Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: what's this? an update?! don't get used to it.
Chapter Nine
(Time has gone by. Quite a bit of time, actually. The year is 1968.)
(Moira is hunting. She licks her lips out of habit as she rounds another tree in the straggly forest by the waterside, speeding with the grace of a shadow. Childish and yet versatile as an ocean wave, she follows the spirit of them time but not quite the fashion. That is to say, she is naked to the waist, but for several necklaces of thick plastic beads. Her hair is all of tiny braids, and she wears a pair of tattered bellbottom jeans stolen from some former object of prey.
She has not caught a glimpse of Fala in centuries. She has not thought of her in nearly two minutes – such is life, now and seemingly always.)
(Fala has become more and more of a wanderer. Separation, she assures Jager, makes the heart grow fonder – makes it love stronger –
With these words she changes shape. She is a seagull, something of the essence of the ocean, something of a symbol of Moira who lingers in her waking mind and chases her well into dreamland. Listlessly she flies, no heed for her surroundings, for any change of scenery or passing aura like a spirit of light. There is a human running across the beach below her, ducking through low, gnarled trees but slowing with each step. There is an angel following him, caught up in the moment so that for all the world knows she might be dancing, twirling, laughing among the precious stars. The light catches her thin, half naked form as she pounces on her prey, cat to mouse.
Fala sits on a piece of driftwood, morphing leisurely back into her own form, watching the other. She could surely watch forever.)
Moira: I think this is next time.
(Though she has drawn her fangs from her victim long enough to speak, she does not look at Fala. There is blood smeared across her lips.)
Moira (when Fala does not answer): Next time. You said there would be another time, and I understand now.
(She lays the dead human lovingly on the sand, brushing his hair from his face so that Fala may see him properly.)
Moira: (rambling, hurriedly) See? I don't go for the pretty ones anymore. And I didn't wait long enough last time, and I should have waited for you to come to me, but now I've come to you, and –
Fala (quietly, confused): I came to you.
Moira (surprised): Did you?
(It is almost nightfall; the sun has begun to set across the rippling water, and a few scattered raindrops are falling, washing blood from Moira's prey across the gritty sand.)
Fala: There's… something I need to say.
Moira: Wait.
Fala: What?
(The rain falls harder.)
Moira: You're ruining the moment. Wait for the stars.