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12-17-2013, 01:38 PM
Mauja Frosthjärta
"When did I become this?" was the one phrase that seemed to have gone through his mind at all times in the past year. When did I become this broken? or When did I stop hating? or When did I lose control of myself? or.. when did I whatever. Over and over he'd asked himself the same question, while never really finding an answer or trying to change—oh, he spent his fair share of time wishing he was different, like he'd been before, but how much had he done about it? Bits and pieces, odd moments, and he'd managed to slip back into the old, unfitting skin.. little flares of life, of fire, on a dark, cold night. And he always traced it back to the time he spent in the alternate universe, blamed it all on Asni and somehow managed to not do anything about it. Had he known, even then? Even that night with Psyche? He knew he'd been conflicted. He'd known that, and tried to force his heart and mind to be what they weren't. To feel what they didn't.
So as he stood there, sour and floppy-eared, he wondered when he'd started to, by his standards, wear his heart on his sleeve. It was one thing to react to a sudden, charging unicorn, quite another to stand there and scream his disapproval of her presence, but he couldn't quite breathe properly. Each exhalation wanted to turn into a warning snort, and with a feeling almost like resignation (of course you get nowhere, if you give up before you even try) he closed his eyes, and focused simply on his breathing. Nyx was talking about how she wasn't a coward but Aramis had scared her. He bit down harder on his own teeth. He didn't need the spiteful voice in his mind ridiculing what she said, reducing her to nothing; he needed the crystal calm that had once enveloped him. He needed clarity.
When he opened his eyes again, truly no less frustrated, he was met with something he hadn't quite expected to ever see. d'Artagnan's gaze was lowered, and he looked genuinely troubled by something as he spoke of Aramis. Mauja frowned. It was enough to tease his ears forward, but more so out of concern for his friend, who seemingly was speaking to Nyx's chest. When had the red bay ever displayed weakness in such a way? Mauja knew him as stormy, defiant, cruel and superior—not emotional. We're quite the sorry pair, aren't we, d'Art my friend? But whatever troubled them would have to wait. Mauja would never confess in front of a stranger, an enemy, and he doubted the Doctor would either. So he bit his tongue again, breathed in and out, shook his head slightly to work the tension from his neck and shoulders. Rinse and repeat, "And you?", and he found himself looking at the mare instead. She sounded cautious, but insistent. He didn't know whether to be charmed or annoyed.
Safer to settle on annoyed.
"Mauja," the snow-ghost responded bluntly, somehow keeping his voice clean, free from traces of negative emotion. Before a battle you worked the routines to create reflexes, actions which took no thought, only instinct, reaction; sometimes this old, cold skin was the same. Social interaction was just another battle, the sparring with words and not bodies, and emotion could be the gap in your armor—a gap your body knew how to seal tight, if only you practiced enough.
Another breath, and the depths of his eyes froze over.
Just like before.
Back on the path, Irma swept in low, pale wings flared wide in the sunlight and the blue of her markings glittering. At night they seemed black, but when light struck them their metallic shimmer gave them away. Blue. She had, after all, been born in a time and place far away, joined with her bonded through the tricks of a God, a gift given from the one who had caused them such grief, and neither of them knew. Quietly she angled her wings up, beat them hard as she honed in on the sitting canine, before alighting with an owl's grace—merely stepping from the air onto the earth, strutting a few steps to work off the excess speed. For a moment she held her wings wide, then she gave herself somewhat of a shake and looked at Aramis as if to say bondmates, they're quite silly sometimes before settling in by his side to preen. The sunlight was warm, she had a huge, hairy cliff to hide behind if something evil materialized out of nowhere, and Mauja had found his d'Artagnan. Now if only the latter pair could cheer up, then life would be quite good.
So as he stood there, sour and floppy-eared, he wondered when he'd started to, by his standards, wear his heart on his sleeve. It was one thing to react to a sudden, charging unicorn, quite another to stand there and scream his disapproval of her presence, but he couldn't quite breathe properly. Each exhalation wanted to turn into a warning snort, and with a feeling almost like resignation (of course you get nowhere, if you give up before you even try) he closed his eyes, and focused simply on his breathing. Nyx was talking about how she wasn't a coward but Aramis had scared her. He bit down harder on his own teeth. He didn't need the spiteful voice in his mind ridiculing what she said, reducing her to nothing; he needed the crystal calm that had once enveloped him. He needed clarity.
When he opened his eyes again, truly no less frustrated, he was met with something he hadn't quite expected to ever see. d'Artagnan's gaze was lowered, and he looked genuinely troubled by something as he spoke of Aramis. Mauja frowned. It was enough to tease his ears forward, but more so out of concern for his friend, who seemingly was speaking to Nyx's chest. When had the red bay ever displayed weakness in such a way? Mauja knew him as stormy, defiant, cruel and superior—not emotional. We're quite the sorry pair, aren't we, d'Art my friend? But whatever troubled them would have to wait. Mauja would never confess in front of a stranger, an enemy, and he doubted the Doctor would either. So he bit his tongue again, breathed in and out, shook his head slightly to work the tension from his neck and shoulders. Rinse and repeat, "And you?", and he found himself looking at the mare instead. She sounded cautious, but insistent. He didn't know whether to be charmed or annoyed.
Safer to settle on annoyed.
"Mauja," the snow-ghost responded bluntly, somehow keeping his voice clean, free from traces of negative emotion. Before a battle you worked the routines to create reflexes, actions which took no thought, only instinct, reaction; sometimes this old, cold skin was the same. Social interaction was just another battle, the sparring with words and not bodies, and emotion could be the gap in your armor—a gap your body knew how to seal tight, if only you practiced enough.
Another breath, and the depths of his eyes froze over.
Just like before.
Back on the path, Irma swept in low, pale wings flared wide in the sunlight and the blue of her markings glittering. At night they seemed black, but when light struck them their metallic shimmer gave them away. Blue. She had, after all, been born in a time and place far away, joined with her bonded through the tricks of a God, a gift given from the one who had caused them such grief, and neither of them knew. Quietly she angled her wings up, beat them hard as she honed in on the sitting canine, before alighting with an owl's grace—merely stepping from the air onto the earth, strutting a few steps to work off the excess speed. For a moment she held her wings wide, then she gave herself somewhat of a shake and looked at Aramis as if to say bondmates, they're quite silly sometimes before settling in by his side to preen. The sunlight was warm, she had a huge, hairy cliff to hide behind if something evil materialized out of nowhere, and Mauja had found his d'Artagnan. Now if only the latter pair could cheer up, then life would be quite good.
I'm taking back my love, taking back my pride, taking back my dreams, and my life
