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06-19-2014, 06:19 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The world was dark.
Clouds, thin and flimsy, covered up the stars; the moon had since long disappeared, maybe not risen at all that night. Maybe it lurked in the Sun's blue day-sky, faint silver and distant, robbing the night-walkers of their beacon. The sand, so often painted with a sterling edge, just seemed gray, lifeless, bereft of its illumination. And the ocean was a dark, hungry beast crowding in to the shore, whispering and groaning, pushing and pulling, tugging, heaving. Brittle driftwood and seaweed rolled in with it, left to wait for the harsh sunlight upon the desolate shore—carried for so long, and then just abandoned out here.
Further out, the sea spit seafoam at the shrouded sky, the small waves breaking in an almost pathetic imitation of its bigger, wind-whipped siblings. There were none of those tonight. The wind was gentle, a lull, merely a breath; the waters moved without it, to some rhythm Mauja couldn't hear, a pulse he couldn't feel. They said the moon governed the tides, and yet it was Father Earth who ruled of the realms of water.
Either the deities were illogically separated, or the world moved in a kind of symbiosis, the division of elements necessary to make sure they cooperated; and which one of them would want to relive the Sun's cruel summer, when he waged war upon them with his heat?
Because he had burned that which belonged to his siblings, heedless and angry.
He hadn't bet on the strongest mortals.
Unlike the Moon Bitch.
Mauja stared out at the distant horizon, at the ceaseless, futile struggle of the sea, wondering why his mind always spun back to that point in time: that summer. That battle. That loss. As if it somehow justified his bitterness and attitude. As if it somehow justified his seething, hidden anger.
As if it somehow could bring him back, place him back on his throne of dreams, and his empire of plans.
Slowly, he shook his head to himself. If he wanted it back, he had to take it back, and stop moaning about it. It was just.. the thought pattern was hammered so deeply into his head, he couldn't evade it, couldn't deceive it, because somehow, he always found himself trapped in it when he didn't even mean to. Like tonight, like.. like all other nights. And he wasn't the same. He couldn't be a King now. He was not strong enough to give himself for his people.
He would loathe them and ridicule them and diminish them, and they would grow resentful, and he would have become everything he'd always sworn he wouldn't.
And besides.. he couldn't do that to Kahlua. It didn't matter how much he second-guessed himself, about his motives, his black anger, his past, his future. It didn't matter, because in the end, he already knew.
[ @[Oxy]! ]
Clouds, thin and flimsy, covered up the stars; the moon had since long disappeared, maybe not risen at all that night. Maybe it lurked in the Sun's blue day-sky, faint silver and distant, robbing the night-walkers of their beacon. The sand, so often painted with a sterling edge, just seemed gray, lifeless, bereft of its illumination. And the ocean was a dark, hungry beast crowding in to the shore, whispering and groaning, pushing and pulling, tugging, heaving. Brittle driftwood and seaweed rolled in with it, left to wait for the harsh sunlight upon the desolate shore—carried for so long, and then just abandoned out here.
Further out, the sea spit seafoam at the shrouded sky, the small waves breaking in an almost pathetic imitation of its bigger, wind-whipped siblings. There were none of those tonight. The wind was gentle, a lull, merely a breath; the waters moved without it, to some rhythm Mauja couldn't hear, a pulse he couldn't feel. They said the moon governed the tides, and yet it was Father Earth who ruled of the realms of water.
Either the deities were illogically separated, or the world moved in a kind of symbiosis, the division of elements necessary to make sure they cooperated; and which one of them would want to relive the Sun's cruel summer, when he waged war upon them with his heat?
Because he had burned that which belonged to his siblings, heedless and angry.
He hadn't bet on the strongest mortals.
Unlike the Moon Bitch.
Mauja stared out at the distant horizon, at the ceaseless, futile struggle of the sea, wondering why his mind always spun back to that point in time: that summer. That battle. That loss. As if it somehow justified his bitterness and attitude. As if it somehow justified his seething, hidden anger.
As if it somehow could bring him back, place him back on his throne of dreams, and his empire of plans.
Slowly, he shook his head to himself. If he wanted it back, he had to take it back, and stop moaning about it. It was just.. the thought pattern was hammered so deeply into his head, he couldn't evade it, couldn't deceive it, because somehow, he always found himself trapped in it when he didn't even mean to. Like tonight, like.. like all other nights. And he wasn't the same. He couldn't be a King now. He was not strong enough to give himself for his people.
He would loathe them and ridicule them and diminish them, and they would grow resentful, and he would have become everything he'd always sworn he wouldn't.
And besides.. he couldn't do that to Kahlua. It didn't matter how much he second-guessed himself, about his motives, his black anger, his past, his future. It didn't matter, because in the end, he already knew.
[ @[Oxy]! ]
