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08-13-2014, 02:52 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He was too tired for this. He wanted to keep his eyes wide open, to watch her beneath the dark crowns of the trees, drink in every nuance of her black velvet shape and catch every single quirk of her nerves—to learn to read the peculiar language of her body. In so many ways she reminded him of Psyche, in the darkness, the way she seemed carved out of onyx but really was quite alive. She smiled, and those beady eyes watched him still, and he knew that if it had been him in that body, it would've displayed nothing but a stoic, impassive face.
Because such was the nature of ice; not the nature of ghosts.
"Why? Why not just kill me?" She dug deeply, back through layers of dust, blowing it off the untouched covers of closed books he'd not looked much upon since living through. Oh, sure, he knew they were there, stored neatly on the shelves of his impeccable wintry mind, frozen and sealed to his cranium to forever haunt his thoughts and dreams—and he had, maybe, looked at them from time to time and thought he ought to do something about them. Perhaps open one, and read.
But he'd always taken his lantern and gone again, down the rows and shelves, to the time after, where the black ink leaped off the pages to strangle him and poison his blood.
He was too tired to wrench himself away from her poking, eyelids sagging too often and his mind clouding over; too tired to pretend he could offer her anything but the truth, and rather unquestioningly. And, ruffling her blood-red feathers she went on, "am I not what you despise most?" and Mauja snorted before he even knew it. Despised, perhaps, the union of two bloodlines—or rather, the dilution of unicorn blood. Tainting it with something lesser, abominable, alien...
And here he stood, talking to her, her wings rustling and flaring, and he didn't even care anymore.
Something in his blue eyes sharpened again, for a moment.
"I don't believe in punishing the offspring for the mistakes committed by their parents," he began, his voice a slow, thoughtful rumble as trembling fingers turned open the sticky covers of blood-spattered chapters bound with the hide of those he had despised; whenever he'd revisited these parts of his life in thought, he'd kept to the glory, the brilliance, the shining knight in armor who fought for his kind.. who fought, and lost, the hero wronged—but how could he be the hero if he was not strong enough?
How could he be the hero, if he was the villain?
Was Ghost even a mistake? "I was angry to find her birthing you. I was angry, because she said she was raped—I was angry, because she was one of my finest warriors and she could not even defend herself. I wanted her to own up to her failure; not pretend it had never happened." He blinked again, eyed her blearily, wondering why he was so honest. Was it because he was too tired to think straight? "Maybe it never happened." His bones were leaden, heavy; he wanted little but to crumble to the ground. "It was a long time ago," he said abruptly, head turning away, "and a different Mauja."
Because such was the nature of ice; not the nature of ghosts.
"Why? Why not just kill me?" She dug deeply, back through layers of dust, blowing it off the untouched covers of closed books he'd not looked much upon since living through. Oh, sure, he knew they were there, stored neatly on the shelves of his impeccable wintry mind, frozen and sealed to his cranium to forever haunt his thoughts and dreams—and he had, maybe, looked at them from time to time and thought he ought to do something about them. Perhaps open one, and read.
But he'd always taken his lantern and gone again, down the rows and shelves, to the time after, where the black ink leaped off the pages to strangle him and poison his blood.
He was too tired to wrench himself away from her poking, eyelids sagging too often and his mind clouding over; too tired to pretend he could offer her anything but the truth, and rather unquestioningly. And, ruffling her blood-red feathers she went on, "am I not what you despise most?" and Mauja snorted before he even knew it. Despised, perhaps, the union of two bloodlines—or rather, the dilution of unicorn blood. Tainting it with something lesser, abominable, alien...
And here he stood, talking to her, her wings rustling and flaring, and he didn't even care anymore.
Something in his blue eyes sharpened again, for a moment.
"I don't believe in punishing the offspring for the mistakes committed by their parents," he began, his voice a slow, thoughtful rumble as trembling fingers turned open the sticky covers of blood-spattered chapters bound with the hide of those he had despised; whenever he'd revisited these parts of his life in thought, he'd kept to the glory, the brilliance, the shining knight in armor who fought for his kind.. who fought, and lost, the hero wronged—but how could he be the hero if he was not strong enough?
How could he be the hero, if he was the villain?
Was Ghost even a mistake? "I was angry to find her birthing you. I was angry, because she said she was raped—I was angry, because she was one of my finest warriors and she could not even defend herself. I wanted her to own up to her failure; not pretend it had never happened." He blinked again, eyed her blearily, wondering why he was so honest. Was it because he was too tired to think straight? "Maybe it never happened." His bones were leaden, heavy; he wanted little but to crumble to the ground. "It was a long time ago," he said abruptly, head turning away, "and a different Mauja."
