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02-09-2014, 10:06 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
Wake up.
Her spoken voice was as wild and reckless as the wolves in hunt, as cold as the midwinter snows, and just as gentle as the sunlight. She coaxed him from the heavy depths of exhausted sleep, shepherding him yet leaving no doubts that he would wake up. He turned in the warm, comforting darkness, as one might do when trying to find the surface of a lake; her presence was the light radiating far above, and his soul reached for it, struggled from the heaviness of rest and into the waking world.
His senses returned one by one. He lay on something soft and moist, pleasantly cool against the feverish warmth of his skin; the air he dragged in was full of life, smelling like night-time. The sound of water trickling down over rocks greeted his ears, along with the faint breathing of his owl. His blue eyes cracked open. He lay someplace mostly dark, tucked into a corner of the cave—many pinpricks of light hung about the vast cavern, casting a pale, ghastly glow onto it. He made to raise his head, but paused. The small motion had wakened every raw nerve in his body. Sleep had been nicer, and so had that pleasant state of being half-awake; every cut and bruise hollered at this tired mind, many of the cuts swollen with infection. He smelled like an absolute disaster.
It is time.
This time, he forced himself to raise his head, and glance over his blood-crusted back at the pale owl. She looked haggard, but determined; worn and fierce, a true creature of the wilderness, but edgy—almost anxious, tendrils of her deep, unending love reaching for his mind, tugging at his attention, almost as if she couldn't quite contain some worry. Mauja frowned. Struggled to remember. There was nothing quite as wonderful as waking up bloody and sick in a darkened, glowing, damp cave, with your anxious owl staring at you and wanting to tell you something, and not having a damn clue as to how you ended up there. He blinked, took another good look at her. She was standing on something, and she was tired, but excited; her left wing still ached, but she'd come here and she'd slept and he'd slept for gods know how long, but if he didn't wake up and eat and drink he might not wake up and—
Irma. We'll be alright.
It was enough of an impasse to let him catch up; she was just glad he'd woken up at all, and just as glad to get a moment to compose herself. And Mauja, he just closed his eyes for a moment. His head felt sluggish and thick, just as hot as his infected skin. Some of the gouges by the wolf's teeth had risen into angry, ugly welts, and—wolf. His mind latched onto it, and brokenly pieced the tale of the last week together. He'd slept nowhere near enough, survived simply through sheer stubbornness, and Irma's voice crying out in the back of his mind all the while. The child-demons of the Basin, the terrified colt and poor, loyal Déodat morphing into something of the dark, his long, guilty flight back south, crying out for Ophelia, finding monsters—and that last, long fight and flight. His recollection ended somewhere around the cave entrance, but somehow he'd made it into here, this little quiet, peaceful piece of underground heaven. The glowing lights almost looked like stars.
"You said it was time," he breathed, opening up his eyes again. Irma had grown quieter, calmer—more like her usual self. And now that he knew how he'd gotten all torn up and why he was lying on some weird moss in a cave, he felt better, though no less sick. His throat was raw, and thick. She bobbed her head in an owl's way, trickles of emotion seeping through again: was that.. some kind of fear? Embarrassment? Uncertainty? Since when had Irma ever felt those things? She was the mountains and the blizzards, immovable and cold. A predator.
And yet it was almost shyly that she took all of her weight on the left leg, and reached up with her right talon, grasping something which looked like a smooth, round pebble: it glowed dull blue in the strange lighting. He would've thought it a rock, if he hadn't seen it before. It was an owl's egg.
"Irma..." he whispered, suddenly understanding her dread; soon a whole year ago, an ancient spirit had told them something.. that their bond was not wholly theirs, not wholly sacred, but that he needed another guide. Irma had been quiet on the matter. Mauja had never pushed it. He'd never seen a reason to find another, to force another creature into their bond, nor been tempted by the sharp fangs of d'Artagnan's Aramis, or any other fanciful creature he'd seen following the horses of Helovia around. He could've gone all his life with only Irma, and never have mourned the strange opportunity he'd been given. "We don't have to," he began, but she silenced him. Shook her head. Placed the egg down again, and laid down in the moist moss, clutching it tightly. She was silent a while, formulating her thoughts, and he took the moment to painstakingly roll onto his belly. He gasped in his quiet corner of the cave, a few scabs tearing open and leaking blood over his filthy back. He wanted to haul himself to the river and dunk himself, but the prospect of moving himself all that way was simply daunting.
It is my choice, she finally said, briefly telling him the tale of darkness coming to claim the Foothills as well, and of a newly abandoned nest in the tree she'd taken refuge in—of how this egg still had a heartbeat. Why she'd thought of the snow leopard's words in that moment was beyond him. Sometimes she was oddly possessive of him, and Mauja had played no part in getting her, simply having been spirited through time and given her. Destined, that owl had said, and handed him the egg. She shifted on the moss. It was too cold. Not good for a nesting owl. She had to get up soon, into the makeshift nest she'd made in one of the glowing trees straight above his head. He smiled. "Are you certain?" In truth, he didn't know what this meant—that she'd made this choice. And the idea of change, of changing their bond, it frightened him; he loved her and she loved him and that was the foundation of it, the thing which tethered their souls together, and to somehow.. somehow break that open to make room for a third..?
Do you love any of your children less, simply because you have more?
Eat. Drink. Heal. Grasping the precious thing she hopped into the air, fled into the branches of the tree, and settled the egg within the woven branches and leaves, warming it within her ample, white feathers. Mauja simply looked up at the hints of her pale plumage through the glowing leaves, and pondered getting up—but he felt too tired and heavy, too sick, so he lowered his head again and forced himself to listlessly eat of the moss in front of his face. He wasn't even hungry.
Eat.
[ @[Circuta] when you have the time, and maybe @[Skysong] because healer? :3 If you don't want to, that's fine. <3 ]
Her spoken voice was as wild and reckless as the wolves in hunt, as cold as the midwinter snows, and just as gentle as the sunlight. She coaxed him from the heavy depths of exhausted sleep, shepherding him yet leaving no doubts that he would wake up. He turned in the warm, comforting darkness, as one might do when trying to find the surface of a lake; her presence was the light radiating far above, and his soul reached for it, struggled from the heaviness of rest and into the waking world.
His senses returned one by one. He lay on something soft and moist, pleasantly cool against the feverish warmth of his skin; the air he dragged in was full of life, smelling like night-time. The sound of water trickling down over rocks greeted his ears, along with the faint breathing of his owl. His blue eyes cracked open. He lay someplace mostly dark, tucked into a corner of the cave—many pinpricks of light hung about the vast cavern, casting a pale, ghastly glow onto it. He made to raise his head, but paused. The small motion had wakened every raw nerve in his body. Sleep had been nicer, and so had that pleasant state of being half-awake; every cut and bruise hollered at this tired mind, many of the cuts swollen with infection. He smelled like an absolute disaster.
It is time.
What the hell was she talking about?
This time, he forced himself to raise his head, and glance over his blood-crusted back at the pale owl. She looked haggard, but determined; worn and fierce, a true creature of the wilderness, but edgy—almost anxious, tendrils of her deep, unending love reaching for his mind, tugging at his attention, almost as if she couldn't quite contain some worry. Mauja frowned. Struggled to remember. There was nothing quite as wonderful as waking up bloody and sick in a darkened, glowing, damp cave, with your anxious owl staring at you and wanting to tell you something, and not having a damn clue as to how you ended up there. He blinked, took another good look at her. She was standing on something, and she was tired, but excited; her left wing still ached, but she'd come here and she'd slept and he'd slept for gods know how long, but if he didn't wake up and eat and drink he might not wake up and—
Irma. We'll be alright.
Her soul blabbered some avian nonsense and she looked at him, offended that he'd noticed her anxiety. He gave her a tired, humorless smile.
It was enough of an impasse to let him catch up; she was just glad he'd woken up at all, and just as glad to get a moment to compose herself. And Mauja, he just closed his eyes for a moment. His head felt sluggish and thick, just as hot as his infected skin. Some of the gouges by the wolf's teeth had risen into angry, ugly welts, and—wolf. His mind latched onto it, and brokenly pieced the tale of the last week together. He'd slept nowhere near enough, survived simply through sheer stubbornness, and Irma's voice crying out in the back of his mind all the while. The child-demons of the Basin, the terrified colt and poor, loyal Déodat morphing into something of the dark, his long, guilty flight back south, crying out for Ophelia, finding monsters—and that last, long fight and flight. His recollection ended somewhere around the cave entrance, but somehow he'd made it into here, this little quiet, peaceful piece of underground heaven. The glowing lights almost looked like stars.
"You said it was time," he breathed, opening up his eyes again. Irma had grown quieter, calmer—more like her usual self. And now that he knew how he'd gotten all torn up and why he was lying on some weird moss in a cave, he felt better, though no less sick. His throat was raw, and thick. She bobbed her head in an owl's way, trickles of emotion seeping through again: was that.. some kind of fear? Embarrassment? Uncertainty? Since when had Irma ever felt those things? She was the mountains and the blizzards, immovable and cold. A predator.
And yet it was almost shyly that she took all of her weight on the left leg, and reached up with her right talon, grasping something which looked like a smooth, round pebble: it glowed dull blue in the strange lighting. He would've thought it a rock, if he hadn't seen it before. It was an owl's egg.
"Irma..." he whispered, suddenly understanding her dread; soon a whole year ago, an ancient spirit had told them something.. that their bond was not wholly theirs, not wholly sacred, but that he needed another guide. Irma had been quiet on the matter. Mauja had never pushed it. He'd never seen a reason to find another, to force another creature into their bond, nor been tempted by the sharp fangs of d'Artagnan's Aramis, or any other fanciful creature he'd seen following the horses of Helovia around. He could've gone all his life with only Irma, and never have mourned the strange opportunity he'd been given. "We don't have to," he began, but she silenced him. Shook her head. Placed the egg down again, and laid down in the moist moss, clutching it tightly. She was silent a while, formulating her thoughts, and he took the moment to painstakingly roll onto his belly. He gasped in his quiet corner of the cave, a few scabs tearing open and leaking blood over his filthy back. He wanted to haul himself to the river and dunk himself, but the prospect of moving himself all that way was simply daunting.
It is my choice, she finally said, briefly telling him the tale of darkness coming to claim the Foothills as well, and of a newly abandoned nest in the tree she'd taken refuge in—of how this egg still had a heartbeat. Why she'd thought of the snow leopard's words in that moment was beyond him. Sometimes she was oddly possessive of him, and Mauja had played no part in getting her, simply having been spirited through time and given her. Destined, that owl had said, and handed him the egg. She shifted on the moss. It was too cold. Not good for a nesting owl. She had to get up soon, into the makeshift nest she'd made in one of the glowing trees straight above his head. He smiled. "Are you certain?" In truth, he didn't know what this meant—that she'd made this choice. And the idea of change, of changing their bond, it frightened him; he loved her and she loved him and that was the foundation of it, the thing which tethered their souls together, and to somehow.. somehow break that open to make room for a third..?
Do you love any of your children less, simply because you have more?
He had to smile wryly at that. Of course she knew where to hit him to make him yield.
Eat. Drink. Heal. Grasping the precious thing she hopped into the air, fled into the branches of the tree, and settled the egg within the woven branches and leaves, warming it within her ample, white feathers. Mauja simply looked up at the hints of her pale plumage through the glowing leaves, and pondered getting up—but he felt too tired and heavy, too sick, so he lowered his head again and forced himself to listlessly eat of the moss in front of his face. He wasn't even hungry.
Eat.
He chuckled quietly. He had no choice but to eat.
[ @[Circuta] when you have the time, and maybe @[Skysong] because healer? :3 If you don't want to, that's fine. <3 ]
This is the day when the wolves die young, they'll never see a new midnight sun.
