[O] .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - 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] .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren (/showthread.php?tid=22210) |
||||||||||||
.. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 01-01-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams (I'm hunting for stars—)
If they could fall, from their places in the vast, dark sky, and land like silver and dust here upon the snowy steppe; if they could melt, those cold and distant lights, and trickle down to grace this world with more than their frigid judgment. And, what would they be able to tell? What secrets would they spill? They had seen much, those stars, witnessed everything; death and ruin, love and life. They had seen the glorious rise of kings and queens, the brutal apex of the reign of tyrants, and they had seen a thousand kingdoms laid to rest. They had seen every child born, grow old, wither and die. They had seen not only those who had burned the brightest, but all that had fallen into their shadow, no matter how brief their lives. If any were wise, it would be the stars, but he knew they cared little for the distant lives of Helovian mortals—or any mortals, for that matter. They had not cared for the lives of Frerinn mortals, nor of the Magnar, or any other that Mauja had ever heard of. They simply watched, and waited, and blinked and glittered, remote and beautiful. It was the same lethal sharpness which lurked in the eyes of the Moon, in the razor edges of Maren's mystical gaze. They not merely saw—they judged. He didn't want to think of the Moon, nor of Maren. He didn't want to think of anyone with the sharp smile of a knife, and the cruel keenness of a predator. (He didn't want to think of bad choices, blue influence, and the question of whether or not his mistakes would lead him to yet again be an unintended, unwilling father.) So he was out in the north, hunting for stars, eyes glued to the dark vault up ahead as he danced through the thin layer of snow—there was a grace to it, an easy joy of sorts, a little leap each time one fell. He joined it in its brief flight, crashed down as it faded into oblivion, and each time his heart ached just a little more. What awaited it, there in the darkness? (What awaited him, at the end of his brief life?) Would another one take its place? (Would he ever see d'Artagnan and Kahlua again?) Or would they go out, one by one, until the night sky was completely dark, bereft of all light but the moon's? (Would the earth one day become black and barren too, all once living things dead?) You were born with hope, a fluttering flame in your chest, a tingle in your nerves, a light in your eyes—and you chased that butterfly, dreamed and hunted and ran, and in the end, what would it amount to? When you were dust and bones, did it matter how you had lived? Yes, he thought, tentatively, all four hooves leaving the starlit ground as yet another streak of light fell among its kin. Yes, it matters, because it was my life. He couldn't trust that he would get another. And he couldn't find the words to put on it, but—if he would die anyway, he had two choices. Either he would burst his heart here and now and go to his unchangeable, final doom, or he would live while it lasted. Why waste your life on listless apathy when you would die regardless of what you did? And still, it was tinged with sadness, a crystalline sorrow that it would have to end (—regret, that he had made it end for others). "I'm sorry," he whispered to the first appearing streaks of red and green, shimmying in the glory of its light. "If I could go back, and change it, I would—if I could somehow make it right, I would." But in the face of death, they were all equally helpless. There was no going back, and if he did, he would not be who he was today, and it would be the first few pebbles of a landslide, and the world would be irrevocably different. Things turned out the way they did for a reason. You could be wiser after the fact, but at the time you made your decision, what other one could you have made? You did not know then what you knew once you had seen its consequences. He had been cruel, then, and selfish. He had drowned his guilt and shame and sorrow in blood. Mauja's dance grew somber, then faint, and then it ceased altogether. The northern lights were vibrant, untamed and beautiful; the stars still glittered behind the flame-like light, smugly knowing that once the show ended they would remain. Red chased its way along the lines of his face, courted his moon-shadow, fell upon the snow like a haunting memory of all the blood he had spilled—gleamed in the cold metal of a sentinel, placed there so long ago. Once, it had greeted him as kin, allowed him to pass unchallenged into the northern realm. Now .. now, things were different, its face foreboding, and cold, so cold. And he wept, again, stars glistening in his tears, for buried in the snow here laid so much grief, so many mistakes and words left unsaid. Slowly, he turned to look behind him, at the vast, empty world. There was no one there to see him standing beneath that silent guard, no one to see him drawing nearer, ears flickering uncertainly as his to the mountains once familiar voice breathed into the cold, quiet air: "Lena?" But there was no way she would hear him, and he dared not shout. [ He's still outside the borders. Open to anyone. :) ] Mauja
the white queen RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Lena - 01-02-2016
RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mortuus Nox - 01-02-2016
RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 01-11-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams For a moment, he expected her to come—his senses strained, ears flickering forward as he teetered there on the border, leaning forward, digging his toes into the thin, pristine snow. . .
But there was nothing. Just the emptiness of the Basin, just the cold starlight, the northern lights, the empty, dead sentinels and their long years of dust— Their ruin, their slow and silent metallic decay lent their alien faces something foreboding, something even darker, a subtle twist that made them even more foreign. Debris lay covered by the snow, like more secrets dead and buried here in the frozen wasteland upon the doorstep of a hidden paradise. Mauja's face slowly fell, ears shifting backwards in uncertainty; there was no one else here. He was alone, Irma circling the empty sky and Diego off somewhere, digging (—digging? what had he found now?) in the snow and the loose, black rocks beneath. It was just Mauja and the dying sentinels, and somehow, it felt oddly fitting. For a moment he was tempted to step within their reach, to see if their eyes would flicker to life and their bodies groan as badly-oiled joints grind against one another in their quest to seek out this interloper—but it would just be foolish, a foolish risk, for the more he stared at the once so familiar machines the more he pitied them. They had been the pride of the Basin, tall, foreboding metal Gods calling the supreme blood home and guarding them, long before the Throat had become an island. They had served without question (never mind they had been programmed that way) and what had they received in return? Had anyone ever offered them a word of kindness, or a spot of maintenance? Idiot, he told himself, momentarily flattening his ears. They're not sentient. They don't need kind words. But everyone needed kind words, even machines, so Mauja crumpled beneath his own folly and said "Thank you for your long years of service and unfaltering loyalty," and it was likely he would've given them an entire speech had not a figment of his past spawned in their shadow then and there. He had to be dreaming, or the machines were upgraded and could summon those asked for, or he had developed some new, interesting magical ability, but—but to hell with all that. It was Lena, dainty, graceful, kind-hearted Lena, who had survived years with the Plague and still bloomed in the shifting lights. Wherever did she find the strength to remain as such? Was her heart filled up with so much compassion and love and joy that she was incapable of grief and blues? Or was she so frigid nothing affected her? No—while it would certainly be a twist none of them had seen coming it felt too foreign, too absurd. He couldn't—wouldn't—believe that of her. "Lena!" he cried happily, a slight delay in his reaction because he had, truly, not expected to see her—and part of him had wanted to stall, because how could he make up for these years of no communication, of his cruel, unintentional disregard for her presence at the selections for a new Edge lead? But here she was, and he would lie if he said he wasn't glad for it, bounding carelessly through the snow towards her until they were close enough to touch. "I chased falling stars and I found you," he answered, something light in his voice, something mischievous, happy, even playful as he reached out, hoping to touch her soft muzzle with his. Oh, there were a thousand things he wanted to say—ought to say, as they crowded his tongue and fought to get out first—things like, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that you were fallen, just that you were a star, and more things, about the Edge, about Snö, about Deimos... But he didn't have the time to say any of it, for another presence materialized on the edges of his consciousness. In the blink of an eye his attention had shifted, keen eyes staring through the cold air and finding someone he vaguely recognized. It was someone from the Threshold, his name was something short, like Nyx, but not quite. Nex, Nux, Nox, something. He hadn't left much of himself in Mauja's mind—just another face in Helovia, unknown but not entirely unpleasant. "Is there something you seek?" I found what I sought. But he went on immediately, not giving the snowghost any time to answer. "Wonderful to see you again Lena, you look radiant and lovely like always." And Mauja, ever calm and ever patient, bristled for a moment, the the lines of his facing drawing hard and taut, jaws clenching, eyes growing dark—radiant and lovely... Oh, he was not going to argue the facts, because Lena was both radiant and lovely. A moment later the seas calmed, his eyes grew light and gentle, open and inquisitive, and his face smooth like the undisturbed snow spread all around them. "Tell me," he began, nothing but curiosity in his mild voice, "do you also greet your male friends with the phrase, 'you look radiant and lovely like always', or any variant thereof?" [ Sorry for the wait, I got sick. <3 @Lena @Mortuus Nox ] Mauja
the white queen RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Lena - 01-13-2016
RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mortuus Nox - 01-19-2016
RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 02-18-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams And it's all just a sad, sad song—
Mountains could crumble and all lights go out—gold turn to rust, heavenly song turn sour, the choirs ever silenced... In that moment, when her smile was beginning to blossom and his voice broke through the frigid air, in that moment he was soaring, his heart nearly bursting with unbridled joy, words running off his tongue before he had any idea what he was saying. He was just so happy to see, her to be greeted with her— —withering smile. And the happiness turned to choking, freezing, heart stumbling and trembling as his nostrils opened and closed too rapidly, flickering eyes giving away their sudden panic. What did I do— What happened— He had never before seen such sorrow upon her face, written so plainly in her eyes, such defeat in her stance; gone was the dancer, gone was the bird, wings clipped and bones broken. What had he done? He couldn't ignore the timing, he couldn't, ugh, and in the midst of all that was—well, whatever N-something-x his name had been, and Mauja was hiding beneath his wall of ice, trying to solve one of the world's mysteries while at the same time attempting to hold back the dark, terrified flood of oh god what did I do to her. But it was all for naught. Mauja's question didn't just go unanswered, it went entirely unacknowledged by the stallion: not even a dirty look was given. He was simply turning to meld back into the snows, and it did nothing to soothe Mauja's mounting confusion. "Take care..?" he offered lamely to the stallion's retreating back, unsure of what had prompted his sudden change in, well, attitude. But everything seemed to come down to a single point: Mauja. He watched Nox for a moment in silence, 'brows drawn over sorrowful eyes. "The worst of it is," he was saying, voice low and dark, "is that I don't even know what I did." He was silent for a second, feeling the grip of something heavy in Diego's claws, watching the shadow of Nox melt into the night. He swallowed. "I never know what it is I've done." Slowly, his gaze slid sideways onto Lena, to the fragile smile she had shown for Nox, to the weight in her eyes. "I'm happy to see you, and at the sound of my voice you look like I just told you I wished I'd never found you again. I ask him a simple question, he doesn't even look at me." An edge of frustration snaked around his words, ears falling flat for a moment. "What is it about me that always ruins things?" But he didn't expect her to have any answers. [ @Lena Nox :c ] Mauja
the white queen RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Lena - 02-21-2016
@Mauja @Mortuus Nox RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 02-22-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams “The world is always wary of what they don’t understand.”
And he could relate to that—one of Mauja's most prominent characteristics was paranoia, inability to trust, always second-guessing, always doubting, always thinking about the worst possible scenario. He would rather not love at all, than to love and risk pain. He could not understand the machinations of others, and what drove them; what empowered them, and what frightened them. The only reason he had ever been what he had, was that he had distanced himself. He had been cold. He had not been there for small talk. His mind had been honed to a startling openness, refusing to pass judgment until having all the facts—to ask questions without making them pointed, to fish for personal truth while inviting trust with his open eyes. And thus, her words made sense. If Mauja did not understand the world, why would the world understand him? Still, it saddened him—to hear that she was wary of him, even though she had good cause. How many times hadn't they been here? The years passed, and still they stood on their own side of that line drawn between them. She was.. strong, he realized in that moment. Broken, perhaps, but still strong. She had always resisted the subtle ways in which he manipulated, refused to be part of his world order, desisted from bending to fit the boxes he carelessly threw upon others. In her silence, she was resilient—in her song, she was divine. She had a clarity he did not possess, a perspective by nature denied to him. She was the one who heard his words, his voice, and felt them; she was not to blame for his shortcomings. “It’s what you say and do.” Mauja's eyes closed. Of course it was—he doubted Helovia had a blanket hate of spotted ponies. But it wasn't that she said it, that she pointed it out, it was the fact that he knew this was not the end of it: just the beginning. He had asked, and she had answered, unveiling one of the many things he did not understand. And while he could've hoped for some outlandish theory of how a little pink bunny had told all horses that Mauja was evil incarnate, he had known that the truth would be this: solid, tangible, real, close. A flaw within himself. A flaw in his schematics. In his youth, they had seen promise—but if they had hoped in his heart, he had let them down, striving to silence the organ and shape himself into a perfect machine. And none of them had seen it. None of them had helped him. None of them had done anything about it. And then it had all been his fault, his failure, and he had not known how to deal with it. So he had fled. And now he stood here in the frozen wastelands of the north, staring at the hot darkness on the backside of his eyelids, knowing that he was nothing more but flesh and bone armed with sharp words struggling up from an impaled heart. He had never been perfect—could never be. But no one had fixed him, and now he was old, struggling to fix himself even while he came apart in a torrent of glass shards. What he had said and what she had heard was worlds apart—just like them. Fallen. Taunting. What did he think was going to happen. He had thought they would understand what he meant. He had thought—no, not thought. He had forgotten they were not like him, that their thoughts did not bend at the same angles. He had, in a moment of careless ecstasy, and in a moment of sour revelation, forgotten that they existed independently at all. He wanted to say, I didn't mean to—, but it sounded weak and childish. He had asked for insight, for explanations, for clarity, and she had given it to him, raw and whole. Softly, Mauja sighed, sagging beneath the weight of his defeat. Not even the starlight's touch could make him seem lustrous again. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, not sure if she wanted his explanations or not—not sure if they would fix anything, or just further deepen the rift between them. Still, it felt important to explain to her, that he hadn't meant it like that, to.. well.. everything was always too late, wasn't it? That's what they ought to call him—not Frostheart, not Ice King, not Queen, not Frozen Light. Mauja—too little, too late. "I.. my tongue ran away with me.. I meant, I was chasing them, and they showed me you, and you were a star, you know, like the gold at rainbow's end..." His voice was a soft thing, slipping through the snowy, starlit darkness. "As for him—" and his muzzle waved in the direction Nox had disappeared in, "I was genuinely curious." And he wanted to leave, to sink through the snow, follow the unknown stallion into the darkness and disappear—leave Lena behind in the snow, where his words could no longer hurt her (—or anyone). Something always had to happen when he was around others. He fucked Snö up. He fucked Glacia up, a little. He fucked Ophelia up. He fucked Kahlua up. His insecurity drove him to madness, and in his madness, he did not fit in this world. He didn't want to deal with it. This.. pain, in him, and in others. He avoided it to the point of brutality, but when he could escape it no longer, it destroyed him. But something in him rebelled against the idea of leaving her behind. It would be.. wrong, somehow. Admitting to that he would never change. Never try hard enough. As if he attempted to hide behind his grief, as if it could exonerate him from what he had done. He swallowed, eyes dry and burning, but said no more, lest his voice harm her again. [ @Lena || eee congrats on 500!! <3 ] Mauja
the white queen RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Lena - 02-24-2016
@Mauja RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 03-16-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams There were memories buried in the snows here—like shards of silver covered by ash and snow, just a few odd and ends poking up and washed bright by autumn rains long since frozen. He had lived here, beyond the dark gates of the snow-capped mountains, in the safety of the sentinel's shadow. So much had happened here.. all of it revolving around a black shadow. His 'brows furrowed. His heart ached.
He didn't like life moving forward. He wanted it to freeze over. He wanted to be trapped in the world he had lived in as a two and a half year old, when there hadn't been so much behind him, and not so much in front of him. He didn't want to be half a world away, mired in bitter regret, haunted by loss, plagued by doubt and worry, lost in the blizzard raging in his heart. He remembered each place he had been. He remembered each part of his life like an era, inevitably left behind; buried, dull silver beneath the ground. And no matter how terrible, no matter how misguided, he wished he could go back, to any of those times, hide in the comfort and safety of the familiarity, and stay there. So it was with a thin darkness clouding his eyes that his gaze flicked back to Lena, teeth pressed down hard to hold back the tide of oh god things have changed too much, too fast, and some things will never come again—. “I doubt I shine as brightly,” she said with a laughter, and Mauja merely smiled in response. His dark lips curved, a small, soft smile, but it felt empty inside, as if the torrent of thoughts, the storm brewing, was converting everything into anxiety (—a soft kind of fear thundering beneath his skin). No, he thought to say, but the words didn't come out of the mess of his heart, afraid they would fall like dead, cold weight between them, sunder what tentative amends were being made, brighter. But it all died in his mind, unsaid. “It doesn’t hurt to think before you speak.” His eyes glittered, seeming to stay alive as he withered below its protective ice; if he took those words too close to heart, he would never speak again. He would get lost in the winding pathways of his mind, never find the perfect words, and if one thought too hard about anything, what was the point of saying it at all? It would be redundant, or useless, or insulting, or wrong, or he would start doubting himself, his emotions, his thoughts, his logic, his right. See? Already he was second-guessing coming here, talking, answering, existing. Might as well go throw myself off a cliff. “What have you been up to, Mauja?” Fighting hostile gods, losing my best friend, and burying my daughter. He opened his mouth, but no words came out at first. Then, "Not much, lately. I .. stepped down after the last god battle." There was no reason to include his silent death-wishes, his attempting to offer it to Roskuld, the crowding or friends and herd members... He blinked. Once. Twice. Many times. The thickness built in his throat, and he looked away, scrunching up his face and trying not to cry. "Snö died." [ @Lena || Sorry for the wait, struggling pretty bad with muse/writing... :/ ] Mauja
the white queen RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Lena - 03-20-2016
@Mauja RE: .. och jag såg dig springa över skaren - Mauja - 04-04-2016 but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams It hung like that between them—heavy and filled with things unsaid, memories remembered, tears lacing the edges of their existence. His voice—presence—the bane of joy. He didn't need to see her to feel it, hear it, sorrow settling like snow upon them.
(Except it was already in him—) It had its roots and teeth sunken deep, deep in his flesh, thin threads of poison leeching into his blood. Some days, as he felt his marble heart stumble in his chest, he wondered if he hadn't become stone (grief). But he still bled, bright red blood instead of stale dust, so he figured he was still alive. “Oh Mauja, I’m so sorry,” for what else could be said? What else could be done? His eyes closed, containing his many useless tears, and her muzzle pressed against his; sighing out white smoke he pressed back. I'm so sorry seemed to sum up his existence, and something in the darkness yawning in him frightened him—as if the stars would fall in his wake and darkness chase him as he ran for the mountains—the ground split open and he'd fall into sheets of golden light— Those had been dreams; Lena was real, her muzzle soft against his as their breaths mingled for a moment. "I'm sorry too," he whispered, voice thicker than usual, but still oh so Mauja: light and gentle. "For everything." Pale eyes slipped open in the snowy darkness, slipped behind him, the way he had come. Irma came out of the darkness, but Diego remained behind with the thing he had found. The glare of the sentinel was cold. A threat. Ulrik was a master at his craft. Run-down as it was it was still an imposing structure, looming against the black backdrop of the towering mountains, and standing there in their shadow, stealing a moment with Lena... He knew that he did not belong. Not anymore. He was a stranger here. Beyond those mountain walls lay only memories, of grief and death and ruin. "I should go," he whispered, heart pounding too fast, too fast, and the sentinel seemed to whisper that he had outstayed his welcome; former master or not, he did not belong to the Basin anymore. I should go, before I forget the way back. The world suddenly seemed darker, colder, more unfriendly. [ @Lena I'm sorry D: this was awful... ] Mauja
the white queen |