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He comes in a whisper of owl wings and a stirring of the fog, her white, spotted sentinel, her queen. He, of the midnight battle, of the icy heart, of the icy everything. She wishes she had ice inside her, too. She almost wishes she had the balls to ask him to erupt some spikes into her beating, broken heart, just to still its incessant keening for a man it will never beat for again. The exquisite pain of Mauja's magic would be a blessed relief from the dull ache of loss that throbs in her bloodstream - if only she could replace this new breed of agony with a more temporary, more acute, more conquerable physical pain. After all, ice melts. Loss doesn't.
Too late, she realises how this could look. Her, crying, swollen-sided and miserable; he could well be putting two and two together and getting sixty-eight. Jesus, she wishes this was as easily solved as it would be had a man forced her beneath him. That was a problem that could be fixed with one single vengeful stab of her horn once her child was free from her womb; Lace's death, on the other hand, cannot be solved with sheer brute force. She looks to him, numbly. His face is devoid of emotion, a mask of ice and emptiness, whereas hers is animated and streaked with evidence of her stupid, feeble feelings. For one strange moment, she wonders what he would do if she threw herself towards him and cried onto one of his spotted shoulders. If she embraced him like the friend he...is? Could be? Damn, he'd probably keel over from a heart attack right there and then. The thought makes laughter bubble up, unbidden, from her throat; it sounds traitorous, alien, wrong, and is quickly replaced with a strangled sob. She is a state, and she doesn't give a damn. She is weak, she is more snow than steel, she is cursed with the same emotions as everybody else on this planet, she is not strength incarnate as she always hoped - but she can't bring herself to care. "Lace is dead." The words tumble from her lips and burn on their way past, like she's vomiting acid. "I thought...I thought you would want to know." She tries to compose herself, to man the fuck up and stop crying like a baby, but she can't. At least she can blame hormones for her weakness, even if she knows it would just be an easy excuse. "And no, he wasn't the one to knock me up, before you ask." She jabs her muzzle towards her massive sides in demonstration, forcing the false humour out of her reluctant jaws. Again, she's cautious that he may be adding two and two together and getting sixty-seven, this time. Because surely his steel soldier would not crumble into malleable mush over a simple friend? |
@Mauja
Other characters have permission to use magic/violence against Nyx at any time.
