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05-09-2014, 03:23 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
Destiny left me so empty...
He was Mauja: Frostheart, cold, and cruel. How could he console the sun without going up in flames, burned pure by her touch? He was snow draped over bones of ice, a trick of the light and the eye; how could he be in her presence, touch her, without being reduced to nothing in her warm glare?
He was Mauja: idiot, self-loathing, and bitter. How could he function at all, when with every beat of his heart black cynicism flooded his veins, and his mind kept whispering its bitter, venomous words in his ears? It was no wonder he was trapped, stuck in the same cold, dark place in the world, because he had trapped himself there. Each time he skirted towards the light, his mind snapped him back with the stinging lash of its self-deprecation.
He was his own worst enemy. He was the one who kept the bitter devil alive by feeding it, fueling a conflict that had probably already burned out—because he could not let go. He'd failed, and he'd seen it as an injustice, instead of just manning up and dealing with it.
He was still stuck on the field of defeat, with the crush of Monster's life ringing in his ears, and the cry of retreat coming from his own throat; he was stuck in that nightmare of all of Helovia united against him, and ruining his fragile empire, murdering his dreams in their cradle, and setting him on a fire that had never burned out. He still felt it flicker along his flesh sometimes.
Fucking dragons.
His eyes closed. He'd spent the years since that day trying different ways to come back to life, to move on—attempting to lead the Plague and Basin back to glory, the whole quest in the Throat, his mission for redemption and salvation with Sarazheha, returning again.. only to find he had never moved from his rotten place in the world at all. And yet he had the gall to stand and talk of changing the future, when it was painfully obvious that he was as unchanging as the glaciers themselves.
He felt utterly, terribly useless, and vile, and.. he sighed against her forehead. What more could he possibly say? Or do? How long could he try, pretend, until the world just came crashing down around his ears again, and tugged him back into the roaring void of chaos?
How long could he try, until he failed?
He was Mauja: Frostheart, cold, and cruel. How could he console the sun without going up in flames, burned pure by her touch? He was snow draped over bones of ice, a trick of the light and the eye; how could he be in her presence, touch her, without being reduced to nothing in her warm glare?
He was Mauja: idiot, self-loathing, and bitter. How could he function at all, when with every beat of his heart black cynicism flooded his veins, and his mind kept whispering its bitter, venomous words in his ears? It was no wonder he was trapped, stuck in the same cold, dark place in the world, because he had trapped himself there. Each time he skirted towards the light, his mind snapped him back with the stinging lash of its self-deprecation.
He was his own worst enemy. He was the one who kept the bitter devil alive by feeding it, fueling a conflict that had probably already burned out—because he could not let go. He'd failed, and he'd seen it as an injustice, instead of just manning up and dealing with it.
He was still stuck on the field of defeat, with the crush of Monster's life ringing in his ears, and the cry of retreat coming from his own throat; he was stuck in that nightmare of all of Helovia united against him, and ruining his fragile empire, murdering his dreams in their cradle, and setting him on a fire that had never burned out. He still felt it flicker along his flesh sometimes.
Fucking dragons.
His eyes closed. He'd spent the years since that day trying different ways to come back to life, to move on—attempting to lead the Plague and Basin back to glory, the whole quest in the Throat, his mission for redemption and salvation with Sarazheha, returning again.. only to find he had never moved from his rotten place in the world at all. And yet he had the gall to stand and talk of changing the future, when it was painfully obvious that he was as unchanging as the glaciers themselves.
He felt utterly, terribly useless, and vile, and.. he sighed against her forehead. What more could he possibly say? Or do? How long could he try, pretend, until the world just came crashing down around his ears again, and tugged him back into the roaring void of chaos?
How long could he try, until he failed?
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
