[P] Frostmourne; - 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: [P] Frostmourne; (/showthread.php?tid=19389) Pages:
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Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-11-2015 hoping one day you'll make a dream last but dreams come slow and they go so fast Pull out your heart to make the being alone .. easy... The King I used to be, is dead. And that was still true; the racist King of the Edge lay buried under many feet of snow and ice, frozen gracelessly in his white tomb. No gravestone marked where he had fallen; no date of passing was scratched into the ice. There had been no struggle. There had only been the long, cold walk, and slowly diminishing flame, and one step after the other grew slower.. and slower.. and slower.. until finally, there had been no more steps, only the cold, sinking deeper and deeper through flesh and bone. Straight to the heart. Valves and veins clogged up with ice Mauja the Frostheart, finally true to his name, had become buried by the light of dawn—by the pale sunlight arcing across the horizon, striking a shimmer in the snow piled on top of the corpse of his past self. There was no grave other than that: snow. If Mauja paused to look back, he would still be able to find him, somewhere under all that ice, and if he wanted to, he could breathe some kind of life back into him—reanimate him, all flaming blue eyes and frost-breath, and wear his skin like armor. But he didn't want to do that. That part of him was best left dead. Pale eyes scoured the murky dusk of the southern grove, but he didn't know what he was looking for—the things he could never find, as usual, so they were better left unlabeled to soothe the aching disappointment their lack of presence brought. He had spent years in this kind of limbo before, but that time, he had made the mistake of allowing it to devour him. It had ruled his world, defined his thoughts, fueled his every action in the most backwards of ways, and in the end, it had only brought him further ruin. So this time, he held back, chasing shadows and lightning but never admitting that he did. One shoulder leaned against a sturdy pillar, and four rough talons clutched metal beams on the worked glass roof; they faced opposite directions, heads moving, eyes sweeping. They looked for other things, though, mice, and whatever else that was unfortunate enough to be afoot. But none of them had had any luck yet—neither with finding their friends, nor excess food. A small, fond smile curved Mauja's lips. There had been a time when both he and Irma had wondered if all that hunting would make her fat.. it felt like a lifetime ago. But, in all honesty, it wasn't. Irma had hatched after he had lost the Edge. Those memories were tinged with the arctic cold of the Basin, and the auroras dancing in the skies. Those memories belonged to someone who had neither been the Frostheart nor Queen Mauja; they belonged to someone transient, someone who denied what he already knew and clung to the weight that was slowly dragging him down. A man desperate to swim, yet causing himself to drown. A man desperate to breathe, yet choking himself with his own hands. Mauja's smile had faded, and the last of the blood-red sun slunk beneath the horizon. In so many ways it felt like he had gone back to his earliest chapters in Helovia, to re-write or to re-live them, he didn't know which yet—like a circle closing, a cycle beginning anew. And.. And, he wasn't sure he liked the feeling. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-11-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start.. You saw them first, and it was an eruption of many happinesses all at once. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-11-2015 and the scars that mark my body, they're silver and gold Each beat of his own heart left a cold, gnawing feeling in his gut, like there was something wrong—something so fundamentally wrong that he ought to lie sleepless over it, until he figured it out. But the problem was—there was no figuring it out. He knew what it was, already. The problem was the problem itself—that feeling, the circle closing.. the jaws closing... Slowly, his ears angled back and his face drew into one of tired defeat; what were his options, really? Running away? That wouldn't solve anything. He'd gone into this on a whim, but that didn't make him—well, okay, it sure as hell made him irresponsible to claim a position he had no clue what the fuck to do with just because he was selfish but the point was—he didn't have to be more irresponsible than he already had been. Besides, Torleik was a fair King, and everything else aside, it was interesting to see where their awkward ship would end up. Mauja had never ruled with anyone in this sense, and least of all with someone he didn't know intimately, and, and, and— There were about a thousand things to think, but not enough time to think them, and his thoughts ran like light itself to outpace the inevitable ohmygodmybrainistoofull but in the end, he couldn't hold it all in his mind and it shattered, and fell apart. It only made his face fall further, ears clenching to his neck as the muscles of his jaw tensed, and his eyes—they were dark, and haunted. He needed someone. He needed.. he needed Kahlua. He couldn't vent all of this shit to Torleik, because Torleik was a stranger, and Mauja was pretty sure he sometimes had a stick hidden up his ass—but that was okay. Mauja would try to get it out of there. And maybe, one day, if their little ship didn't collapse in a storm or sailed head-first into some shitty cliff, he could vomit this out on his co-leader, because.. uhh... it mattered, right? “…Leos?” Let's re-wind—let's re-wind from another perspective, one not mired in awkward musings about boats and Kahlua and the past and boats and—literal boats. Because there was this small, really small (almost edible-small) owl flapping about the Rotunda and hooting (both Irma and Diego were too dignified to hoot when they had a goddamned arsenal of other noises at their disposal (well, Irma did; Diego didn't hoot because it was better to stay silent instead of getting icy glares from Irma)) .. and for a moment, one set of arctic blue and one set of fiery amber eyes glared at the little creature through the gathering dark. But then, something changed in those pale eyes, and Irma's head flicked to one side, then back, beak clicking once as she thought and felt, and.. and in a rustle of feathers she was up, gliding silently, and yes, there was Elding, and no lizard, so, improbable or not, it had to be—she feinted towards him, sharp talons stretched out, while Diego watched passively. “…Leos?” And everything changed about him; his ears flicked forward, his head snapped around, and the years drained from his shoulders as instinct kicked in and told him to be the strong one, be the shield. Because her voice, it was so tentative in some way, like, like maybe he wasn't real, just a lingering shaft of sunlight even after the sun had set—something that could be scared away. And secondly, because the moment he laid eyes on her, the little ghost holding his heart with its cold hands was forgotten, shoved to the back of his mind. She looked like shit. She looked worse than he could remember having seen her, curled up on a crystal-dusted floor with tears flooding her cheeks and all sorts of gross things getting spilled on his mane. Then, she had been ravaged by fresh loss; now, she looked like something about a week too late to its date with their grave. "Elding?" The name slipped out of his mouth, not surprised, but more like the kind of shocked worry, the kind where you're still just standing in the same spot because you don't know what the fuck to do to solve it but all you want to do is rush over there and hope that something can be done. Who cared that she was Ophelia's child. Who cared that Ophelia had more or less threatened him to keep his paws off of her. Who cared that her name was actually Roskuld. She was coming over, slow and ambling, such a stark difference from that idiotically flapping owl (Diego's appraisal of the situation, mind), and looking so rugged, so worn, so, so.. His mouth worked soundlessly before he left the comfort of his pillar, hooves clanging on the marble floor as he jogged over to her. And what do you say? You look like shit? No. If she'd had some kind of half-smile, maybe he would've—if she'd been covered half in thistles, maybe he would've. But she wasn't. She was covered in the filth of life, something that ate at her, and sat too deep to shake off. What's happened to you? And maybe, that's what you should ask, worried eyes skipping this way and that over her body, 'brows drawing closer and closer together as his heart snarled out who do I need to kill? "What's wrong?" he breathed to her, softly, the moist night air turning his voice to a puff of translucent smoke. What's wrong? he echoed with his heart, dark muzzle slowly reaching out to touch her cheek. [ CHEST BUMP? I'LL D*** BUMP YOU BRO @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-12-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
Fucking nailed it. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-13-2015 it keeps my veins hot, the fires find a home in me “Everything.” She was still there—muzzle pressed against her cheek, he could feel her, and she was still there even though a roaring blackness had taken over his world. He saw nothing—heard nothing—there was just that surging wave of darkness, vertigo washing through his soul. He felt nauseous.. out of breath, like he'd been running for days on end, heart trembling and floor falling out from under him. What's wrong, he had said, and she had said, everything. A beast with sharp, poisoned teeth lodged in her back, its black venom already running through her veins. How do you save someone, when you can barely stand up yourself? How do you fix someone else—fix the everything for them—when you can't even outpace your own demons? They held his tail, and they held it tight, hanging on for the ride (somewhere, white wings were flapping, some strange sense of duty making her play with the bird while Diego feigned disinterest). Last time, he'd just been there. Last time, she'd just needed.. a presence... This.. was bound to go so much deeper.. and she was a smart kid, she had to be, logic demanded it—whatever it was that was about to come out of her mouth was bound to hurt, in one way or another. It felt like laying his head down underneath an axe, that wait, heart strangled by its own veins. “Lee,” and the eyes that had stared through her suddenly grew sharper, focus returning, meeting her gaze. She still looked like shit. Her eyes looked like shit, like the poison had spread there too, clouding up whatever she saw, “how do you fix a world that’s fucked by default?” How about by asking someone who has the answer? Mauja's only experience with fucked-up worlds lay in helping to fuck them up, and his mind ran bloodied images in front of his eyes with merciless clarity—memories, every single one of them. Memories. Not dreams, not fantasizes, not some far-off story turned to implausible gossip, not even artistic renditions, but fucking memories and he could still smell the blood. I don't know what you're talking about, he wanted to protest, why do we have to fix this world, what's wrong with it, I don't know, life sucks, collective suicide? “There was an invasion, Lee.” She might as well have punched him in the face. There was an invasion, Lee. There was an invasion. There was an invasion. There was an invasion. There was an invasion, Lee. Some assholes, invaded. My name is fucking Mauja and I'm an asshole. Pleased to meet you. How could he fix her broken, fucked-up world if his own moral compass was apparently pointing in the most goddamned direction? It pointed somewhere, gods knew where, down some shortcut to hell probably, and his breathing was shallow and quiet (did he even breathe at all? he wasn't sure, he couldn't tell, he felt sick and his heart was hammering way too fast, like thunder). He—he—he—he'd fucking been there. He had come there. He'd been asked to come, more or less; he'd come and he'd been ready to fight for a cause he had only borrowed for the moment, because Ophelia had made it seem right. She had given him reason. She had told him it was okay. She had allowed him to become a mule, content to let someone else take responsibility— They were screaming in his head now, those memories. Screaming, but he hadn't cared, because someone else had said it was okay, that it was right— But everything was just wrong and he knew nothing and he thought he had known something at least but turns out he didn't and— And then she asked the question to which he had all the answers. “Who's that evil?” Your mother. Archibald, and Kaj. Kahlua. And.. I. He was still staring away, tense, cold and rigid like a statue—as ever, she shamed him, cradled against his neck, so raw and passionate and.. and.. beneath all those funky words and her electric, nearly savage eyes she had a heart that was so much more golden than his. Frostheart. No—he was dead and buried. "I was there," he finally said, to the night, talons and wings slicing through the air with precise grace, voice as heavy as his heart. Gods, he just wanted to fall to—no, through—the goddamned floor and rewind and never have to have this conversation or think of these things or, and, or.. or, or, and.. and.. running away again, aren't we? And I wasn't there to stop it. I was there to fight. Because I could. He wanted to defend it—to say that it was the kind of shit that happened, that Kaj and Archibald allowed everyone who wanted to to stay, but war causes trauma, doesn't it? He thought of he Magnar, and how they had battled for generations to regain their ancestral homeland, taken from them on a whim by the renegade unicorns—and he thought of Myrkdalur, of the exhaustion and the blood and the pain .. and he thought of that first sunrise, of co-existence and peace. "I am a monster, Elding," he finally said, something quiet burning around his words, around his eyes, a lonely sparrow of flame lighting up the dark for a moment before disappearing in a crackling flash. You make me a monster. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-13-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
*"I was there.”* RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-13-2015 Ginnungagap—the primordial void, the yawning gap—was the empty space in which the world began. In the south, it bordered on fire and flame, and past the north, the ice lay thick, layer upon layer upon layer. She was the fires of Muspelheim, and he was the stoic, frozen north—and the space between them was the space where these worlds met. But in that moment, he doubted something would spring from it, that something would rise from the ashes of their burning souls—that there would be any kind of rebirth. She left him alone in his chill, ice crawling over his skin where she had touched him, and left her traces of warmth. If she stood by him long enough, maybe he would, finally, crack and melt. Frost..fucking..heart. He didn't want to meet her gaze. He didn't want to see what he could practically taste, to have it laid so bare in her eyes that he couldn't ignore it. He didn't want to let her in. He didn't want to tell her the truth. He didn't want to ruin something he had come to cherish more than he had anticipated. He didn't.. He didn't want to have to leave her alone in this dark world, because he knew how fragile she was. But he was afraid, that it was what was going to happen, that the gap between them would yawn wider and wider until he couldn't detect even the slightest trace of her warmth. All would be the cold, desolate darkness of his soul—he would be left to walk his lonely realm of stone and ice alone, dragging the heavy, bloodied sword in his wake. She was protesting, and he didn't meet her eyes, frozen and stubborn, staring into the deepening darkness. Do you know what you are saying? It was the voice of his monster, of his deepest, darkest reason, so smooth and logical, so collected, not at all clenching its jaws together to keep the hot tears from spilling from icy eyes; it's voice nearly a sinister purr, you are sorry you were not there to help me take their home from them? It hadn't even been a war. It had been shameful and ridiculous and, yes, disgusting. “Those babies—that woman--how can I…?” You can't, he wanted to say, to turn those eyes upon her and stare at her and let her see how the salt nearly burned his whites to red with all that he held back— But he couldn't. This was hard enough as it was. And the worst part? It was so much more rational than the time when he had yelled at Kahlua. No, wait—the worst part was that he didn't want to hurt her. But he feared, was dead certain, that he would. "You are not awful," he finally said, speaking too slowly, each word cold and dead, simple weight falling from stiff lips. It wasn't her fault. She wasn't to blame. She hadn't been there, a wolf to pick off any stragglers, so ready to fight on slowly diminishing loyalties and whims and.. you have no right, he had yelled at the cretin desecrating Quinn's body. And what right had Mauja had, to be just another number in the reckoning? What right had he had to stand there, with only a borrowed cause? What right—when had he ever done something right? Honesty is hard, brother. "Elding, I..." And it was so tempting to say Roskuld, just to catch her attention and clear her stubborn ears, but she wasn't Roskuld to him—she was lightning, she was that stubborn kid curled up on the floor and crying because love hurt so damned much. She was.. he didn't know what she was. He just knew that he cared and that he was holding the knife to his own heart, pressing it in bit by bit with words because he felt like a liar, foul and vile. "I wasn't there to defend them," he finally whispered, ears angling back and terror lacing every word—just as it laced every beat of his heart, his pulse a roar, jaw trembling. And at last, he turned his head, eyes looking for hers. Looking at her was the least he could do—what she deserved, to stare into a gaze that was so unused to displaying anything but now it roared fear. I'm afraid of losing you. "I was there to make sure the Falls were lost." It was barely more than a breath, just the faintest swirl of air in that vast, yawning void—that abyss that stretched between them, devoid of anything. In that moment, it felt infinite. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-13-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
I wasn’t ready. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-13-2015 cold blood runs through their veins the angry river rises as we step into the rain It was less than a second—nearly less than a heartbeat, but not quite. His heart had frozen in his chest, ceased its panicked rhythm, held its fucking breath along with the rest of him as he braced for impact. Not physical impact—not the kind where bodies clash and minds collide and there's blood and bruises and friction. But the kind of impact where you hear the sterling sound of your glass world breaking, and then you feel it come raining down in a shower of shards. Because this thing, it didn't fall and hit the hard ground—this thing exploded up in the air. He wasn't ready, either. He was all sorts of choked, unable to draw breath for that thing lodged in his throat, heart stiff and silent because—because—just because. “NO YOU WEREN’T!!" she yelled, just a fraction of a moment later, her voice—her voice plunging the fine dagger all the way into his heart, and punching the breath out of him. He tried to draw another one in, to fill up those empty lungs, but he couldn't—the only thing he achieved was a ragged kind of gasp, a hitch through widened nostrils. I wish I were, but he couldn't say anything. His control was fraying—he could feel it, at the edges of his eyes, the slight blurring of his vision, in the irrational, erratic twitch of his ears as the one he had sworn to protect slowly began to understand what he had said. What he had actually said. Honesty, brother. It wasn't cathartic. It didn't ease anything. It felt like shards of glass rubbed into his eyes, his throat.. like he was swallowing them and they ripped everything inside up and the only good thing about it was that he didn't have to bear the burden of having lied to her. It was too late, even if he'd wanted to do it, too late because she'd never believe him if he took it back, and he couldn't do that to her, and oh god that breath was dangerously close to turning into a sob, but he couldn't stand here and fucking cry because he was a monster and he did not deserve her pity or want it or even need it— —he just needed her. There was no forgiveness for blind faith; it did not make him any less guilty. Martyrdom is only a blindfold that increases the bitter pain. This was no beautiful suffering, not some kind of purge he went through for angelic, higher purposes—there was only the filthy truth of life embedded in those shards as they coursed through his veins, tearing up the things that made life worth living. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry— but I can't make it undone. The worst thing wasn't the truth—the worst thing was that feeling, that thing putting his heart in frozen shackles. The feeling of having let her down. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough, for her—he wasn't worthy of her presence, and, he just brought this pain with him wherever he went, didn't he? Ophelia.. Kahlua.. and now her—Elding. “Why?” she was asking, and the answer was so simple—so disgustingly simple. He had spent the majority of his life rationalizing violence. He had spent the majority of his life practicing violence. He had spent the majority of his fucking life ruining others for his own gain. You don't walk away from that without scars—and his ran across his heart and mind, a kind of callous, desensitization; he had learned not to think. The enemy was a gray and nameless blur, etched too vividly in his memory, blood-stained and— faceless, that dark voice whispered, they were faceless when you killed them. It's how easy it was—she had said, we are invading, Midas will pay, and she had played towards his honor and his flawed sense of justice. She had made it seem noble. "Ophelia," he answered her bitterly—Ophelia, who always seemed so pristine and so holy, so.. flawless and graceful, so angelic, so.. so harmless. But she was a demon, wasn't she? Just like the rest of them? Why had he fought? A simple request. A simple reason. Something familiar. —I never laid hands on any of them— But it didn't matter. He had been ready to. Part of him had wanted to. Could you abstain violence? Could you live the rest of your life without touching anyone with the force of your fury behind it again? Could you survive without that outlet? Mauja had no middle ground—when he fought, he fought. When he fought, he tapped on every reserve of anger he had ever hoarded, all those little moments where his control reined in the mounting rage, all those little moments of irritation, and.. and everything he kept locked up in his icy little jar. Your mother, he wanted to say, to spit out that final thing that was stuck between his teeth—but he couldn't do it. He couldn't do that to her as well, “No you weren’t, no you weren’t, you’re lying--” Leos, ljós. It means light. Dagrenning... Dögun... Afturelding. Was there to even be a dawn after this impossible night? Could he bombard her, burden her, with even more truths? He looked to her, to her eyes, to her sides, her nostrils, all these little signs and his mind replayed her voice time and again. Why? "She asked me," he whispered, something hot—shame—boiling in his veins, in his voice, touching his tongue with every scalding word. "And I just.. did." I am a sword drenched in the blood of those my wielder calls enemies. And so suddenly, it stared him in the eye—the raw, naked truth. He did not exist. He had a body, one of flesh and blood. But he was soulless. Mauja was a name as empty as his deceivingly white husk. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-13-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
Ophelia, he says to me. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-15-2015
I am nothing.
I have nothing. It was a despair so much deeper than any he had felt before—a choking, roiling blackness that settled like a fine film of dust over his heart, veins, lungs, eyes. He could barely breathe, too allergic, too disgusted, to himself—just knowing that those lungs would swell with air, with life, but that all the sparks in his heart were dead, cold embers. He could see it—he could see it in his mind, feel it, that empty, barren cavern in his chest. Stale blood in dusty veins. I don't exist. Elding was yelling, screeching, her voice transformed into the voice of a wounded beast spilling out its black, poisoned blood—and somewhere in her back, he knew there was the shaft of an arrow sticking out, and he knew that he had helped put it in her back. But he was just staring at her, too shocked to say anything—to feel anything. I don't exist. He was nothing. He had it, hearts and lungs and red blood, oxygen fueling his farce of a life—but that was it. That was it. It didn't matter what he told himself. It didn't matter what others told him. It didn't matter whatever little kernel of fucking gold Sarazheha had thought he'd seen buried in the ice. It didn't matter, because it was all lies anyway. It didn't matter because he was what others had made him—what others expected of him—what was needed. “….why?” she asked, so pitiful and pathetic, trying to find again that creature of light she had made him into—but finding, what? The disappointment of his hollow soul, and the monster her fucking Ma had made him into? And what the fuck do you answer to that, the spectral images of wings still burned into his retinas? Because I'm expendable. Because I do. Because Mauja didn't exist. He was breathing fast and shallow, suddenly aware of it, like he was trying to swallow the fucking panic with his lungs, or somehow dodge it, but suddenly he was backing away from her with his head high and eyes wide, rolling in their sockets— —and his ass collided with a pillar and he screamed, a sound unlike any he had ever made in his life as it exploded out of his throat, cutting through the heavy night air and out into the ruined tranquility— —and somehow he was half outside the structure, shoulder sliding down smooth marble to join his shattered heart on the ground as he collapsed in a graceless pile, sobbing and doing something, like he was trying to hide beneath his forelegs or claw his eyes out against his knees or just anything to get the terror fiend out of his head. Because it sat in there, cold and dark and smooth, with a Cheshire grin and purring, content, because finally, finally he had understood—finally he had understood that he did not exist beyond the soft sound of his own name. Mauja—the empty soul. I don't exist. [ 1,000 whoop whoop pull up @[Roskuld] also idk what the fuckkkk happened here. ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-16-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
Why, why, why, why, why. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-16-2015
And it was just that fucking thing tearing at him, at his skull, and he didn't know if it was trying to get in or out. It was just there and he was rubbing his head vigorously at his knees, pawing frantically, eyes wide and dry and mad but each breath broken, rattling out of his lungs along with a mouthful of panic.
I can't— Damnit, I can't— Because he knew it, bone-deep, soul deep, and he saw it in everyone's eyes, how they knew it too— —angel— —and then they saw that he was no angel and he saw that fucking light go out in their eyes when they realized that he wasn't going to save them, when they realized he wasn't some fucking savior or paladin—when they realized that he was just a hollow vessel for whatever they fucking projected on him. He felt it out, like the snake of a tongue flicking out for their scents, and he adapted. He became. He lived for them, and did for them— —and suddenly he couldn't reconcile it anymore. There was Phi's need pitted against Elding's need. The war machine, the winter soldier, pitted against the dawn's light. A demon, and an angel. Both of them existed within the same fragile, white body, but neither of them existed beyond the moment. Who was he when he was alone? Who was he when he slept, when he dreamed? Angel or demon? Who the hell was Mauja? I don't exist. It was another ragged gasp coming down his throat, sides heaving as he inhaled panic. You don't understand— She was a titan. She was a fucking goddess. She could fucking fly. She was destruction, annihilation, she was his hope and his dreams and his heart, but more than anything, she was— —Elding. Her teeth connected with his mane, forcing another shattered scream out of his raw throat, as if her very presence burned him—but he couldn't say anything, his fractured self like a shattered cup desperately trying to hold water. It just ran between his fingers, like his life. And somewhere, deep inside of those unworthy pits of his heart, anger ignited. It was deep—a slow flame flickering through his marrow, a raw darkness edging his eyes—not the sheets of blue fire, not that rage.. something slower. Something deeper. Something old and bitter. When she had shattered, he had given her time. When he shattered, she gave him nothing. Demands and her sharp teeth and what the fuck had she meant to say when she shut up around his rugged mane? (It hurts, let go.) Was it because he had let her down? Was it because she was disappointed that he was flawed? Why the fuck couldn't—? "SHUT UP!" he yelled hoarsely and propelled himself to his feet, forcefully shoving his neck into her mouth, shoulder coming up like a battering ram and he hoped it fucking hurt, that he could shove her aside. Dry-eyed he spat, "Do you think I'm—?", but nothing more came out, his voice abruptly dying off, sides heaving and veins still running on empty panic. I don't exist. What do you think I'm doing? Why do you think I fell to the fucking ground? For shits and giggles? Do you think I'm fucking alright? Your world broke. My world broke. Why is yours worth more? Black nostrils were wide, his eyes rimmed red with something he couldn't get off his tongue. Because I am evil. Who's that evil, Roskuld? "Angel," he whispered, so broken, so bitter, wondering why he still stood up, why he still talked, why he still fucking cared. Where the hell did he find the energy to go on? Why the fuck did he still feel like he owed her anything, least of all the secrets of his black fucking empty heart? Frostheart. A name as empty as his future. "Angel," he said again, still fractured, standing lopsided and defeated—rugged. "I see it in their eyes—I hear it in their words—angel," and his voice was a whisper, but he thought she didn't care—why would she? Why would she care about him? "But then that light goes out. And they realize that it was just a trick of the light." So cold. His voice bit the chilly air, heart slowly sealing itself back in its cage as the ice patched up the holes blown in his armor. The porcelain mask slid back in place. Ice offered his body the rigidity he lacked; head coming up high, the weight falling off his shoulders, grace settling back in his posture. You wanted your monster. Have it. "Why what?" he asked of her, so cold, so cold, —and something in his heart whispered 'you know nothing of my murders', because he had tried to be a monster for Kahlua, too. But he couldn't. And he couldn't be a monster for Elding, either. He couldn't be a monster for anyone. He didn't want to be a monster (but he was one all the same). He didn't wait for an answer—it happened too fast, he shattered again, fell apart, took a step backwards with hesitancy and fear written all over his fucking body, in every single way it could be shown. "I don't want to live like this anymore," he whispered, so quiet he wondered if she would hear it through the haze of her wrath. Even if she did, he doubted she would care. He had fallen too low, and hit the ground too fast, too hard. He had seen that light go out in her eyes, too. [ you get *my* 1000th Mau post too.. the first Mau post on this account was by ali. :P @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-16-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
GET UP was the challenge. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-17-2015
He was tired.
He was tired beyond belief, and not in the way that demands sleep. He was tired of these thoughts, of these questions—of these looks he got, the ones that whispered you used to be so much more. He was tired of thinking, of being— —she charged at him, her gait sort of uneven, jagged, pieces of her heart bleeding out through the cracks, and her eyes were so dead as she came at him, horn pointing for his heart— —tired of never being good enough. There was blood on her teeth. One ear, porcelain white rimmed with black, flicked, uncertain, hesitant, even as he took that single step backwards with all his defenses falling down again—there was blood on her teeth but he couldn't feel anything, aside from the heat of a bruise blossoming on his shoulder.. tiny pinpricks of pain at the roots of his mane. That ear flicked again, half-forward, then leaning back again; nothing he felt answered the question. And there were tears on her cheeks. “Then do—“ she began, pausing to spit blood out, and it stuck on her mouth in some kind of mockery he couldn't place—and he just stared at her, wary and hesitant and afraid because he knew just as little of her as she knew of him (or?). There's nothing to know about me. His breathing had grown quiet with the fear, the instinct to run frozen into complete stillness. It suddenly sat too deep. And it was composed out of a million different things—I don't exist—What are you doing?—Please—I don't want to hurt you—You're crying— —I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry. “Then don’t,” the face of his demise said, so quiet, choking on blood that must've flowed from somewhere within, black hooves drawing her closer to the ghost she was hunting— "I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying—" he babbled brokenly, eyes wide and shining in the first starlight—and he backed, afraid of letting her closer, of letting her in again, because when she had exploded out of his chest the mess she'd left of his heart had hurt. And it would hurt again. Everything would hurt, always. And he would've kept on backing, matching her step for step, if it wasn't for those pillars—those damned, cursed, fucking marble pillars some long dead genius had put in this sorry corner of the world. His ass came up against the smooth surface again, and for a moment he tried to fold in on himself, a brittle leaf blown over by the night breeze, but he couldn't—he couldn't escape her. He couldn't escape reason. He couldn't escape himself. But you don't exist— She needed answers. She—gods, he didn't know what she needed, or what he needed, or anything, but the reason it hurt so fucking much to watch her white-hot eyes and tears was because he cared—because he wanted to.. fix this? No—he wanted to fix her. With each word she spoke—each step she took—he breathed, quiet and shallow, too fast, too fast, fleeing down the long, winding corridors of his mind. It was coming apart. It was all coming apart. Backed up against the Rotunda, he could barely understand what she was saying, what she was asking, and then her eyes changed—her voice changed—but she kept advancing, relentless and merciless and—her mouth still smeared with the red she kept swallowing, her cheeks still glistening in the autumn starlight. She was close—she was close, and he was terrified, his heart hammering wildly in his broken chest, but it couldn't get anywhere. “Are you sayin’ the only reason I’m standing here now is because of a trick of the light?” "I don't know," and it just slid out of his mouth with one of his breaths, tainting the air between them, and he choked in the next inhalation—because she was there again, so close that he could practically feel the heat emanating from her bruised body, and— Memories overlapped. "I'm falling apart," he admitted in a small whisper. "I don't know," he repeated, dumb, babbling, the depth blown out of his eyes—they were just wide and pale, with.. with nothing underneath. He blinked, he—he breathed, he lived, but he couldn't think because everything was just a jumbled mess—why—and each time he reached for his thoughts they slipped out of his grasp, like smoke— —but she was there, anchoring him with her touch, leaving a bloodied little mark across his heart (where her mother's horn should've gone in) and it was what kept him from running. "You're crying," he whispered, head moving gracelessly; the tip of his muzzle connected with her cheek (again), but without finesse—more like it collided with her, as if he wasn't quite in control of what he did anymore. "You're injured," he went on, his voice a hot whisper against her head, and he realized—he realized in the back of his mind that he ought to go lay down. Before he fell back down. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-17-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
I had him cornered—I had him boxed in like some wounded, deranged little creature standing in the face of some great wolf licking his chops, daydreaming about the taste of rabbit flesh and red-hot blood (on his tongue). I saw how he breathed; I watched how his eyes rolled; I listened to how he stammered, how he groped for something in his head that slipped passed his grasp and out his mouth anyway (I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying—)— RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-17-2015 'Cause I've got an elastic heart What did I do— I'm sorry I'm sorry what did I do— But it didn't matter. It didn't matter why he had been out on that late summer's day, or why he had cared enough to seek out the tattered, tired princess from the north. It didn't matter what words she had said to make him join up with their army. It didn't matter that all he'd done had been guard Kahlua and watch the battle with the bile rising in the back of his throat because it had been a graceless slaughter— If they had been anything but the Edge— If it had been the Plague— The Falls would've run red with blood. Nothing mattered, but the tears on her face, and the blood on her lips, that blood diluted with saliva and smeared onto his chest—the tears that he had put there. Someone had blown holes in his memory, gaps of blackness ringing with the word why (and visions of empty stone vaults), but he wasn't dumb—he wasn't logically stupid, even if he was an idiot. He could put two and two together (never mind that he thought it was five every once in a while). He knew, just as deeply as he had known that terrifying, fading thing about himself, that he had made her cry. That something about him had unleashed that flood again. That knowledge roiled beneath the surface of his glassy eyes, fueled his slow, drone-like movements, and was the one thing he clung to to keep from drowning: you hurt and it's my fault. You hurt and that matters. It was the only thing that mattered—it mattered more than her anger, than his bitter, wounded anger, and it mattered more than whatever wrong he'd done. It mattered because it was her. It mattered because it was here, and now. It mattered because the slow trickle of salty water tickled his nose (if for no other reason but please for that—). She didn't say anything. He didn't say anything—his words were spent. The rest of the situation was beyond his comprehension, all those little things— —she made it seem noble— —they did to them what was once done to me— —I never stop to think— —I'm sorry I yelled— —I'm sorry— —I'm fucking sorry— —all those little things rolling beneath the lid of his mind, those erratic wisps of smoky thought flitting out of his grasp, tantalizing because he needed them—he needed them to fix this shit because she had asked him things and he had to answer because it mattered, because it mattered to her, because she had made him see his own evil— —but he was just so winded, whiskers twitching, eyes vacant as he stared and he didn't know what to do because all he wanted was to fix her damn tears and the blood on her lips but how do you even do that—? I need to lie down— Please, just let me go lie down— Where he had screamed before at her touch, he simply—well—whatever the fuck it was it wasn't a graceful sound, swallowing his own inhalation in surprise, it sounded like a noise something dead might try to make— —but she was there, all of a sudden, leaving more trails of pinkish red in his violated hair, the entire width of her neck pressed against his, chin pressing down as she held him and—and—and—and I still need to lay the fuck down—but she was holding him, like he had never been held before (I've always been the strong one, I've always been the shield, I've always been the one who holds) with all the unspoken forgiveness that promised that she would still kick his ass for this— And he couldn't help but think that she was about twenty seconds too late. He blinked his pale, empty eyes. They were dry. He poked his brittle soul. It was fractured, but hollow. He needed—wanted—to let it all go—to find some way to just let everything out. But she had denied him his moment—she had dragged him from the pits of his despair and forced him to stand again. And like always, he had obeyed—he had tried—he had begun to heal in the only way he could, drifting further and further from all that hurt and into a realm of pale nothingness, all in an attempt to be there and answer her and.. and.. and now, when she held him, when she wordlessly asked him to break again, he found that he felt— —nothing. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-17-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
My breath was hard like I had been running a marathon (and I guess I was), huffing out of me and into his mane and against him, rough and ragged and uneven like my lungs were still figuring out how to do it. It trembled, too, my breath and everything else inside me—shaking with a poised nerve, waiting, waiting for the crash to happen, bracing myself so when he exploded (like I did) the blast wouldn’t blow me away completely. RE: Frostmourne; - Mauja - 05-19-2015 burning ashes on the floor trouble in the air I didn't sign up for this war Crystallize. His world was settling, rifts closing up with ice as the snow that had whirled about fell back down to the ground—and the horizon stretched endlessly all around him, unbroken in his perfect world of cold white. Things froze inside of him, some kind of stasis.. where the pain was not so vibrant, but.. nothing else was, either. He knew this state of mind. He knew it better than he wanted to. It was a mental lock-down that was more complete than anything else, as he buried himself beneath six feet of snow and glaciers. And why? For her. Because he needed to function. And function did not line up with feeling. But still he was there, clutching at the fading straws of his sadness, of his confusion, of his hurt and his despair—clutching at anything, replaying vicious memories in his head and whispering you're that evil and it's all your fault, but.. but nothing happened. He just stood there, so perfect in his frigid stillness, and still she clutched at him, held him, told him that he could shatter as she had—like she waited for it or clung to him for reasons all of her own, and.. and he still just stood there, neck lowered under her pressure and pale eyes gazing vacantly down her flank. And he hated it. He hated the nothingness. He hated knowing that he'd scared his flighty soul off again. He hated not being strong enough to fall apart. He hated it, because this was another ugly scar forming over his heart—another memory he would have to bear along with the rest. There had been no purge. He hadn't been able to let it out. He wondered if he should say something—contemplated doing it, even, felt the words damn it roll around on his tongue but what did he have to damn in her presence, really? She held him and she held him and her distorted voice complained about the size of his neck (I'm sorry) but what—what could he do? What should he do? Her questions burned like bonfires in his mind. And he had the calm to answer them, now that he'd lost himself, and wore his skin like a cloak over hollow bones. Come back. This wasn't Sarazheha's goddamned fabled honesty, this was—this was what like living soulless was. He wanted that fierce pain lancing through his heart. He wanted the sensation of his skin being on fire when she touched him, even if it forced the most inhuman screams out of his mouth. The mystery of Mauja was a puzzle he had only recently discovered, and he only had a few pieces; they were a little worn around the edges, and some of them were bloodstained and frostbit, but there was that moment when he considered shoving her away (like he had Kahlua)—that moment when everything in him had rebelled. That had to mean something.. right? Right?! He hadn't noticed, but his head had come down, cheek resting against the swell of her ribs. ".. Elding." And his voice was low, disheartened, mirroring the desolation within—and that other thing, the defeat. "You.. I..." His jaws worked soundlessly for a moment. It felt cheap to stand this close to her when he wasn't crying, when he wasn't doing what he should, and some part of him, very briefly, had the wild notion of just spilling everything to her and hoping he was reduced to a blubbering mess by the time that he was done. But he didn't. Why? His entire life was founded on control—and with age, he had come to realize that he had spent so long curbing his emotions he couldn't.. do them anymore. He would not be able to cry—to shatter—unless she brought him back to the brink of his own ruin. And he hated himself for it. ".. it's too late," he finally went on. "You had me freezing over again. I.. I can't reverse that." The secret of my sanity, this glacier. The deathbed of his secrets. "It's like.. it's like there's nothing of me left in me. Just.. winter," and he was pulling back ever so slightly, just to be able to look at her—at her tears, damnit, why does that suddenly not mean anything? How can you just look at them, and not feel a goddamn thing? (Just the slightest echo of something hot and washed-out; guilt and shame.) "I—it—" Was it improvement that he was attempting to slowly, slowly back away from her again? Did it mean the cursed wave of darkness was coming rolling back in, to devour his pristine world and send him back into the throes of his own storm? "There's just this nothingness in me," he finally whispered, eyes growing a little wider with that terror again. [ @[Roskuld] ] lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet walk him down the hall, repeat and when he's strong enough to stand alone you'll notice what big teeth . . . RE: Frostmourne; - Roskuld - 05-19-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
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