[P] black hole sun - 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] black hole sun (/showthread.php?tid=21150) |
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black hole sun - Nyx - 10-14-2015
@Mauja RE: black hole sun - Mauja - 10-24-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Mauja had never been pregnant (d'uh), but out of all the kids he had, only one should've happened—and then again, maybe she shouldn't have, either. What love does a child born from political necessity receive? What purpose does a child have, when she is only part of a bond—a contract? By mixing their blood they made to seal their pact, tie themselves to one another in a way that would make them stronger, and harder to break apart, as much as a safety net as anything else. If Psyche would've backed out, he could've used Snö as leverage. But there was little point in thinking about that, or regretting the children he had, foolishly, put into this world. They were spread to the winds, but loved from afar—never loved up close, because Mauja's heart was an eternal winter, shying away from love. He hadn't seen most of them in a while. Tamlin had disappeared long ago, and Sielu had gone to find her mother. Glacia lived up north, when she wasn't busy drowning on his doorstep, and Snö—well, Snö was as much a ghost as he was. This time, it wasn't Irma who found her—it was Diego, the dying sunlight lighting him up in burnished bronze with deep, dark touches of maroon nestling in his feathers. Fire to match the sun burned in his eyes, and long, deadly talons stretched out to grip a nearby branch. The sound of wings folding was barely more than a whisper, and in the falling darkness he blinked, head turning slightly towards her. The first, crisp starlight fell upon her dried tears, salt-stains like white upon silver, and upon her swollen sides. It wasn't the curve of ribs, or a grass belly—it was pregnancy. She was pregnant, and had been crying, and Mauja stood somewhere else in the forest, staring dispassionately up at the large moon. Couldn't his life ever be easy? A white breath smoked out into the cold night air as a sigh. Couldn't life ever be easy on others? What had happened to her? Concern warred with a strange kind of disappointed anger. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want to point out the sheer stupidity of it to her. He didn't want to have sane words to say to soothe whatever made her heart ache and break—didn't want to exist in this world if she cried because she was pregnant, because what vile force was strong enough to rape his finest sterling warrior? It was like Ghost's birth, over and over, and deep in the moon-shadows of the Edge Mauja snarled, and struck the ground once. When things were calm and silent he was listless, longing for something to happen, and when something happened, he was just reminded of how much the world sucked and wanted to set it all on fire. Watch it all burn down, and laugh as the flickering flames devoured everything. In the end, it would devour him, too. Uncharacteristically muttering obscenities under his breath he began to make his way through the Edge, taking his goddamn sweet time because she just stood there anyway, and Diego had his eyes on her, so if she left he would know—would be able to find her again, because she couldn't outpace an owl in this terrain. And, he didn't want to rush into this meeting. He didn't want it to take place at all. He didn't want to stare into red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes, and wonder what calamity brought such emotion into an iron heart—he didn't want to stare into the face of that, and tell her she was an idiot. What was he supposed to be first, anyway? Friend, or ruler? Did she event want him as a friend? Was he any good as a friend? He didn't want to be her ruler, either—he didn't want to be anybody's ruler, but this was about so much more than herself and the unborn child growing in her womb. He materialized out of the night fog, cold and silent as starlight, staring at her with blue eyes that gave nothing away—because his heart had still not decided what to feel. [ @Nyx ] RE: black hole sun - Nyx - 10-26-2015
@Mauja RE: black hole sun - Mauja - 11-11-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
She greeted him with distant eyes and laughter—a witch-like sound singing out of her throat. Or more like, drawn out of her lungs through a reluctant meat-grinder, screeching all the way. Soulless. Like something she oughn't be feeling, but is anyway, and like it tears her up inside, poisons her, and he guessed she felt it too. It died out in a strangled sob, and Mauja, coward that he was, looked briefly aside. He knew what it was like, when the world grabbed you like that, and twisted your heart and brains around, the confusion and all the sparks running haywire—all those impulses you shouldn't be having, but had, and couldn't control. His eyes closed. I don't want to deal with this. Couldn't he just have waltzed up on her in a sunny meadow, sides fat and glistening with 'glow' and eyes bright, voice bright, so he could be the single thunder cloud in her blue, blue sky? And he could tell her she was an idiot, she would either throw defiance at him or recoil because she hadn't been able to control her needs or whatever and because she understood what he meant and where he came from— But this wasn't like that. This was Nyx crying alone in a forest at night, wrecked by some demon bouncing around in her head (—heart), laughter bubbling up like blood from a puncture wound. This .. fuck, this required some sort of finesse and tact he didn't possess—had never cared about—if he had ever known how to, he had forgotten, let it gone to rust, and you can't stitch up broken hearts with rusted needles. "Lace is dead." The eyes that had begun to open again snapped wide and blue at the mention of that name, falling back on Nyx. Lace is dead. In fact, it was nothing short of a miracle he had survived Mauja's rather bizarre and brutal treatment of him, but he had, and Helovia was full of miracles, so Mauja could buy that—but he had died now? Well and truly died? The first thing he felt, was relief. Immense, great, fucking relief. One less reason to look over his shoulder. One less horse likely to come after him with hounds and fire to take over his home. One less idiot to pollute the air, and breathe his oxygen, and eat his grass. Barely realizing it, he heaved a very, very slow sigh, taking all that was Lace and exhaling it. Freedom— But it came with a price, didn't it? Flashbacks of the silver dragon Lace lying prone on his side, chest busted open from an ice spike, and Nyx running over to him the moment he fell and Mauja let up his attacks—and all those tears having left white stains down silver sides, bizarre face paint in the moonlight. "And no, he wasn't the one to knock me up, before you ask." Well—no, he hadn't thought to ask that, because.. why would that have been logical to assume? In fact, it was almost annoying that she thought he would've thought that, but maybe it was the kind of conclusion she would leap to herself if the roles were reversed— (—and somewhere, deep down, in some dark and dusty corner of his mind, he kind of wished that d'Artagnan had been able to knock him up, so he would've had a piece of him still, more than leather bags strapped to his shoulder—) "I'm not sorry that he is dead," he began, slowly, there in the darkness, his breath fogging into the already foggy night, like little ghost-words lit up by star and moon alike. "But I am sorry that you have lost someone close to you." And how could he possibly berate her for being pregnant in the same breath? How could he possibly be heartless enough to do it at all tonight? He closed his pained eyes again even as he drifted closer to her, feeling the terrain and seeing it from the owl's eyes; he paused in front of her, eyes slipping open again. He couldn't do it right now, but he would have to do it, because a herd was bigger than yourself—she had been given a duty, a trust, and she had breached it. Gently, he reached his dark nose out to her, hoping to offer her whatever comfort he could. (But what does ice know of healing, truly?) [ @Nyx ] RE: black hole sun - Nyx - 11-15-2015
@Mauja RE: black hole sun - Mauja - 11-15-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Loss. Life. Love. Loss— They seemed synonymous, burning in his mind, tangled up together in some kind of holy trinity—over the years they had blurred and blended, until he couldn't tell one from the other anymore. They were all you had, and they would always come around, one way or another. You lived—and so, you had to love. When you loved, you had to lose, sooner or later. To death, to someone else, to the slow, gruesome work of time; to the simple fact that passion was a flame that could go out. And even if you found a love that lasted forever, it, too, would end, when life did, and when you no longer lived nothing mattered—whether you had loved or not would be forgotten. What you would lose was not love, no, what you would lose was everything—life. And so it went, love and life and loss and love, and he saw it written in the flash of danger in her electric eyes, in the blatant shout of her ears falling back as he threatened to trample her grief. Honesty, Sarazheha had said; but was honesty worth this blunt price? Still—he wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't have done it without saying what he did. Couldn't have come to her with false words, crooning oh no is he dead? what a shame in her ears, because .. it would've been lies. The sorrow in her eyes, the wetness around her eyes, the salt stains down her cheeks—it tore at him, at the rawness in his throat as his grief had scratched and fought its way out of his chest. He knew what she felt, and yet, did not, not entirely, for each death, each life, each love and each loss, was .. once, only; and could never be the same, not for anyone, not ever. Her breath was warm against his pale face, a thin veil of white rising in the night to dissipate along with his; his eyes closed again as he breathed in the scent of her, plush muzzles touching. Just for a moment, though—just for a moment before she pulled back, allowed the cool night air to rush in between them like a wedge. Carefully he masked the hurt in his eyes, watching hers, naked in the darkness. Was this what lay at the core of the silver soldier? Was this what lurked behind every sarcastic comment, every raised eyebrow, every carefully controlled movement? A heart. "You shouldn't have to see me like this," and he was shaking his head; she had pulled away from him as much as she had pulled away from herself, and he knew what that felt like, too. You should always be on top. Of everything. Of your own grief. You should always be perfect. In control. Of everything. And emotion was a disaster, a hindrance, an obstacle in your way, in your duty, something to overcome—something to forget how to feel, until you were nothing but a machine. Until you could watch somebody die and feel not even the slightest shudder coming from your frostbitten heart. "How do you cope, Mauja? How do you live when you lose someone?" And he kept shaking his head, the rocking motion growing more and more violent, neck moving with it, shoulders (heart) vibrating, rubbing against the leather straps— How do you live when you lose someone? How do you live when you love someone? "I never lived," he finally forced out between clenched teeth, eyes snapping open and head thrown high—suddenly so still, only his nostrils quivering in the moonlight. There was terror in his eyes. (Was this really the first time she lost someone she cared for?) "Like you—I pulled back from grief. I should've been a soldier—" (It was cold, so utterly, unbelievably cold, and the stars were out. They were distant and pale, frigid in their light, beautiful and sharp, witnesses to the tragedy of life—and he remembered lying in snow as cold as the stars with the metallic scent of fresh blood up his nose. He could still feel it freezing on his skin, turning black, until the moment froze in darkness.) He hadn't cried then, but he was crying now, sides heaving, stars glowing in his tears. "—but I just failed. I had shaped myself, chipped and chipped and chipped until there was nothing left of me—" And he had been so young, so malleable, it had been so easy to remove every trace of emotion—he had lied and lied and lied and told himself he felt in private, but once you've begun to stifle the flow there's no stopping. It becomes a habit. And then, suddenly—you don't feel, at all. Ice. "And I failed anyway. I wasn't perfect. I wasn't a perfect soldier. I wasn't—" He swallowed. "I wasn't the machine I had tried to be." And maybe, if he hadn't pushed himself so hard, he wouldn't have been seen as promising, and been sent on that fucking training mission that went to dipshit hell and blood and the first rock in the landslide of loss— But maybes were useless. "I don't cope," he said—shouted, almost serenely, at the stars, snapping back to the question like a whiplash. He had come too close to the heart of everything, his core pierced by perfect, beautiful ice— "I just freeze until there's nothing left of me and now that I can't anymore, I—" And the silence was abrupt, because what could he say? When Psyche had died he had sworn revenge, on everyone and everything, but what had he amounted to? Nothing. When he heard of Kou's death, he had meant to track down whoever the fuck had done it, but had he? No. When his own death had been pending on a trial of the dragon whore, he had meant to find Ophelia and tell her the truth ( Now Aviya was dead and d'Artagnan had left and those were tears he couldn't freeze. They had poured, hot and unashamed, and he had wept, and it was a dull ache in his heart, a constant fucking bruise, except now he had poked it—fucking punched it—and the tears were falling again. He had been a titan made of ice. He had been as close to a heartless god as you could come. "It fucking breaks you!" And he was flinging it at her, yelling at her, desperation crawling along the rims of his eyes; his breath hitched in the silence after it. And then, he whispered the only truth he knew, the only honesty he could give her: "And there's no shame in that." Because beneath all that silver armor, you have a heart. Don't kill it like I killed mine. [ @Nyx || FYI it doesn't re-tag when you turn it from draft to real post ... :( ] RE: black hole sun - Nyx - 11-28-2015
THOSE FEEEELSSS hnnggg give me your writing skills please ;_; @Mauja RE: black hole sun - Mauja - 12-28-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
It frightened her—the intensity of his grief, the depth of his loss. Or maybe, it was just the suddenness of his voice, the starlit rim of white around his silvered irises, the myriad of shards in his gaze. But his emotions were like that. Sudden, powerful, wild and feral and raw—but brief, like he didn't know how to sustain them. They burned bright in the darkness, a flare in the night sky, but they went out just as fast. The pinnacle of his outburst was his shout, and with the surge fading his whisper closed the book. And what was left? Ice. The strength of his leftover feelings wasn't enough to break through the cold walls around his heart, so they lingered within, wallowing in confusion; it left him feeling detached, distant, unsure of what had just happened—of what had caused such an upheaval within him, because once the avalanche had settled there was just calm, pristine snow again, and no traces of the debris buried by the mass of snow. She was hugging him, and he sighed, softly, into the hollow behind her withers. She was strong, physically at least, so he simply left the whole weight of his great head upon her back, idly lipping at strands of long, black hair when they blew too close and otherwise simply mulling over what she had asked. The flow of tears had become a trickle instead. But, did it get better? Did that feeling of your heart shattering (because it was frozen—) ever cease? It grew stronger, hardened, it kept on beating, found ways past the scars and the bruises and somewhere, the conviction to keep beating even when it was answered only by silence, but did it get easier? "You sort of .. forget," he finally said, dark lips twitching into some sort of subconscious, humorless smile. It was probably a good thing his face was not that easy for her to see. "As time passes your mind finds different things to occupy itself with, and when you forget you've lost them, you forget that it hurts. But..." But when you think of them, it hurts again. When you remember, it hurts again. He swallowed. "I have heard there are those who make their peace with loss, and losing. And I think that does not happen if you do not allow yourself to properly feel and mourn." Because if all it took was time, Mauja would've been past that, right? But he wasn't. He hadn't made his peace with anything. He had just shoved it all into a jar and slammed the lid on, hoping whatever laid in there wouldn't fester and break out. "Take the time you need," he murmured into her silver coat. "Duty can be a great distraction at times, but do not force yourself out of some misconceived notion that you have to be able to perform, at all times. Because you don't. You've lost someone who matters to you, you've lost part of your life, and you need to give yourself the space to figure things out again—otherwise you'll just be walking around with this big hole blown through your existence, and you'll come upon it in the dark of night and you won't know what to do with it, so each time you find it you'll break all over again." Now, if only he could follow his own goddamn advice for once. [ @Nyx || Sorry for the wait.. I'd be fine with fading this out soon-ish; as you may have noticed I have somewhat of a hard time getting into 'old' threads :( ] |