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08-03-2014, 08:23 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
[ Sorry. Murder me, @[Brisa], @[Cirrus]. ]
It was all ice and cracks, that heart of his. Black blood and stale veins; no mess, no gory splatter, just the quiescence of a frostbitten death.
And in the emptiness, it seemed the only tangible things were anger and lust. If it was not one, it was the other, and if it was neither, he was dead. Just a black, gaping void stretching beneath his skin, encompassing all that should've been life and love. Was it so strange, that he reached for whatever made him feel alive? Was it so strange, that he found smoldering rage at his fingertips? That only in the ruination of something, the process reversed for himself?
It was not strange—but that didn't make it right.
Not when he was greeted in such a way, hero and friend, not merely with a smile but with enthusiasm. Not ever. He had a hold on Cirrus' past in one way, he had the words on the tip of his fucking tongue, but he swallowed them. Because there was no point. There was only false life to be had in harassing her. Slowly, his ears rotated back, and whatever cold spark had given life to his blue eyes faded.
They often said his eyes betrayed nothing, showed no emotion—but they had never been dead and dull, always sparkling and shimmering with something.
When had he come to this? And—how? Questions, to which he had no answers.
"It's good to see you again Mauja." It was, probably, the first time in a very, very long time anyone had said that. And as a concept, it was almost hard to grasp, but his head drifted in her direction, that little spark of familiarity causing his lips to twitch slightly. "Likewise," he responded, but his heart was somewhere else, and her shy boys clustered around her. Did he like children?
It felt like he'd forgotten who he was. Like everything he'd ever known, about himself and the world, had been taken out of his mind. Unbidden, his mind went to Ophelia, to her explanation of what had happened all those years ago, the admission to waking up happy.. only to realize others remembered while she'd forgotten. "How are you..?"
And what do you respond with? Honesty? Social little white lies? Do you open your mouth and just spill it out—that you feel like dead weight, like there's nothing left of you within? That all you want to do is forget you ever came here, and drift back into the shadows, and wander, wander, wander, until he reached the end of the world? His mouth hung slightly open, as if preparing to say something, but then he shut it with a sigh, shrugged, and looked aside.
It was all ice and cracks, that heart of his. Black blood and stale veins; no mess, no gory splatter, just the quiescence of a frostbitten death.
And in the emptiness, it seemed the only tangible things were anger and lust. If it was not one, it was the other, and if it was neither, he was dead. Just a black, gaping void stretching beneath his skin, encompassing all that should've been life and love. Was it so strange, that he reached for whatever made him feel alive? Was it so strange, that he found smoldering rage at his fingertips? That only in the ruination of something, the process reversed for himself?
It was not strange—but that didn't make it right.
Not when he was greeted in such a way, hero and friend, not merely with a smile but with enthusiasm. Not ever. He had a hold on Cirrus' past in one way, he had the words on the tip of his fucking tongue, but he swallowed them. Because there was no point. There was only false life to be had in harassing her. Slowly, his ears rotated back, and whatever cold spark had given life to his blue eyes faded.
They often said his eyes betrayed nothing, showed no emotion—but they had never been dead and dull, always sparkling and shimmering with something.
Now, they were as lackluster as dust.
When had he come to this? And—how? Questions, to which he had no answers.
"It's good to see you again Mauja." It was, probably, the first time in a very, very long time anyone had said that. And as a concept, it was almost hard to grasp, but his head drifted in her direction, that little spark of familiarity causing his lips to twitch slightly. "Likewise," he responded, but his heart was somewhere else, and her shy boys clustered around her. Did he like children?
It felt like he'd forgotten who he was. Like everything he'd ever known, about himself and the world, had been taken out of his mind. Unbidden, his mind went to Ophelia, to her explanation of what had happened all those years ago, the admission to waking up happy.. only to realize others remembered while she'd forgotten. "How are you..?"
And what do you respond with? Honesty? Social little white lies? Do you open your mouth and just spill it out—that you feel like dead weight, like there's nothing left of you within? That all you want to do is forget you ever came here, and drift back into the shadows, and wander, wander, wander, until he reached the end of the world? His mouth hung slightly open, as if preparing to say something, but then he shut it with a sigh, shrugged, and looked aside.
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
