’t win; whether or not her plan succeeded, there were entities enough in the world to stop It eventually. Someone would be the hero, to rise in glory, and others would die along the way. That was just the way stories went. It was how the lives of the Fair Folk were meant to go.
In the meantime, there were meals to eat, and sunsets to watch, and books to read, and esoteric tidbits of lore to contemplate, and all manner of life’s joys to embrace. Sufficient unto the day are the evils – and joys – thereof.
If only the other patterns in her life made as much sense. It had taken death to make her love life, and learning to love life to make her stop fearing death. For the first time since Hans had made his deal with the Dreaming, Moira was content. The secret to flight truly was to throw yourself at the ground and miss. So now she flew, and everyone around her was trying to pull her back down to earth…
She didn’t understand why people kept thinking she was sad. She tried to tell them she wasn’t, but she just kept getting the same looks. Looks she didn’t understand. After all, how could she be sad? Her goddess had saved her from death, permitted Moira to complete her promise to stop the Winter Queen. She had, all unlooked for, been permitted to redeem her word. She wondered when they would stop giving her those strange glances. She expected the latest apocalypse would distract them for a while at least. What did this make it…three? Four? At least, depending on how you counted them. Moira was glad, at least, that this one had waited until the last one was over. One overwhelming Deity of Evil at a time was quite sufficient.
She’d made preparations for this one months and months ago. It would be sufficient, or it wouldn’t. She would die, or she wouldn’t. She knew It wouldn’t win; whether or not her plan succeeded, there were entities enough in the world to stop It eventually. Someone would be the hero, to rise in glory, and others would die along the way. That was just the way stories went. It was how the lives of the Fair Folk were meant to go.
In the meantime, there were meals to eat, and sunsets to watch, and books to read, and esoteric tidbits of lore to contemplate, and all manner of life’s joys to embrace. Sufficient unto the day are the evils – and joys – thereof.