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08-23-2014, 04:41 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He was content to wait.
He was home.
He had waited a long time, and all the while, he'd never known he was waiting. But now he knew, and the wait was, in one way, over. Slowly, his eyes shut, and his head lifted—and he breathed. Existed. The slow rise and fall of his chest gave him away, but his mind grew blessedly silent. And for the first time in a long while, life didn't feel quite so heavy, and his heart not quite so tired.
For the first time in a long, long while, he felt what he could only describe as hope.
And he remembered how to live in this forest; how to listen, how to pick the scents apart, and how to feel it. Slowly, his eyes cracked open again to the early morning sunlight, and his head turned. Someone was coming. He didn't need to know more. Peace had settled across him, smoothed the worries from his face. He would face whatever that would come, and he would give this life his best—because soon enough, he might not be able to give it anything at all.
And that thought, now that he nearly stood face to face with it, frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
So in many ways, it was a relief that it was nothing but Kahlua's black-and-white splotched shape that came through the forest, the sun glistening upon the dew-drops trapped against her legs. A basket dangled from her mouth, refracting the pale sunlight in much the same way as the broken-down wall did. More glass, then? It was the Moon's gift, after all, though the Edge unicorns had seldom made use of it at the time. It hadn't seemed durable enough to use for war, and war was what they'd been made of, even if the same gentle, early autumn sunlight had filtered down on their last days there.
She yelled his name, and his ears flipped forward. It was something.. something in her tone, in the loudness of her shout, that gave him pause; something that made him wary, all his old doubts flaring into life, as painful and tangible as the memory of fire. Had she turned her back on him? Been poisoned by the words of others? Had she decided that he was a murderer after all, and not simply a man who had been burned too many times?
He didn't want to ruin the peace of the forest morning with his black fear, so he said nothing as she put the basket down, simply stared at her with a wariness he had never regarded her with earlier—and never wanted to regard her with again. But he couldn't deny that his heart pulsed with the old memories he couldn't ever shake, and that he feared what words might roll off her tongue next. “I looked everywhere for you! Where were you!?” Moss bent beneath the force of her hoof, and Mauja's ears fell back in hesitation; she'd hardly given him an exact date to return by.. and besides, much had happened since.
Gods burning—how long had it been? Last winter? So nearly a year. Then Diego had taken ill, and they'd left, and come back, and everything, which had always hung in a kind of precarious balance, had just come crashing down. He'd told himself, all those months ago, that he would find Ophelia. Tell her all the things she needed to hear, just in case.
But that had dragged on, and on, and on.. and he hadn't found her.
So he'd come anyway.
But the Sun was never angry long, was she? Like the God who burned him once and healed him another time; the stomping hoof was exchanged for a bounding, bouncing approach, and Irma gave an indignant owl's bark as she fled to the sky to avoid being knocked clear off his back. It just drew a gentle laugh from Mauja, a sound so alien to him—his eyes closed, again, and what shadow she cast upon him from the sun was no colder, because she was more than warm enough. Silently he pressed the side of his face against her mane, against her neck, hiding in the folds of her white-black hair and wishing the world could just leave him there, where everything was simple and nothing hurt quite so bad.
But it couldn't. Wouldn't. Because it was the world, and Kahlua needed to dance, and she couldn't do that when he clung to her. So he let her step back, and Irma returned from her circling to settle upon him again, favoring the girl-mare with an icy stare. It seemed to say, this place on Mauja's body is mine, so don't try to take it again.
"I've missed you too," he responded, but his eyes were on the device crawling down her neck, and his surprise at how honestly the words slipped off his tongue was drowned in the curiosity of how she'd come to be in possession of it. He remembered Snö's wolf, Tarak, very well, and thought the machinery of this was familiar—and besides, who else had such a peculiar art, as the taciturn Engineer? But how had she, a hornless, come to have one? Ulrik was hardly known for his fondness of the "lesser species", and had, in fact, been the one ready to boot Mauja out for his political move during the Sun Cult days. So why did Kahlua have one of his creations? He motioned towards the whirring creature with the tip of his nose, and asked, "is that one of Ulrik's machines?"
He was home.
He had waited a long time, and all the while, he'd never known he was waiting. But now he knew, and the wait was, in one way, over. Slowly, his eyes shut, and his head lifted—and he breathed. Existed. The slow rise and fall of his chest gave him away, but his mind grew blessedly silent. And for the first time in a long while, life didn't feel quite so heavy, and his heart not quite so tired.
For the first time in a long, long while, he felt what he could only describe as hope.
And he remembered how to live in this forest; how to listen, how to pick the scents apart, and how to feel it. Slowly, his eyes cracked open again to the early morning sunlight, and his head turned. Someone was coming. He didn't need to know more. Peace had settled across him, smoothed the worries from his face. He would face whatever that would come, and he would give this life his best—because soon enough, he might not be able to give it anything at all.
And that thought, now that he nearly stood face to face with it, frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
So in many ways, it was a relief that it was nothing but Kahlua's black-and-white splotched shape that came through the forest, the sun glistening upon the dew-drops trapped against her legs. A basket dangled from her mouth, refracting the pale sunlight in much the same way as the broken-down wall did. More glass, then? It was the Moon's gift, after all, though the Edge unicorns had seldom made use of it at the time. It hadn't seemed durable enough to use for war, and war was what they'd been made of, even if the same gentle, early autumn sunlight had filtered down on their last days there.
She yelled his name, and his ears flipped forward. It was something.. something in her tone, in the loudness of her shout, that gave him pause; something that made him wary, all his old doubts flaring into life, as painful and tangible as the memory of fire. Had she turned her back on him? Been poisoned by the words of others? Had she decided that he was a murderer after all, and not simply a man who had been burned too many times?
He didn't want to ruin the peace of the forest morning with his black fear, so he said nothing as she put the basket down, simply stared at her with a wariness he had never regarded her with earlier—and never wanted to regard her with again. But he couldn't deny that his heart pulsed with the old memories he couldn't ever shake, and that he feared what words might roll off her tongue next. “I looked everywhere for you! Where were you!?” Moss bent beneath the force of her hoof, and Mauja's ears fell back in hesitation; she'd hardly given him an exact date to return by.. and besides, much had happened since.
Gods burning—how long had it been? Last winter? So nearly a year. Then Diego had taken ill, and they'd left, and come back, and everything, which had always hung in a kind of precarious balance, had just come crashing down. He'd told himself, all those months ago, that he would find Ophelia. Tell her all the things she needed to hear, just in case.
But that had dragged on, and on, and on.. and he hadn't found her.
So he'd come anyway.
But the Sun was never angry long, was she? Like the God who burned him once and healed him another time; the stomping hoof was exchanged for a bounding, bouncing approach, and Irma gave an indignant owl's bark as she fled to the sky to avoid being knocked clear off his back. It just drew a gentle laugh from Mauja, a sound so alien to him—his eyes closed, again, and what shadow she cast upon him from the sun was no colder, because she was more than warm enough. Silently he pressed the side of his face against her mane, against her neck, hiding in the folds of her white-black hair and wishing the world could just leave him there, where everything was simple and nothing hurt quite so bad.
But it couldn't. Wouldn't. Because it was the world, and Kahlua needed to dance, and she couldn't do that when he clung to her. So he let her step back, and Irma returned from her circling to settle upon him again, favoring the girl-mare with an icy stare. It seemed to say, this place on Mauja's body is mine, so don't try to take it again.
"I've missed you too," he responded, but his eyes were on the device crawling down her neck, and his surprise at how honestly the words slipped off his tongue was drowned in the curiosity of how she'd come to be in possession of it. He remembered Snö's wolf, Tarak, very well, and thought the machinery of this was familiar—and besides, who else had such a peculiar art, as the taciturn Engineer? But how had she, a hornless, come to have one? Ulrik was hardly known for his fondness of the "lesser species", and had, in fact, been the one ready to boot Mauja out for his political move during the Sun Cult days. So why did Kahlua have one of his creations? He motioned towards the whirring creature with the tip of his nose, and asked, "is that one of Ulrik's machines?"
