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05-01-2014, 03:38 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
[ Terribly sorry for the wait, Sevin. ]
At times, Mauja was terribly analytical. He saw, he processed, and he committed to memory; sometimes, he acted out of emotion. Sometimes, he acted out of that memory. Reached out because the social patterns demanded he do.
So with his black muzzle against her neck, he couldn't tell why—because he didn't know what he was. Who he was. No matter how much he tried to let go, to relax again and simply accept what he thought he was.. because that was the problem. He didn't know. Because it had been so long since he was honest with himself. Hiding the truth was second nature, and if you've never been honest with yourself, or others, how do you know what honesty is? How can you trust what you think is honesty?
He sighed, softly, the sound he made when his body hit the floor and he gave up the fight against himself again—for now. The sound of all his helpless frustrations, so soft and insignificant, because wasn't that what he was? Just the stirring of loose snow atop yesterday's hardened crust? The faint glitter of snow-crystals in pale, cold sunlight? Shallow, and intangible? And as the flurries hiding the ice and glacier cracks stirred softly in the wind, the emotions rolled out of her like a flood, a tidal wave, an avalanche and an earthquake; his head came slightly to the side, watching her with the only thing he new how to portray in his eyes: sorrow.
Because he was to blame. And why? Did he try to do right? Or was it just for himself, as it always was, all along? Because he'd been a bastard and taken the chance she gave him? He should've told her, on the meadow, before she thought to dream of healing him and taking him home: I am a monster, I am the wolf, and your herd hates me and wants me dead.
He should've sent her running back to the glass wall for cover, shielded her from the slick ice and callousness of his heart.
But he was not strong enough for that.
Anger, and hopeless frustration, seemed out of place on her. She was Kahlua, gentle and laughing and dancing like sunlight, the ripples upon the brook, but her voice rose in a crescendo, harsh and shrill after the music it normally made. “Don't you want that?”
It stabbed him through the chest, into his heart. Knowing what he knew it was an accusation flung in his face, painful to swallow. Did he want that? For the world to be a better place? Could the warrior in him lay down its arms, and simply stand bathed in the splendid light of peace? Could he find purpose without violence and bloodshed?
How would he ever know if he didn't care to try?
"It's alright," he murmured, his voice a rumble in his chest. Slowly he closed the space between them again, reached out to lean his warm, soft muzzle against her forehead. Even if he began to doubt himself and everything, he had to do this—for her. He had to help her do this, because she wanted to, and needed to, and he shouldn't have let her go this far at all. Should've told her to forget it because once a wolf, always a wolf. "I became their enemy a long time ago, so for them, it is easy to hate me." Just as I once hated them. "But if no one ever takes the fight.. if no one ever dares to challenge 'the way it's always been'.. then we just remain stuck in our ruts," and what was he even talking about, murmuring soft words against her pale forehead? "and nothing will ever change."
At times, Mauja was terribly analytical. He saw, he processed, and he committed to memory; sometimes, he acted out of emotion. Sometimes, he acted out of that memory. Reached out because the social patterns demanded he do.
So with his black muzzle against her neck, he couldn't tell why—because he didn't know what he was. Who he was. No matter how much he tried to let go, to relax again and simply accept what he thought he was.. because that was the problem. He didn't know. Because it had been so long since he was honest with himself. Hiding the truth was second nature, and if you've never been honest with yourself, or others, how do you know what honesty is? How can you trust what you think is honesty?
He sighed, softly, the sound he made when his body hit the floor and he gave up the fight against himself again—for now. The sound of all his helpless frustrations, so soft and insignificant, because wasn't that what he was? Just the stirring of loose snow atop yesterday's hardened crust? The faint glitter of snow-crystals in pale, cold sunlight? Shallow, and intangible? And as the flurries hiding the ice and glacier cracks stirred softly in the wind, the emotions rolled out of her like a flood, a tidal wave, an avalanche and an earthquake; his head came slightly to the side, watching her with the only thing he new how to portray in his eyes: sorrow.
Because he was to blame. And why? Did he try to do right? Or was it just for himself, as it always was, all along? Because he'd been a bastard and taken the chance she gave him? He should've told her, on the meadow, before she thought to dream of healing him and taking him home: I am a monster, I am the wolf, and your herd hates me and wants me dead.
He should've sent her running back to the glass wall for cover, shielded her from the slick ice and callousness of his heart.
But he was not strong enough for that.
Anger, and hopeless frustration, seemed out of place on her. She was Kahlua, gentle and laughing and dancing like sunlight, the ripples upon the brook, but her voice rose in a crescendo, harsh and shrill after the music it normally made. “Don't you want that?”
It stabbed him through the chest, into his heart. Knowing what he knew it was an accusation flung in his face, painful to swallow. Did he want that? For the world to be a better place? Could the warrior in him lay down its arms, and simply stand bathed in the splendid light of peace? Could he find purpose without violence and bloodshed?
How would he ever know if he didn't care to try?
"It's alright," he murmured, his voice a rumble in his chest. Slowly he closed the space between them again, reached out to lean his warm, soft muzzle against her forehead. Even if he began to doubt himself and everything, he had to do this—for her. He had to help her do this, because she wanted to, and needed to, and he shouldn't have let her go this far at all. Should've told her to forget it because once a wolf, always a wolf. "I became their enemy a long time ago, so for them, it is easy to hate me." Just as I once hated them. "But if no one ever takes the fight.. if no one ever dares to challenge 'the way it's always been'.. then we just remain stuck in our ruts," and what was he even talking about, murmuring soft words against her pale forehead? "and nothing will ever change."
Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
