Disclaimer: Still not mine.
A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, and here's some romantic sap just for you!
Chapter 3
(Another city, another day. They are on the beach, as smoke rises in thick, swirling clouds behind them, and they do not bother to turn or watch.
Moira's hands are stained with blood, so thickly coated that though she stands waist-deep in the ocean, rubbing at them furiously, they still have an unnaturally reddish tinge. She finds that she does not mind this; it makes her feel powerful, and she wants nothing more to be powerful and free, powerful and free as Fala.
Fala stands on the shore, wriggling her dark toes through the sand, and watching. She takes in everything: the way the other girl always flicks her hair over her shoulder, as though it is a nuisance, and not the most beautiful thing that Fala has ever seen, the way she screeches a bit at a passing seagull as though she speaks it language, though she only means to shoo it away. Moira leaps through the water gracefully, fast as she can, back to Fala, and Fala thinks of everything she still must teach her fledgling.
Such as, if you destroy everyone, you are a curse; if you leave a few survivors, you make yourself a legend.
There is something horrifically innocent about Moira, something sweet, childish and bloody, and Fala loves it. It is dusk, and Moira, soaking wet, has reached Fala on the shore. Fala kisses her lightly, on the cheek, by instinct, and feels a rush of happiness and frustration that she cannot understand.)
Fala: There's someone I'd like you to meet.
Moira: Now?
(She lies down on the ground, and the sand sticks to her. Fala joins her, hesitantly.)
Fala: I think you'd like him. Unless there's something else you wanted?
(She is trying to sound nonchalant; half of her wants to show Jager the miracle that is Moira, and the other half insists that he will be unimpressed. Her mind has become a battlefield, Moira against Jager, and she can't say who will win.)
Moira: I'd like to fly.
(She changes her form to that of a seagull, because she knows that it will annoy Fala, who will say that such a bird is too weak for her taste. Shaking the sticky, wet sand off of her feathers, she spreads her grey wings apart and claws at the ground, the lifts off, circling higher and higher.)
Fala (quietly, to herself): Moira.
(She likes the way it rolls off her tongue, and smiles a bit, before calling the other girl down.
Moira lands, transforms back, and lies on her back, head tilted to one side to see Moira better. Fala reaches over, and takes her hand.)
Fala: We have to go.
(She transports the both of them, not because Moira can't, but because she knows Moira doesn't want to go, and feels guilty. It is strange, how killing is natural, but making Moira the slightest bit uncomfortable seems a deadly sin.
They are gone from the beach in an instant, and appear in a darkened bar, filled with vampires, smelling of alcohol and blood. Moira shivers slightly, sensing how different the atmosphere is from anywhere else she has ever been.)
Jager (from across the room): Fala.
(He stiffens, catching sight of the other girl. Fala realizes that they are still holding hands, and that Moira, apprehensive and naïve as she is, is not letting go. Within her, the fight continues: Moira or Jager, Moira or Jager, Moira or Jager? Then she answers on impulse, a bit spiteful: Moira.)
Jager (confused): What…?
(She is not sure why she does it, but she leans over and kisses Moira on the lips, and the other responds as though nothing is more natural, as though they meant it all along.)