[O] you're the antidote to everything except for me - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [O] you're the antidote to everything except for me (/showthread.php?tid=11234) Pages:
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 01-23-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
With every step the Doctor took away from them, Mauja's urge to run after grew stronger and stronger. It was a battle between wisdom and loyalty, heart against mind; he clenched his jaws, drew a deep breath in. He had lost many things over the years, but this was one constant. He tried to hold on to that, even as he felt the ground sway beneath him to the rhythm of something unknown: he'd come back a changed man, oddly devoid of everything but distant, foolish hopes. Hope, that d'Artagnan would be found again. Hope, that he would still accept and embrace Mauja. Hope, that.. that things would work out. "I have to ask - do the pair of you really go around slaughtering those without horns?" It was a turn of conversation he hadn't been expecting—something he wasn't ready to face. The final barrier between the soul's truth and the tongue's truth. He grew still as a statue in the sunlight, a freezing of every expression, and of his eyes. They grew harder, the set of his jaw firmer: what do you respond to that? Do you admit that your best friend is a cold-hearted killer, but that you've been getting cold feet about it for the past year or two? Is it betrayal, to do such? Betrayal of whom? Do you admit to trying to still hate them, and want to wipe them from the face of earth? His cold heart pounded in the silence. Putting it like that.. it almost made him cringe. To think he'd once stood just beneath the gods, contemplating the murder of the brother of the one whom he was talking to. That his vision of greatness was a world in which the unicorns dominated—for the good of his people. But who was he, to decide such things? Who was he to say what was truth, and what wasn't? He was charismatic enough to lead armies, command the hearts of men, and to turn vileness into glorious truth. He yelled his own damnation to the skies but it came out a victory song. So what do you say to that? Do you finally spit out that bit of truth—the cure your foolish, precious, naïve, wise brother spoke of? His heart kept pounding. His cold, cold eyes turned to Nyx, ice swallowing up every single drop of sorrow, sick to the stomach with it. He was not ready to face it. He was not ready to betray his family. He said nothing. Simply stared at her with those vast, glacial eyes. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 01-28-2014 Sorry for the wait! D:
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 01-29-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
[ No worries. <3 ] You can only hide behind silence for so long, until the pounding of pulses and the rhythm of breaths drown it out; when the mind catches up, it's too late. And it's too late now. Quiet breaths escaped from a dark, still muzzle, eyes glazed over and locking away every little bit of anguish left inside: he could see the moment when she realized he wasn't going to answer. When logic, intelligence, won out over silence. The only way to keep holding his tongue would be to leave. Or make her leave. Fly into a frenzy of ice and pointed tips and hound her from the peninsula of the gods and out into the world, while his dying heart was left here, left to rot in the rains. Because wasn't that what it came down to in the end? That either he killed himself, and buried his soul so deeply it'd never be able to crawl back up to the surface, or he turned around to tell everyone he'd tried to save what fools they were..? What a fool he had been..? "I'll take that as a yes." His pulse was roaring, the sensation of life nauseating. Shouldn't he just flash her the borderline mad smile, say something about the excellent taste qualities of equine blood, and rejoice that he could keep up his charade a little longer? But hearing it, his heart echoed it, spelled it out in burning letters at the forefront of his mind—damnation, and he felt sick. How many opportunities in Helovia had he had to harm them, the hornless, and hadn't? And on the other side of things were deaths, Therror, Delinne's spectral copy... And then there was Torasin. "Why? He barely saw her anymore. The very thing he'd sought to freeze down was rising in his chest, in his throat, threatening to explode; his pulse was thundering through his veins. He wanted to throw his head back and yell you are wrong, because he knew just how far he'd fallen from those icy heights. Racism, that blind, bitter arrogance, the surge of adrenaline and glory, the passionate, illogical conviction which seeped through your veins—it only worked as long as you were blinded by its fervor, infected by the excitement, the crusade. His way had been long and crooked; he hadn't been breast-fed it. Somehow he'd come to all the wrong conclusions by himself and closed his eyes and thrived on the one argument which could defend it: passion. And bit by bit he'd painted the villain on their hides, demeaned them, to justify their lower status on society. It had always been a matter of time, of how much he could achieve before his blue eyes cracked open to the world. Mauja was a cold creature of logic: and racism, by its very nature, was nothing he could logically justify. Not anymore. Not when every drop of self-confidence and arrogance had been frozen and shattered like glass. Asni brought him to his knees and he was still reeling, still kneeling, heart pounding and eyes blurred with the tears of pain. And he couldn't keep killing himself over it. Like he'd tried, to keep going, for the greater good; hadn't he been raised to value the unit higher than the self? To not be afraid to give his own life up for the benefit of the masses? But even he had his limits. In the end, we all have a desire to live, and to enjoy living. "I'm not one to judge, but I find myself curious as to why you think a horn makes one superior." His pale eyes were somewhere else. His mind was somewhere else. Either he betrayed himself, or he betrayed his friends, the Plague, the Basin: Psyche, Snö, Deimos, d'Artagnan, Descaro, Ulrik... But would he step into the light, then? Would it bring him closer to the others—Faelene, Midas, Arah, Ophelia..? But he knew, that everything he did, he should do for himself. Hadn't he spent enough of his life living for others? "I don't," he finally forced out in a strangled whisper, and moved for the first time in what felt like ages. He turned his head away, stared into the distance, but if you had asked him, he couldn't have told you what he saw. "It's a blind, illogical thing.. all passion and arrogance." He clenched his jaws together, tried to swallow the sour taste of betrayal, but it was there, washed around in his mouth by a paper-dry tongue. And in that moment, he hated himself, for never being strong enough to truly stand up for himself. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 01-30-2014 My posts are woefully inadequate compared to yours ASOSJFOIIFH
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-03-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
[ NO THEY ARE NOT ] Dig up her bones but leave the soul alone... Lies. All lies, thrones built on the backs of others, castles made out of wind and swirling snow, with no walls but words and groundless conviction. Where the kings and queens ruled with blackened hearts and let their minds sleep behind closed eyes, while pretending the sunlight cascaded in like glory, when in truth it was dark and damp, foul and smelling of death and decay. And for a long time, he'd been the blind king sitting upon the throne of skulls, listening to the groan of those it stood upon, denying the fact that it was just the groaning of his soul slowly dying. In the end, you kill yourself along with the rest. Unless you break away. But there's a reason few do. There's a reason he'd kept his head down and tried to keep going, all those oaths and promises, a brotherhood: they'd said brother and sister, family, and leaving that isn't easy. Not when it brought to mind just how keenly you cared for them, despite the darkness in their hearts and minds. And it tasted vile, betraying your shared morals and ideas the moment they walked out the door and out of sight. His heart was still thundering. If this was honesty, if this was living for yourself—he wasn't sure he'd made a good bargain. He didn't want to spend every day with this; it was too much, too vibrant and real, raising its head like a sea-monster and roaring at the skies. And there was nothing he could do to quieten it, except kill it and return to what he'd been, a meaningless existence, leading with an empty heart. "A crime of passion," she murmured, as if his judge; he clenched his jaws harder and closed his eyes. A crime. Death was death, wasn't it? And condemning someone to it for what they hadn't done..? Wasn't that the definition of murder? Didn't he know all too keenly how it was to be on the receiving end of that? A wanted man, for the death of Torasin. I didn't murder him. ".. I never understood why." But he did, all too keenly. "Power," he breathed through his tense jaws, ears falling back slowly, the spitting image of desolation and mournful loneliness. "Try to convince an army to kill those they do not hate, take the homes from their friends." He shook his head solemnly, long white hair stirring against a thick, tense neck. "You need a cause. It's all about tradition. Do you use a grudge, or traditional rivalry? Or do you invent one, such as racism?" His voice was oddly soft, truth and tactic slipping from a philosophical mind which had seen and shed too much blood—and maybe the worst thing was that he knew it wasn't the end of it. There would never be an end to it. He was not meant for total peace, far too restless and haughty. He'd come to realize that while he could no longer stand by the Plague.. he would not cease to hate idiots, nor to want to rid the world of them. It had just become a matter of re-defining his use of the term "idiot". "When was the last time?" He had not looked at her for a long time, locked in his quiet self-condemnation, staring out across blue lava and the sunlit sea—but then he did, neck slowly bending, defying its ice-like appearance, and blue eyes falling on hers. She was looking at him as if he was a mystery to solve, a keen curiosity he didn't deserve, for all she'd find beneath his skin was darkness. The last time I what? he thought, not quite sure what she was asking and unwilling to make a fool of himself by assuming the wrong things. Hadn't he just told her he didn't believe in those old, worn lies anyway? His cold silence held a moment longer, something soft and sad hinting behind the icy guard of his eyes, until finally he spoke the thought aloud. "The last time I what?" A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 02-07-2014
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-08-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
He held his breath, finding stability in the frigidity of his heart, freezing the signs of life. Freezing the pounding of his heart, and the heat of his blood seeping through veins beneath the marble skin; every beat brought them one step closer to something, one step deeper into the darkness. Don't you want to turn back before it's too late? There were many things—too many things—he could confess to, out there where the Gods had left them to their own devices, things he was sure she didn't want to know. The older parts of his mind whispered, if you tell her too much she needs to die, just another death piled on top of his sagging back, but he bit the thought down. Did she deserve his honesty? Did she deserve to hear him damn himself, and listen to whatever of his darkest deeds she asked about? But she's asking. She's only got herself to blame. She couldn't blame him for being decent and answering her questions, really. "Killed someone," she finished her question, finding some steel in both spine and eyes again. Gone was the blabbering girl with the high-pitched voice and wide eyes, trying to find some normalcy when chatting with strangers who spoke of death as an old friend, or maybe a pastime to enjoy when bored. Mauja's stony eyes closed, a small sigh heaving itself past his lips, and his head slumped down somewhat. Was this the real Nyx? Or was she pretending to be strong, just as badly as he had? When was the last time I killed someone? The easy answer was Torasin, but.. would the war count? A war, against something not equine, but not less alive? A war he'd fought to bring them to their knees simply to get some leverage against them? So he could bid them to rise again? Had he actually killed someone? Probably; war was mayhem and chaos, a too-long day and night drawn out in that darkened valley beneath the Heimasborg's looming shadow. He did not fight with the precision of an assassin, of the scouts who killed in utter silence, with such a talent it made you green with envy—he fought hoof and horn, thinking only to maul. To meet him and his ilk was the slow, painful end, shattered bones and concussions. Their only purpose was to overwhelm. And they had. It was the most twisted and accurate application of fighting for peace he'd ever known. But he hadn't been able to count the corpses afterwards. No idea which were his. Surely some where. Some had to be. When would Nyx realize that she wasn't interrogation a warlord in his prime, but a broken old fool? "Since last winter, I fought in a war in my homeland," he said, voice still as soft as sad as before; there was grace in his sorrow, and his blue eyes cracked open to the world again. If she wanted to meet his eyes, he would not look away. "Our traditional enemy is not equine—but no less alive." And how much could you tell, before you had to tell it all? A faint wind brushed against his face. Was there even a point in admitting to engineering that plan? That the sole hope he'd had was to bring peace between them? Did it somehow justify anything? Would she think he was just inventing it as a convenient excuse? Did he even want to redeem himself in her eyes? But why would he not want to? He kept saying he didn't want to be a monster, and yet he always drew its tattered skin over him again. Bitterness is a slow, deadly poison. "It's inevitable I killed someone, I think," he said after a moment's pause. What was the point of talking of a war, with no context? "You might not believe me, but.. we fought to bring peace between us." To make up for old mistakes, make sure old deaths were not in vain. He fell silent, awaiting her judgment—or her curiosity. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 02-10-2014
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-11-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
He wasn't sure why he kept answering. He wasn't sure he ever had answered anyone this openly when asked things—nor so willingly. He had his doubts, some words died on his tongue before he breathed life into them, and some things he still would not speak of, but what he shared, he shared of his own accord. But why? What did it matter? It didn't. And the only thing that was happening, was that someone, one unlucky mare in Helovia, would know a great deal more of the Frostheart's mind than anyone else. And she was a stranger. Did she deserve it? Did her curiosity need satisfying? What did he care? He knew nothing of her. Nothing at all, and yet he told her bits and pieces when she asked, sorted through his thoughts for what was safe and what wasn't, gave as he never had before. It was foolish and stupid and outright odd, yet he did it, allowed her to lure those words from his mouth. And sometimes, words put things into perspective. It can be easier to sort through your thoughts when you speak them out aloud.. when someone reacted to them. So while that might be half the truth, he wasn't sure it was the whole truth. He didn't feel cynical enough to abuse her curiosity just to help himself, not at that moment, when worrying for d'Artagnan and thinking about his past so keenly drew the sorrow to the surface. Still, half an answer was better than no answer. He'd be fine, as long was he remained vigilant and didn't spit out too much. "Did you win?" she blurted out in the middle of his answer; he raised a 'brow and eyed her with a look that said do you think I'd still be alive if we hadn't? Because in all honesty, he wouldn't be. They'd trapped themselves with the enemy, and if they hadn't been the ones to come out victorious, they likely wouldn't have come out of that valley at all. The Magnar would've feasted on their flesh to regain the strength and energy spent on slaughtering them. Surprisingly, she believed him—but naively. Every soldier fighting for peace? No. He knew too keenly that not everyone did. Some did it for glory. Wealth, of some kind. Renown. Or just because they enjoyed the power over life and death; they were gods in their own bloodied rights, until someone had enough of their terrorizing and shoved a horn in their back. Silently he shook his head. Only the good-hearted would fight only for peace, and they were far too few. And even good-hearted soldiers could be commanded by misled, greedy lords and ladies, and be too loyal to refuse the order to conquer and lay the world to waste. So they killed themselves along with their enemy, burying their own moral compass so deep they sometimes never found it again—something he knew all too well how to do. "What of the children? Have you ever aimed your horn at a foal?" Her words, more than her voice, jolted him out of his thoughts, a twitch running down his withers and back, a noticeable jerk of his head as he turned slightly to stare openly at her. Children? She really wasn't going to leave any stone unturned, and the only question was if she knew what was good for herself—or maybe, if she would leave him be if he refused to answer something. "You're morbidly curious for a good girl," he replied darkly, voice stern and smooth like the coldest marble, buying himself some time to think. Had he ever? Aside from accidentally impaling Prometheus? But he didn't count, he was already dead, and the only thing that came to mind was Aylin's brother. He'd never laid hands on him, but had entertained the idea of ridding the world of another sun-worshiping equine before it grew into its prime. Slowly, Mauja turned his entire body to face her head on, something dark and heavy in his pale blue eyes, there in the autumn sunlight. "What do you want, Nyx?" he asked her, almost tiredly. If she hadn't considered what she was after, maybe it was time she did now. She should learn not to play with fire—and he should not encourage it. Others might not take as kindly to it. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 02-13-2014
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-15-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
What did she think now, when he didn't respond to her question? His heart pounded in its cage of a chest, both so cold and so alive, liquid ice and fire somehow combined; did she think him a murderer of children, ruthless in his attempt to cleanse the world of hornless? A viper who struck at the tender root before the tree had a chance to blossom? But I'm not, his heart and mind whispered in choked despair. I'm not I'm not I'm not. And yet he was just silent, did nothing to amend his statement with the truth—that fickle, damnable thing. She just chuckled in a kind of.. bemused? way. "Whoever said I was a good girl?" It even drew a snort from him, which under the circumstances could only be described as a sign of amusement. Cheeky, he thought, but was not entirely convinced: in the conflict of black and white, there was no gray. Either you were a bad guy, in this case a racist, or you weren't. Though some tyrants didn't care about anything other than themselves, and their power, and nothing in the world was the stark white of snow or the pitch black of a moonless, starless night. Everything was dirtied gray, and Nyx's blue eyes had been much too wide at the subject of heart-eating—neither pristine nor of the dark. But he didn't comment on it—didn't tell her of her wide, wide eyes and the tremble in her high-pitched voice, the blabber of words.. she wasn't interrogating him to become a racist. If anything, he had the notion she really didn't agree with it at all. Well, that makes it two of us. Those same blue eyes, reflecting the autumn sky, met his, but only briefly before they fell again. What was it with her and dropping her eyes? Why wouldn't she ever look at them? She'd done the same with d'Artagnan, looking everywhere but at him, and it made Mauja feel weird, talking to someone who refused to look at him, or meet his eyes. Did she lie so much her gaze shriveled up and blackened, and she didn't want him to see? Head high and impassive, ears flicking forward, he listened to what she had to say. She didn't sound entirely prepared for the question, but came up with something quickly enough, and towards the end of her speech a dark laugh had slipped from his maw and he was shaking his head, white mane rattling against his arched neck. "Only if you want to," he responded, as if mildly amused by her.. attempt to leave? Or was it that she was just trying to be courteous, as he'd maybe given off the impression of starting to lose his patience? And if so—good instinct. You didn't want to be around if Mauja lost his temper. He breathed out slowly, thoughtfully. Not that he was known for losing it... "There isn't much reason to such a madness. It's part structure, part fear—as much of the unknown as of being worthless yourself. As there is no logic to it..." He shrugged. "It's hard to understand. It's not really about the physical difference, as something you can.. ally for. You belong somewhere, and you cling to it, desperately, and to feel worth something you belittle those who can't belong with you. Some are just misguided, and some are willfully blind." Like I was. I knew what I was doing and I did it anyway, eyes closed and leaping off the ledge, praying I wouldn't fall to my death. "It is better to show them kindness, to try and help them. Few are evil.. though many certainly seem to think so." Would she notice how he said them, and not us? The words, I'm not like that anymore died upon his tongue, turned to dust, lifeless and wing-clipped. It would be so much easier if she came to the conclusion herself—asked, anything but him taking that step off the edge and falling into something he could never back out of. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 02-17-2014
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RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-22-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
Misguided. Or just high on some notion of glory, of doing what was right, the shepherd who led the flock astray: the wolf at the front of the pack, running straight to hell with his head held high and eyes closed. Had he abused them, and their faith? Had he preyed on their unfamiliarity with strangers to strengthen their bonds? Had he known what he was doing? And why? Failed and traveling further and further from home, young and insecure—lying at the bloodied pit floor, staring at the sky, and wanting to rise again. Was it so strange, that he'd become what he'd become? That he'd turned to the one familiar thing: horns mean you can fight. Here, at the end of that storyline arc, he could see it all so clear, laid out before his feet plainer than a spot of sunlight. Wrote the final words for the chapter with blood ink, turned the page; empty. Too empty, and his heart ached for d'Artagnan, to be there, to berate him for his weakness or just shrug, bump his shoulder and say that as long as he didn't go kissing Mirage's feet it was alright—anything but plunging him into desolation and despair. This, this was why he'd tried so hard to keep the world at arm's length. But was it strength or weakness that had made him let them in? He blinked, white lashes flicking down towards his cheek. Her gaze, the blue of the sky, snapped him out of his morose thoughts. There was neither rhyme nor reason to her eye-manners, flicking them this way and that, holding gazes as if not quite wanting to, and never really when it truly mattered. Just at odd times. His head tilted slowly to the side, his own eyes unreadable; simply spinning slowly the way they always did, sunlight glittering upon the snow but telling nothing of its depth. "Are you getting nervous, Nyx?" he asked, voice full of faux-darkness. If she listened close enough she could hear past the thunderstorm, hear the rays of playful sunlight behind the towering blackness. "This is the second time you're nearly begging for me to tell you to leave." And his gaze spun with the same darkness, neck stretching a little taller with that edge, as if to say, I can be dangerous—when in truth, he was just a lamb dressed up as a lion. A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Nyx - 02-27-2014
RE: you're the antidote to everything except for me - Mauja - 02-28-2014 Mauja Frosthjärta
"And you're only noticing that now?" He laughed; not unkindly, but darkly, the rich, deep sound of a storm. If anything, he'd say she was considerably calmer now—her voice stable, words thoughtful, not the nervous chit-chatter of a reeling mind. If he had to pick, he preferred this one.. the one with a hint of unbending iron, instead of the malleable, soft silver. He hadn't, truly, meant to finally close the book on their conversation, but as the playful words left his mouth, he knew that it would come to an end. It hung in the air, that unanswered question and the slight tension, the scent of her nervousness bridging the gap between them; even with d'Artagnan gone, they stood relatively close. It was.. when he came to think of it.. too close. With all the adrenaline, all the blood pumping through his veins, the certain sense of being alive that came with the frost-tinged darkness.. it ran like a crackle of static around his body, and he shook his head lightly from side to side, as if to shake it off, or break free from it. "Maybe I'll take matters into my own hands, then," she said, and his mind whispered with an arched inner 'brow, oh really?, but he snapped his mouth shut on the words. The last thing he needed now was to let that feeling bloom, get acknowledged; he shoved it aside, answered with a polite, if still a little deep, "Farewell, Nyx,". Silently he watched her go, departing down the path, passing Irma who sat like a stone guardian among the rocks, and only when she was further away did he let out his breath in a shuddering sigh. What had he just done? What had he just said? What had he just forced himself to face, at least partially? What did it mean; what did it mean, for him? The tension lingered in him, a coiled-up spring with no relief, and angrily, with ears laid back, did he snap at the nearest shrine before he turned and stalked away. He knew the feeling would burn itself out, but it would be a few hours before peace was restored to him. [ The end. This was amazing. <3 ] A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way. |