[O] "this is the part where you look at 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] "this is the part where you look at me (/showthread.php?tid=21301) |
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"this is the part where you look at me - Snö - 10-28-2015
@Mauja if Mauja wants the god blood she got from the battle he can have it RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Mauja - 10-28-2015 another head hangs lowly
child is slowly taken
[ ali I hate you give me the blood. <*///3 ] "Your daughter," the world replied. She had been there, at the fight—lost in the chaos of fire and tar and bodies, swallowed by the stench of burning flesh and singed hair, drowned in the screams of agony and rage. She had been there, his child, his firstborn, fighting alongside him in this pointless, dreary battle—but he lost her to the flickering sheets of flame, and to the strength of the tigress. He lost her, and when he found her, it was at the edge of his vision, staggering drunkenly towards a horizon she would not reach. And he felt something in his heart. Something deep, something dark; a cold fist sinking its claws into him and holding on tight— "Snö!" he shrieked, blood welling out from his riven chest as he charged over the sands; it was a beautiful contrast to the stark white of his fur, bitten by the salty breeze. He didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to acknowledge it. He didn't want to accept it. But he knew it, in the way she staggered, in the way she slowed, in the way she started to fall— "SNÖ!" But his voice could create no miracles, and the love in his heart was not enough to save her. She fell. (Click, the buckle on the leather came loose.) An eternity later, she hit the ground. (Thud, the leather satchel landed by his feet.) "I think I will not return to the mountains." Snö had fallen, but Mauja was still running, wild with panic and denial. "SNÖ!!!" But there was no answer, and would be no answer, and—and—and— He had nothing left anymore. He had been there at her birth in the Edge, watched her brought forth into the world by the shadow-mare he had grown to love; and in the very same mists he had seen Aviya born, stood guard over Kou as d'Artagnan would've, had he not been a captive in the Throat. Kou was murdered. Psyche was murdered. He had watched Aviya die. And now, he had watched Snö die. And d'Artagnan had walked away from him. They were in heaven now, but he had been left to walk the earth. "NO!" he shrieked, slipping in the sand—slipping on her blood—and falling down, crashing into her still and lifeless form, neck and forelegs draped carelessly over her. "No," he whispered, breathed, tears blurring his vision of the corpse that had been his eldest daughter. "Who will die today," he repeatedly dumbly to himself, wondering why he did this—time and again, why he loved, when it was all taken from him and he was left with nothing— His heart wasn't cold. It wasn't empty; hollow. It was full of glass shards and misplaced blood. "Snö, I love you, I love you, my girl, my baby girl—" He was babbling into her mane, into her cold neck, into her lifeless veins and into her valiant heart that hadn't been strong enough to keep fighting against such odds— If only he had done more than glance at her before charging with his fire. If only he had kept an eye on her, been there to protect her, take the blow for her—if only he had managed to tell her how much he loved her, how much he had always loved her, how beautiful she was, how blessed he was to have seen her grow into such a lovely mare— How much his heart ached that he had never seen her in love, that she had never borne children and felt the same pride over them as he had felt over her— He had imprinted his icy, fucked-up view of the world on her and now she was dead, lifeless, trapped in his bloodied embrace as his screams of her name grew louder and louder again, high-pitched and broken, torn from the last shreds of his shattered sanity. "It's okay," he was finally murmuring, rocking from side to side against her as if it could somehow cajole her back into life, "it's okay, it's okay, you're with momma now, you're with Psyche now, she'll take care of you, it's okay, she'll take care of you—" He was wearing d'Artagnan's leather satchel, wearing what he had left of love pressed against his shoulder. It felt as empty as his future. "—you'll be fine now, love, you'll be fine, it's okay, we'll be fine..." But you won't ever be fine, Mauja. You've lost too much. Your heart's barely beating as it is. Still, he kept promising her cold body that all would be fine, because what else had he ever had for her, but well-intended lies? and the violence caused such silence. RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Roskuld - 10-28-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
I’d heard him shriek like that before—so I guess that’s why I shot to my feet so fast. RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ophelia - 10-29-2015
(permission from ali for the mind reading!) RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Mauja - 10-29-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
“LEE!” (—don't.) “LEE, LEE--“ (—please, don't—) I can't— His whispers meant nothing, dead words falling from lifeless lips as his warm blood kept spilling out over her—as if it could somehow fall into her silent veins and bring her back to life, make her wake up from this cold marble slumber. She shouldn't be dead—she shouldn't be dead, she wasn't old enough, she was the future, she was hope, she was everything and she was lying cold in her own drying blood. "No—" he sobbed into her unyielding neck. Faced with the darkness of the world, there was little else he could do. It whispered for him, beckoned to him, rose to a shrieking gale around his ears; what did he have left? His foundation had been torn from right under him, his world brought down brick by brick until someone had just torn the whole fucking thing down, because hey, why not? It was going down anyway, this ship sinking, and still he cried for her, and not for himself, because how could he pity himself when she was the one who was dead? “….Lee.” She was breathing on his back, near his shoulder, but he just flattened his ears and buried his face against Snö. He didn't want to hear. Didn't want to know. Didn't want to be called back into the cold, cruel world where there would be no more Snö. It was like losing Psyche all over again; they hadn't met much in their last years, but he could've gone to find her if he wanted to. And now.. he couldn't.. she had burned, black and beautiful and utterly, irrevocably dead. Their daughter would follow the same path—and he hoped she would not get lost in the winding pathways of stars, but find Psyche wherever souls went when their bodies died, and that they would be happy, up there somewhere. (Or down there, or wherever the fuck they were.) And that they would run together and prance together and do all sorts of silly, funny things, and maybe, just maybe, every once in a while look down towards Helovia and watch him struggle on and miss him but not too much—he had to live his life, for them, so that when the time came for him to join them he would be able to .. what, exactly? Tell them all they'd missed out on? ".. how senseless death, how precious life," he said, weakly, exhausted. The world was a cold and empty void, but with Snö lifeless in his arms, how could he turn his back on life? "Her last thoughts were: 'I didn't get to tell my dad I'm sorry. I didn't get to tell him that I do love him.'" And the tears that fell were slow and silent, his pulse a spent thing, as he peered up towards the distant sky. "I love you, too," he mouthed at the clouds. Had he ever doubted? She had been cold, and distant, let down at every step by him—rightfully disappointed, but had he ever doubted that she felt for him, like he did for her? He had worried, yes. He had thought it would've been fair if she had. But.. all the pain he had caused her; all the pain she had admitted to—wasn't that the proof that she cared? Drawing in a ragged breath he lowered his head again, resting it against her best as he could. Snö had been the princess of the Edge—without her, it was nothing. Without Kahlua, it was nothing. Without Snö, the world was nothing. "I don't want to do this anymore," and it was like a hesitant sob, like gently poking a tiger, or feeling a sore; his head was pounding and his chest felt like it was on fire, but what else could he do? How could he rise in the morning with the strength to protect others, and guide others, and care for others, when his mind lay in shambles around the ruins of his heart? His tear-blurred gaze rose with his heavy head, and focused on the first, nearest horse he saw—which, of course, was Roskuld. "I don't want it. The Edge. Take it. It's yours." And then, he lowered his head again, sagging against the body of his child as he exhaled. The world could go on without him, even if it came to ruin. He did not care anymore. [ @Roskuld @Ophelia ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ophelia - 10-29-2015
(probs wont be able to post this weekend, so I had to reply now ;-; sorry for post order! ) RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Roskuld - 10-29-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
My whole body clenched red hot when he drew away from me—shrunk from the hint of a touch I was too cowardly to give him. And I guess I was right to fear that touch. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready, shit. @Mauja @Ophelia RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Tembovu - 10-29-2015 Nature's great masterpiece : an elephant ; the only harmless great thing.
A low, broken keening rolls over the battlefield— drawing in the elephantine man. It is the sound of a heartbreak so selfless, so thorough, and so complete that it can only be from one cause: The death of a child. The great stallion knows that timbre well. So he approaches his Queen slowly, for blood flows freely from the slashes in his side and the jagged end rattles dangerously in his chest. But he must get to his lead, to his friend. He watches him fall to his knees. Watches a unicorn of strange horn and markings stand above his rocking, shattered form. The crimson-laced woman comes near as well. They are speaking, but he is too far to hear the exchange of heartbreak. He is close enough to hear the white stallion speak to the skies, “I love you, too.” His heart shudders at the bereaved words. His strides falter, could he console him? No, there are no condolences, no comfort, to be had from this loss. He knew. But his experience with this drove him onward to stand beside his fallen friend. As his strides slow and halt, Mauja speaks to the electric mare, to everyone, and to no one “I don't want to do this anymore.” Yes, he understood that sentiment. The world was a cruel and unforgiving place, why would a father wish to live while his daughter was dead? But the world continues to spin on its unforgiving axis, oblivious to the breaking souls on its surface. He stops close to his fallen friend, trying to rest his thick legs against his back, pale hooves making strange ripples in the congealed blood. He had seen the speckled hide draw away from touch, but Tembovu still tries pressed his gentle, unyielding pressure against Mauja. Not for comfort, not to ground him to this reality, but to serve as a lifeline in the overwhelming sea of grief. “But you must, Mauja,” his low voice rumbles quietly to the fallen King, “Your child would wish it.” It was this notion, that his family would want him to continue, that had allowed him to rise from their ashes. He could only try and offer it as aid to the white leopard. He falls silent as he gives the Edge’s leadership to the electrified, stocky mare. His brows raise slightly, sweeping to her. Did he mean this, or were the grief-stricken words without sentience? The vibrating anger from the crimson lady drew his deep gaze to her and her weeping of blood. She was coated in it. Now his brows fully rise— hadn’t enough blood been shed? Such anger had no place beside a father bereaved of his daughter. The fury rolled off her in waves just as the blood rolled down her cream coat. Again, the uniquely patterned mare was speaking— Ophelia’s daughter. She was so unsure, so lost in this emotional blackhole. The mammoth’s heart squeezed at the fear and panic in the look the she bestowed on the fallen man. Though the recesses of his mind questioned if she could lead the Edge. A flash of protectiveness (perhaps poorly placed) sweeps through him— his broken comrade needed to grieve. Not play politics. Unconsciously he tries to lean more firmly against Mauja with his legs. “Mauja is— was— a lead of the World’s Edge,” rumbling voice still quiet, he briefly answers the unspoken question. "Do you want that title?" his deep voices grows slightly stronger as his dark blue gaze briefly pins the mare. "And you, my friend, are you certain of this choice? You've lost something unimaginable," he pauses as he speaks to Mauja, "And no words can offer you solace. But do you mean the words you speak?" Guilt and shame at asking such questions ripples through him. But Mauja was a King, and men of power must make decisions in the face of crippling loss. Unsure of anything but the overwhelming grief that emanates and envelops all near Mauja, he falls silent. Tembovu I hope you guys don't mind Temb joining! @Roskuld @Ophelia RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Mauja - 10-30-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me Put all your faults to bed You can be king again . . . But how could he, when his world had come to ruin? When his sun had ceased to rise and set, the stars had died and gone out, and the rivers no longer flowed? Soon they would dry up, barren and empty, and all life would be gone— “But you must, Mauja,” someone was saying, thick legs pressing into his spine, trapping him against the body of his child; “Your child would wish it.” What was he talking about? What on earth was he talking about? What did Tembovu know of what Snö wished? Why did he have to remain a Queen of the Edge? But you must, Tembovu had said, and Mauja felt a racking sob tear its way out of his chest—like he couldn't refuse the giant, like a scolded, exhausted child trying to climb back onto his feet and keep running, when all he wanted was to fall into the roadside ditch and weep. Why do I have to? he wondered, and that was when he looked to Roskuld, and tried to give it to her, before sagging back against Snö's limp body and hoping the world would let him be—because he hadn't been strong enough to get up again. He couldn't keep running this marathon of life with a broken heart and pierced lungs. Except, of course, they wouldn't let him be. “Lee, please. I don’t…don’t want—“ I won't force you. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Me neither, really. “Mauja is— was— a lead of the World’s Edge.” I suppose I was. "And you, my friend, are you certain of this choice? You've lost something unimaginable." Certain? Certain? Of course he wasn't certain! How could he be certain of anything, but the fucking void gaping in his chest where his heart should be? He was trying to do something at least, to not leave the Edge in ruin and confusion, like a boat in a storm but with no helmsman to steer it—in all honesty, as long as the closest horse to him had been an adult he would've tried to pawn the Edge off on them, to give them something, anything, and so that he could fade into the oblivion he craved so much. As he looked up from Snö's body, some blood stuck on his face, he happened to catch sight of Ophelia. He had only been slightly aware of her presence, half-convinced her voice had been some hallucination of his, but there she stood, and looking at her was like receiving a sledgehammer to the face. "And no words can offer you solace. But do you mean the words you speak?" His daughter had died, and they were pecking at him like vultures around a carcass. It made him want to yell and storm off, to be alone with his grief, but he was trapped in the sand—there was no way he could rise up without trampling Snö, and he wasn't going to do that. Wasn't. Going. To. Do. That. He gritted his teeth, ears flat against his skull, soul at war; anger was spilling out the cracks, because it was easier to be angry than it was to be sad. And if Ophelia thought she had the right to be angry when Snö had just died, Mauja sure as fuck had the same right. Like, what was she even angry about? That Mauja had happened to offer the Edge to Roskuld? That he hadn't said thank you for taking Snö's last thoughts, and speaking them out loud? This was exactly why he didn't want to be conscious. Why couldn't they just take their bickering elsewhere, and leave him to mourn? He couldn't find the energy to deal with it. To bother with it. His head fell down into the sand, muzzle half-buried in the strands of Snö's mane, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. “But you must, Mauja,” Tembovu was saying in his head, and Roskuld was crying, choking out his name. Was this how pitiful, how pathetic, the world was, that it could not function without him? Were they not all grown up, capable of making decisions for themselves? Why did everyone have to be so fucking scared? "I don't care," he said flatly, his rough voice without passion, without inflection, without life. Each time he breathed, his chest was trapped between Tembovu's legs and Snö's unyielding back. It never pressed back against him. His world had fallen apart with these God battles, and they expected things of him still. A short, bitter laugh accompanied his tears. "Look at how much I can protect anyone," and the voice that had been so cold was rank with that bitterness as he poisoned himself. "Look at how much I want to get up each day and not throw myself off the fucking Edge!" The last was a hysterical shriek, his body convulsing with it once, digging deeper into the blood-wet sand. "I. Don't. Care," he repeated through clenched teeth, spitting it out before the ocean pulled him under again. "You take it, then." Just leave me out of it. Please. [ @Ophelia @Roskuld @Tembovu || I'm amused they thought he meant 'I want to die' when he meant 'I don't wanna lead the Edge anymore' <3 ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Naerys - 10-30-2015
[Hope you don't mind <3 Also, some mood music that I felt was quite fitting: https://youtu.be/V0lw3qylVfY] Ophelia Roskuld @Tembovu Mauja RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Roskuld - 10-31-2015 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
The irony of it didn’t escape me—actually, I think that’s what was torturing me the most. Having my Pa’s—no my sword swung on my side, latent but just as deadly laying there was it was flashing all the blues of an asskicking. I had Sparkmarrow beside me and I had you perched on my head, this tiny little shit of a lizard but we both knew the badassery you were now capable of; and I had all that, all that and my Pa’s words, @Tembovu RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ulrik - 10-31-2015
RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Tembovu - 11-01-2015 Nature's great masterpiece : an elephant ; the only harmless great thing.
He feels a shift in the body he pressed his legs against. It morphed from limp loss to rigid anger, and the giant stallion flicked his ears and eyes towards the fallen man. ‘I don’t care’ his voice was lifeless, answering his questions from a place that no father should ever have to experience. A flash of acutely painful empathy breaks through the continual ache he feels for Mauja. He had been alone when he found his dead loved ones. He now understood what a heartbreaking blessing that had been. Mauja was surrounded, regrettably so. Tembovu, himself, had been drawn to him by good intentions. But he arrived only to see a soul shatter. The white leopard shakes against his forelimbs as he shrieks, convulsing against the thick columns that mean to give support. But now he sees that they only trap him, for Mauja does not need or want comfort now. Despite all the elephantine man has been through, he cannot ease the path of child death. Thick ears catch the words that spit from clenched teeth, ‘You take it, then.’ He is at a loss, for he did not mean to take that from the electrified mare. He had only meant to act as a buffer between Mauja’s grief and the repercussions of his choices. Tembovu struggles for words, knowing too well the overwhelming emotions his friend feels— yet is unable to aid him. “Mauja, I— I only wish help…” his deep, quiet words fade, for he knows how useless they are— how moronic. There is no help he can give. He knows this. Quietly, he regains his words, "I will make sure the Edge has a lead to take care of it," he offers quietly. It was not an affirmation of taking leadership (did he want that?), but he was taking the burden of finding a new lead off of the grieving stallion. At least he could do that for him. A winged yearling that he had seen at the Edge approaches, speaks, and is overwhelmed by the grief. She wedges herself near Mauja, pushing the mammoth away with gentle pressure on his chest. Indeed, it was too crowded, too bloody, too much. So he removes his attempt at understanding, stepping away from his friend. The congealed blood flops lazily in the holes left by his massive hooves. He fades away, similarly to how the electrified mare has. Though he, too, remains; a potential lifeline in the sea of loss. Yet another appears, and he feels his ears fall backwards. The black and bronze unicorn ruffles the dead mare’s forelock in familiarity. Then begins to craft a vessel. At first his giant head cocks in confusion. Then the realization dawns: the raft is a way for Mauja to return the body of his child. He could assist in lifting the mare. His large frame was good for that. He takes a half-step towards the body, deep blue eyes watching Mauja closely to await his wishes. Tembovu @Ulrik @Naerys @Roskuld RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Mauja - 11-07-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me To make the being alone Easy, easy . . . He should feel something—regret, remorse, at the way he treated those gathered around him. He should feel anything, a desire to help, to.. fix things... But the only thing he felt was contempt: he was a broken man who had thrown his crown to the ground, and none of them had the guts to take it from him. They all kept shying away from it like it was cursed, or trying to put it back onto his head, but it wouldn't fit anymore. It probably never had fit, either. Why else did it keep falling off his head like this? The Edge haunted him in his sleep, haunted him in his years a northman and a wanderer, and when he came back it—it just didn't work anymore. He had no place in this world anymore. His tethers were coming loose. Was it worth it? Trying to form new bonds? To start over, when everything kept tearing him up, and apart? Snö laid dead in his embrace; nothing could ever replace her. To take more in to love, was to invite loss. Loving took a kind of courage he didn't have. For the first time since he had come to Helovia, Mauja felt a deep, profound desire to die. "I will make sure the Edge has a lead to take care of it," Tembovu finally said, figuratively bending to pick up the discarded crown. Heck, it probably was cursed, dipped in poison or some such shit. "Good," the fallen one said, his voice a blend of too many things to make sense of: satisfaction, relief, confusion, .. that contempt ... and his gaze flitted among them once; Ulrik, busy doing whatever the fuck he did, Ophelia, white once more, Roskuld, faced with an owl sitting stubbornly right in front of her, Tembovu, backing away to the gentle presence of Naerys, who was folding herself down next to him and spreading her wing. It blocked out the sun, but it didn't block out the bloody sand sticking to his side— "I’m not sticking to you with all that shit also stuck there," d'Artagnan said in his head. —and he felt the overwhelming need to rush into the water and scrub the fucking shit off himself, to scour every crevice of his body free of sand, to get rid of all of it, as if it somehow could bring him back. Instead, he laid on a bed of passionflowers and groaned, closed his eyes, and pressed his head hard against the ground. Because what else was there to do? [ Terribly sorry for the wait, guys. Ophelia and Naerys were mentioned this way with permission from their players. Hail to the King, baby! @Roskuld @Ophelia @Tembovu @Naerys ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ophelia - 11-07-2015
RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ulrik - 11-07-2015
RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Naerys - 11-15-2015
@Mauja @Roskuld @Tembovu @Ophelia RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Tembovu - 11-19-2015 Nature's great masterpiece : an elephant ; the only harmless great thing.
His avowal that the Edge would be looked after was met with a single, broken, dead syllable. ”Good.” That was all the antelope-marked stallion need to being to direct his efforts. Naerys bloomed a bed of passion flowers, the Frozen’s ivory head pressing into the lilac blooms. The despair, in every sense of the word, rolled out in tangible waves, crashing into the mammoth. His ears twitched towards the Amaranthine and the Engineer as they traded words about his growing raft. Ulrik’s words to Mauja, “Let me know when you are ready, friend,” bring the entire setting into surreal focus for the Elephant. Mauja pressed against a bed of fresh blossoms in acute anguish. An injured, compassionate Naerys hovering over the broken, glacial father. An electric mare, confused and hovering at the edges, unsure but wanting to ease his suffering. A darkly bronze, bearded man with a uniquely crafted raft. The Ascended Ophelia returning to pristine white as the last traces of blood-anger slid from her coat. And, lastly, the unmoving, roan body that was the convergence of misery. This was not a way to remember a daughter, or any loved one. Laying in a pool of sandy, congealed blood. Stiffening with death. No, this was not the way to love, remember, or honor the dead. A few, long strides brought him closer to the grieving father. “Mauja, get up,” his low voice gentle, but firm. “Lay her in her resting place, grieve for your loss, and remember her for how she lived,” he paused, “Not like this.” Though his words were decisive and compelling, the painful empathy he felt for his friend was written clearly and achingly on his marked face. He spoke from a place of personal suffering, wanting to help his friend in the only way he knew. Tembovu RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Mauja - 12-19-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
Is it that, until you've lost something, you didn't know just how much it meant? That, when it floated somewhere in the periphery of your existence, it felt safe to put things off for another day—because you could just come back, and pick it up later? Snö was a problem he hadn't known how to tackle; when they spoke, biting words and scathing gestures slowly melted into some kind of truce and forgiveness, but then time and distance drove them apart and next time they met, had they come anywhere at all? It was almost like her dislike of him had powered her to go on. So he had let her be, unsure of what to do—of what she had truly needed from him. Where he had given her space to think (but maybe she hadn't done any of that, anyway, and he had simply treated her like he thought had been best), maybe he should've come back in close, never giving her time to rebound into her frigidity and chill. Just like how d'Artagnan had sat comfortably in the outer rim of his existence, easily accessible when needed, but not pulled in so tightly as Mauja realized he had wanted to—and maybe he had been afraid, too, of what he felt, and it had been easier to live with the intensity of that on offhand occasions and not at all times, every day. Maybe, in his strange, subconscious crusade to protect himself, he had grown complacent and lazy. It was easier to blame the world for being stupid, than it was to realize that maybe you weren't doing enough. How many chances and bridges would he have to burn, before he learned? How much grief would there have to be, before he found some peace? (Selfish, even now—) But wasn't grief also selfish? Grief was mourning something you had lost—and maybe d'Artagnan grieved too, because he was still alive to know that he missed something (and gods how Mauja wished he could guilt-trip the bastard from afar, so he'd come home), but Snö? Snö was just dead. Snö was just dead, and, selfishly, he wanted her back from that abyss. His blanket of feathers was soft, Naerys' gentle breath the only thing he felt in his weighted darkness: Snö did not push back against him, nor did the sand and the drying blood. It was just him and Naerys and the fragrance of passionflowers overpowering the scent of war and loss. And he was content to stay there, in the shadow, taken from responsibility, given reprieve from life, from duty, from difficult decisions and hard tasks like getting up off the ground— Then there was something else, like a tug at the roots of his hair, a gentle pulling, the faintest, cold touch of scales. What..? Those blue eyes, shut against the cruelty of the world, slipped open, but all he saw was the sky, so he closed them again. He didn't want to raise his head. He didn't want to signal to anyone that he was still alive, because frankly, he wished he wasn't. He had spent his entire life not feeling, so now that he did, it was like a wildfire and a flood, the dam-wall burst from pressure and he had no way to contain it. And in the face of that, he would rather not feel. Tinek, Irma told him softly, calling the silver name up from the depths of his memory. It was Tinek sitting by him, running his claws through long, silken strands of white, and—and—and why— The quiet tears grew stronger again, a half-quelled sob racking through his body. Tinek was comforting him. Tinek was soothing him. Tinek, Ophelia's dragon, she, the one he had always let down in one way or another, the one he had failed, the one he hadn't been strong enough to love— They had grown cold and distant and frigid, and the blazing red of her coat—but here was Tinek, her dragon, sitting by him in his grief, and did it mean anything? Was there still a chance for them, to rebuild what he had ruined..? Not love—he was far too fragile to love—but something, anything that was better than what was between them now. After all, Ophelia was still alive. He could still do right by her. Right? Right? But then Ulrik was there, saying something, whenever he was ready—but what did ready mean? Would he ever be ready, if all he wanted was to lay here until death claimed him, too? It was cowardly, the easy way out, but he wasn't strong enough— “Mauja, get up,” and he moaned and groaned in protest. Couldn't they just leave him be? It was what he wanted, to expire on this beach, to never have to rise from his bed of flowers and blood, to pull the cover of the soft wing from his body and stagger upright... Who were they, to tell him how to mourn? Who was he, to know how to mourn? He had never mourned before. Slowly, drunkenly, he disentangled himself from Naerys wing, brushing it gently aside with his plush muzzle; he half-rolled into a position he could move from, and the world spun around him. They were a lost corner of this world, a forgotten place revolving around a dead creature; were the rest of the warriors too sensitive to his grief to come and stare like vultures, or did they simply not care? He brought his head around to Tinek, and attempted to push his face against the dragon, not knowing any other way to express his .. gratitude? at the gesture—at reminding him that there were still things he could fix. "Tinek..." he murmured to the sterling creature, before getting his hooves under himself and hauling himself up. His hind legs quivered. Mauja rose, from the lowest to one of the highest—such a marked difference when he stood, coated in sand and blood and some unfortunate petals stuck onto his grisly flank like an artwork made by some delusional jerk, from when he had lain, folded and beneath them all. And still, he shrunk away from his height and size, looking awkward and lost. "This place does not know her," he said, softly despite his rough voice. "But she—she passed among friends, at least. We will.. we will burn her in the Edge. Where she belongs." And he nodded to Ulrik, then. If he could not grieve as he wanted to, lost in the darkness beside the body of his daughter, then, well, he better trust those who had seemed far more successful at living without being reduced to rubble. [ If you guys want to post again that's fine! If not, I figured we could end it here and just agree among ourselves they went back to the Edge and burned Snö. :) @Ophelia @Naerys @Roskuld ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: "this is the part where you look at me - Ophelia - 12-23-2015
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