.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
11-24-2014, 02:54 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Eyes closed and faces to the sky,
.. and this is how we died.
I am no more a God than you are.
Blue eyes, washed out to silver in the starlight, opened slowly in the darkness, cracking open with the reluctance one might greet a particularly trying day with when it seems so much more tempting to remain where you are, soaking up some early morning sunlight. But, of course, there was no sunlight—it was the dead of night, somewhere between midnight and the wolf hour, with only the cold and distant stars to shed light on the world.
His head canted to the side, long forelock sliding off his face to bare his right eye to the sky. Far away they shimmered, those stars, those tiny pinpricks of light, lighting up the vast blue canvas. Would they ever go out? Would they ever let him down? Would they ever rob him of this—of a world coated in the finest of snows, of their cold touch upon its crust, the way they glittered upon the layers of frost coating every rock and tree and every dead thing?
Mauja could not imagine a world without stars. A world without snow. A world without this frozen perfection laid out before him—without this mirror image of his soul.
His breath rose in front of his face each time his sides fell.
With the same slow grace each of his movements had held the past few hours he turned his head, his neck, and let his gaze sweep over the unbroken expanse—over the shimmering snow, black-rimmed ears listening to its own peculiar brand of not-quite-silence. Winter had a voice, as much as it had a face, a cold and quiet voice whispering in the barely audible crackle of the snow, and the low singing of the stars. Tonight, winter was cold and merciless, sharp as a steel blade left out in the snow to chill.
He loved winter's voice. No matter if it was this, this frozen, glacial perfection, or if it was in the sparse warmth of bleak sunlight, or the soft sound of falling snow. He loved it, because it was the one thing that remained the same. The one thing that reminded him of home.
Of himself. Of what slept in his veins.
They rose, slow without the wicked touch of his temper to urge them out of hiding, rattling the loose snow and reaching towards the sky. Five spires. With a groan they strained ever upwards, passing his back in height, his head, his horn, until the passive yearning in his soul was not enough to coax them higher. He held them there for a moment, rooted them in the world, left enough of himself in them to make them stand without him breathing life into them—and his mind released its grip, and they still stood around him like sentinels, sharp tips glittering coldly in the pale light.
He'd been away again. He'd traveled with the gale in his veins and the storm by his side, that godsblood brother of his. Left Helovia to finally face the one thing he'd spent all his life running from.
His gaze wandered the horizon. He should've felt relief, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, as if he could breathe a little easier, or.. anything. As if he'd finally dispelled the ghosts of his past.
He felt no different in that regard. Just older. More tired.
As if he was heading for his death.
.. and this is how we died.
I am no more a God than you are.
Blue eyes, washed out to silver in the starlight, opened slowly in the darkness, cracking open with the reluctance one might greet a particularly trying day with when it seems so much more tempting to remain where you are, soaking up some early morning sunlight. But, of course, there was no sunlight—it was the dead of night, somewhere between midnight and the wolf hour, with only the cold and distant stars to shed light on the world.
His head canted to the side, long forelock sliding off his face to bare his right eye to the sky. Far away they shimmered, those stars, those tiny pinpricks of light, lighting up the vast blue canvas. Would they ever go out? Would they ever let him down? Would they ever rob him of this—of a world coated in the finest of snows, of their cold touch upon its crust, the way they glittered upon the layers of frost coating every rock and tree and every dead thing?
Mauja could not imagine a world without stars. A world without snow. A world without this frozen perfection laid out before him—without this mirror image of his soul.
His breath rose in front of his face each time his sides fell.
With the same slow grace each of his movements had held the past few hours he turned his head, his neck, and let his gaze sweep over the unbroken expanse—over the shimmering snow, black-rimmed ears listening to its own peculiar brand of not-quite-silence. Winter had a voice, as much as it had a face, a cold and quiet voice whispering in the barely audible crackle of the snow, and the low singing of the stars. Tonight, winter was cold and merciless, sharp as a steel blade left out in the snow to chill.
He loved winter's voice. No matter if it was this, this frozen, glacial perfection, or if it was in the sparse warmth of bleak sunlight, or the soft sound of falling snow. He loved it, because it was the one thing that remained the same. The one thing that reminded him of home.
Of himself. Of what slept in his veins.
They rose, slow without the wicked touch of his temper to urge them out of hiding, rattling the loose snow and reaching towards the sky. Five spires. With a groan they strained ever upwards, passing his back in height, his head, his horn, until the passive yearning in his soul was not enough to coax them higher. He held them there for a moment, rooted them in the world, left enough of himself in them to make them stand without him breathing life into them—and his mind released its grip, and they still stood around him like sentinels, sharp tips glittering coldly in the pale light.
He'd been away again. He'd traveled with the gale in his veins and the storm by his side, that godsblood brother of his. Left Helovia to finally face the one thing he'd spent all his life running from.
His gaze wandered the horizon. He should've felt relief, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, as if he could breathe a little easier, or.. anything. As if he'd finally dispelled the ghosts of his past.
He felt no different in that regard. Just older. More tired.
As if he was heading for his death.
