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03-04-2014, 05:43 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
It was always there, in him—something between him and the world, between heart and mind, truth and tongue. It was the layer of frigid protection just beneath his eyes, the discord between logical emotion and actual emotion; it was the way he sometimes didn't feel at all, or never the right things, or how it always came out wrong, or he somehow didn't think of saying what he actually felt, because for some reason he either thought they already knew, or he didn't know that he knew. It was there, it was in him, it was part of him, all of him, and it was the reason some, sometimes, managed to batter themselves against his stoicism and armor. While he had capacity for great cruelty, and great love, by some irony of fate, it was usually when he didn't mean to hurt anyone that he truly did. When his thoughts never ran deep enough, and the words tangled themselves up, or when he simply didn't understand what he did, or didn't.
And that, was the reason he did not smile at her, or cry out in joy, or reach out to touch her and pull her closer to his soul again—that, and the uncertainty. She'd lost her crown, but had she lost her anger, her darkness? Would she think him nothing but a broken man who had cast away his own crown, tarnished his own glory, forgotten his brilliance?
She was Psyche: in his world, she was ferocity and strength. She was the deep, driving power, the flame to his snow; tempered by time and age, but still relentless and dark.
But for all that, in that moment, their eyes meeting, the blue-cast amber robbed of its fiery hue, she seemed oddly fragile and.. normal. Normal, because her gaze was not intense, her body not edged with danger and darkness; if she had been fire, she suddenly was ash, the remnants of something else.. he couldn't put his finger on what it was, just something, a combination of all the small things, stance, voice, memory. It blurred; suddenly it seemed impossible to recall the one he'd thought of as jackal-heart, the mare he had both loathed and loved, feared and shunned, and then, admired. And failed, betrayed.
So with his head stuck in memories he couldn't quite recall anymore—because in every one her details were impossible to make out, lost to the shadows and the fire of her gaze—he lay upon the ground, ears forward, eyes going gentler. Whatever creature of dominion and power she had been, she seemed just as lost as he was now; the broken laugh grated against his ears and heart, the sound of his failure given a tangible voice. Had he helped do this to her? By encouraging her to be the obliterating darkness covering up the flaws in his own character? By leaving her as Kri came, with a silent promise, an oath he broke because he was too weak? What was it Ophelia had said, all those years ago—she suffered abuse when she was younger by their father, I believe. I pity them.
But Mauja did not want to pity Psyche.
"I have been... happy," she responded to his query, after that laugh had quieted, and his 'brows drew together in dark furrows. It did not add up, that sound which had crept out from its cage in her soul—it did not speak of happiness to him, and yet she said she'd been happy, but why? What had she been doing, while Mauja was gone? While Mauja disappeared like he always did? He knew that it was always his own fault, that he wandered and roamed and that thing stuck in his soul which kept him from realizing he needed to take the time and just be with those he cared about, or he'd lose them, like he'd probably very nearly lost Psyche. It was not he who found her time and again; it was she who bounded back to him. He wondered why. He didn't mind—he just wasn't sure what he had to offer anyone except heartbreak when his idiocy sent him ranging far and wide again.
She came closer before he had the chance to form some kind of reply, which he realized too late, anyway. He'd been too busy staring at her with eyes that were troubled and soft, a look not often seen upon his glacial face. If he was a stranger to himself, surely he was a stranger to her—and she was not the Psyche he'd thought he'd known, but if he'd never been honest with himself, about himself.. what kept her from being honest with anyone, too? Was this honesty? "Of course," he answered in quiet surprise. This, truly, was not who they had been, Crux and Bane; they had been titans, wound close together yet miles and miles apart. Whether it was only his fault or not, he wasn't sure. Slowly, he shifted his head to keep watching her.
The question was turned back on him, and he was silent. How was he? Truly? Aside from beat up and sick and sort of confused about everything? He was bitter. That was nothing new. He was.. angry, with himself, and not only the world, though he didn't really know why. Maybe because he'd let himself waste years and years on something he knew he'd have to abandon one day, jumping ships just because he saw the sunrise. His eyes closed. There were many things he could respond, many things he could say, elaborate on the many twisting pathways of heart and mind, but each time he tried, not a word wanted to lay itself upon his tongue and come to life. He'd shored himself up too well, and to take that first step—say the first words—was always the hardest. Did he trust her? He didn't know. Did he want to let some of the deep thoughts roll of his tongue? He didn't know.
He didn't know anything at all. He didn't even know what he knew, or didn't. He opened his eyes again. "I've been better," he finally said, as casual and shallow as the mayflies. He was out of his depth, and the layer of frost and ice along his being was irksome; he knew there were many things he wanted to say, and feel, things that were deeper than his scarred skin, but they always came into mind too late—like the fact that he was grateful she was safe and sound, how strange it was to hear her state that she'd been happy if it was a good thing, or that her desire to just casually lie by him was odd, and touching in a way (unless she was just working it up to chew him out for being a right bastard), and a whole new experience for the marble-hearted soldier who had never had a real heart-to-heart with anyone except d'Artagnan of all horses. These things, they spun through his mind, half-realized, half-thought, too late or out of reach.
And that, was the reason he did not smile at her, or cry out in joy, or reach out to touch her and pull her closer to his soul again—that, and the uncertainty. She'd lost her crown, but had she lost her anger, her darkness? Would she think him nothing but a broken man who had cast away his own crown, tarnished his own glory, forgotten his brilliance?
She was Psyche: in his world, she was ferocity and strength. She was the deep, driving power, the flame to his snow; tempered by time and age, but still relentless and dark.
But for all that, in that moment, their eyes meeting, the blue-cast amber robbed of its fiery hue, she seemed oddly fragile and.. normal. Normal, because her gaze was not intense, her body not edged with danger and darkness; if she had been fire, she suddenly was ash, the remnants of something else.. he couldn't put his finger on what it was, just something, a combination of all the small things, stance, voice, memory. It blurred; suddenly it seemed impossible to recall the one he'd thought of as jackal-heart, the mare he had both loathed and loved, feared and shunned, and then, admired. And failed, betrayed.
So with his head stuck in memories he couldn't quite recall anymore—because in every one her details were impossible to make out, lost to the shadows and the fire of her gaze—he lay upon the ground, ears forward, eyes going gentler. Whatever creature of dominion and power she had been, she seemed just as lost as he was now; the broken laugh grated against his ears and heart, the sound of his failure given a tangible voice. Had he helped do this to her? By encouraging her to be the obliterating darkness covering up the flaws in his own character? By leaving her as Kri came, with a silent promise, an oath he broke because he was too weak? What was it Ophelia had said, all those years ago—she suffered abuse when she was younger by their father, I believe. I pity them.
But Mauja did not want to pity Psyche.
"I have been... happy," she responded to his query, after that laugh had quieted, and his 'brows drew together in dark furrows. It did not add up, that sound which had crept out from its cage in her soul—it did not speak of happiness to him, and yet she said she'd been happy, but why? What had she been doing, while Mauja was gone? While Mauja disappeared like he always did? He knew that it was always his own fault, that he wandered and roamed and that thing stuck in his soul which kept him from realizing he needed to take the time and just be with those he cared about, or he'd lose them, like he'd probably very nearly lost Psyche. It was not he who found her time and again; it was she who bounded back to him. He wondered why. He didn't mind—he just wasn't sure what he had to offer anyone except heartbreak when his idiocy sent him ranging far and wide again.
She came closer before he had the chance to form some kind of reply, which he realized too late, anyway. He'd been too busy staring at her with eyes that were troubled and soft, a look not often seen upon his glacial face. If he was a stranger to himself, surely he was a stranger to her—and she was not the Psyche he'd thought he'd known, but if he'd never been honest with himself, about himself.. what kept her from being honest with anyone, too? Was this honesty? "Of course," he answered in quiet surprise. This, truly, was not who they had been, Crux and Bane; they had been titans, wound close together yet miles and miles apart. Whether it was only his fault or not, he wasn't sure. Slowly, he shifted his head to keep watching her.
The question was turned back on him, and he was silent. How was he? Truly? Aside from beat up and sick and sort of confused about everything? He was bitter. That was nothing new. He was.. angry, with himself, and not only the world, though he didn't really know why. Maybe because he'd let himself waste years and years on something he knew he'd have to abandon one day, jumping ships just because he saw the sunrise. His eyes closed. There were many things he could respond, many things he could say, elaborate on the many twisting pathways of heart and mind, but each time he tried, not a word wanted to lay itself upon his tongue and come to life. He'd shored himself up too well, and to take that first step—say the first words—was always the hardest. Did he trust her? He didn't know. Did he want to let some of the deep thoughts roll of his tongue? He didn't know.
He didn't know anything at all. He didn't even know what he knew, or didn't. He opened his eyes again. "I've been better," he finally said, as casual and shallow as the mayflies. He was out of his depth, and the layer of frost and ice along his being was irksome; he knew there were many things he wanted to say, and feel, things that were deeper than his scarred skin, but they always came into mind too late—like the fact that he was grateful she was safe and sound, how strange it was to hear her state that she'd been happy if it was a good thing, or that her desire to just casually lie by him was odd, and touching in a way (unless she was just working it up to chew him out for being a right bastard), and a whole new experience for the marble-hearted soldier who had never had a real heart-to-heart with anyone except d'Artagnan of all horses. These things, they spun through his mind, half-realized, half-thought, too late or out of reach.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
