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06-02-2014, 02:39 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ for anyone. <3 ]
He didn't even believe in the Gods anymore.
They were real enough—he couldn't argue that. They were powerful enough—he couldn't argue that, either. They were tangible, and dangerous, and who could even guess the bounds of their powers?
But they were just Gods. Distant, inconsiderate; he couldn't understand worship of them, not anymore, not when his heart was so hardened and his mind so cynical, and bitter. What was faith? Some sort of scapegoat: you could blame the Gods for everything you did wrong and never open up your eyes and see the things you lost. Oh, it will happen if the Gods will it—what a convenient excuse for procrastinating, or not daring to get off your ass and go on that adventure, or kiss the love of your life, or.. or...
No. No God would swoop down and save him from himself, or find him Ophelia, or.. solve all his problems. He was on his own.
So that wasn't why he was here, tonight, in the roaring summer storm.
He was here, trying to fix his own problems. Tie up his loose end on his own, and keep some semblance of sanity while he did it, hooves clicking on blackened stone as he hobbled along the isthmus. The gale was picking at his hair, sent his mane and tail flying every which-way, forelock tangled up against his horn and ears; the waves crashed in high from the side, drenching him as they spat water up at him, and made the footing so slick he'd lost his balance quite a few times. A night-black trickle of blood marked his knee, but the salty whiplash of air had since long robbed him of feeling it.
Desperation made him illogical, exhaustion made him volatile, and memory made him stubborn; why would she be out here, by the shrines, on this godforsaken night? Who, in their right mind, would brave the ruthless storm just to go see those broken, stupid altars? The wind forced tears out of his eyes, and as he forced himself through its push he knew that he would've been crying regardless; sobbing brokenly as he toiled over the land-bridge, hysterical laughter and utter defeat just a breath away.
Last time he'd been here—or had he been there since? he couldn't remember—she had been there, and those blue flowers had glowed, and something, something had filled his heart with hope and light in that blackness..
But aside from the slow pulse of the magical rocks, the island was dark up there, and there was nothing in the howling wind to give him comfort—his owls, his sane owls, had remained on the mainland, refusing to come out here and get blown into the sea.
He was halfway to hell, halfway to nowhere, scrabbling along the slick rocks and choking on his heart.
He didn't even believe in the Gods anymore.
They were real enough—he couldn't argue that. They were powerful enough—he couldn't argue that, either. They were tangible, and dangerous, and who could even guess the bounds of their powers?
But they were just Gods. Distant, inconsiderate; he couldn't understand worship of them, not anymore, not when his heart was so hardened and his mind so cynical, and bitter. What was faith? Some sort of scapegoat: you could blame the Gods for everything you did wrong and never open up your eyes and see the things you lost. Oh, it will happen if the Gods will it—what a convenient excuse for procrastinating, or not daring to get off your ass and go on that adventure, or kiss the love of your life, or.. or...
No. No God would swoop down and save him from himself, or find him Ophelia, or.. solve all his problems. He was on his own.
So that wasn't why he was here, tonight, in the roaring summer storm.
He was here, trying to fix his own problems. Tie up his loose end on his own, and keep some semblance of sanity while he did it, hooves clicking on blackened stone as he hobbled along the isthmus. The gale was picking at his hair, sent his mane and tail flying every which-way, forelock tangled up against his horn and ears; the waves crashed in high from the side, drenching him as they spat water up at him, and made the footing so slick he'd lost his balance quite a few times. A night-black trickle of blood marked his knee, but the salty whiplash of air had since long robbed him of feeling it.
Desperation made him illogical, exhaustion made him volatile, and memory made him stubborn; why would she be out here, by the shrines, on this godforsaken night? Who, in their right mind, would brave the ruthless storm just to go see those broken, stupid altars? The wind forced tears out of his eyes, and as he forced himself through its push he knew that he would've been crying regardless; sobbing brokenly as he toiled over the land-bridge, hysterical laughter and utter defeat just a breath away.
Last time he'd been here—or had he been there since? he couldn't remember—she had been there, and those blue flowers had glowed, and something, something had filled his heart with hope and light in that blackness..
But aside from the slow pulse of the magical rocks, the island was dark up there, and there was nothing in the howling wind to give him comfort—his owls, his sane owls, had remained on the mainland, refusing to come out here and get blown into the sea.
He was halfway to hell, halfway to nowhere, scrabbling along the slick rocks and choking on his heart.
