.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
01-08-2015, 07:12 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
All his life, he had been afraid of making mistakes. All his life, he had been afraid of doing the wrong thing.
And the one time in his youth when he had made an actual mistake many had died.
So much for "it's okay to make mistakes". It wasn't okay if people died. So he'd bottled up the truth, bottled up the guilt, and when it consumed him from within, he had buried it somewhere in the tundra, and left. Taken it with him, hidden the guilt and the shame beneath layers of ice and snow and the dazzling blue of his eyes. Hidden the truth, lived and breathed lies. Mistakes meant people died. You couldn't make that right. So you didn't do mistakes in the first place. That road of perfection was the only one he could walk.
So in the dark, empty spaces between him and his child he didn't believe they would change—that they wouldn't remain dark and empty, a buffer of frost carved out between two frozen, insecure hearts. She had pulled away. Mistakes meant people died. Maybe he was dying, just a little, but—
The point is, Glacia made a mistake. Because she rectified what she did. So maybe, just maybe, you could make mistakes, and no one died, if you were just brave enough to own up to the fact that you had made one in the first place.
He hadn't been looking, too busy trying to force down the mind-numbing sense of grief and loss. He hadn't been looking, he hadn't been listening, hadn't registered the soft shuffling of snow as the yearning, cold void was bridged again, by someone not even half his size and already three times as brave.
A soft touch that was more of an attack, roughly shoving its way past the permanent aura of get-the-hell-away-from-me, past the tension and straight into the depths of him. And this time, it wasn't just a muzzle's velvet touch, full of hesitant pity and anger, but the entire broadside of her neck pressed against his chest, head straining against his shoulder as if to hook over his back and hold him there.
Maybe Glacia was just as lost as he—just as frozen, just as insecure, and maybe she, just like he, retreated rather than risked hurt. He could, after all, just push her away. Lock up his heart and all its whispered painful secrets.
He was, what, ten? Maybe it was time that he too grew a spine.
He didn't care about the black mare anymore. He didn't care about ghosts. He didn't care that they had a witness. He didn't care if the world finally got to know all that he was and wasn't—he didn't care about anything aside from the feeling of a small girl pushed against his chest.
The feeling of, finally, being wanted.
His large, white head hooked over the curve of her back, tilted so his cheek pressed against her on the opposite side of her spine—warm, she was warm, and small, and in a way she was vulnerable, but he was vulnerable too, but simply through sheer size he became her shield.
His long hair tangled over hers, spilled like the ethereal stuff of memories over her black skin as he pressed her against himself. And for a moment—he didn't care if it wasn't more than just a moment, a heartbeat, because for that moment at least it was his—he felt peace. Warmth, in the darkness of the backside of his eyelids.
He forgot the world. He forgot their witness, the black mare. He forgot his name and he didn't care who was the mother of this child. He forgot everything but the feeling of her, small and black and tentative, and the warmth where her skin pressed against his—he forgot everything but those four points in the compass of his heart.
Two for the owls,
One for her,
And one—
for himself.
[ @[Glacia] ]
And the one time in his youth when he had made an actual mistake many had died.
So much for "it's okay to make mistakes". It wasn't okay if people died. So he'd bottled up the truth, bottled up the guilt, and when it consumed him from within, he had buried it somewhere in the tundra, and left. Taken it with him, hidden the guilt and the shame beneath layers of ice and snow and the dazzling blue of his eyes. Hidden the truth, lived and breathed lies. Mistakes meant people died. You couldn't make that right. So you didn't do mistakes in the first place. That road of perfection was the only one he could walk.
So in the dark, empty spaces between him and his child he didn't believe they would change—that they wouldn't remain dark and empty, a buffer of frost carved out between two frozen, insecure hearts. She had pulled away. Mistakes meant people died. Maybe he was dying, just a little, but—
The point is, Glacia made a mistake. Because she rectified what she did. So maybe, just maybe, you could make mistakes, and no one died, if you were just brave enough to own up to the fact that you had made one in the first place.
He hadn't been looking, too busy trying to force down the mind-numbing sense of grief and loss. He hadn't been looking, he hadn't been listening, hadn't registered the soft shuffling of snow as the yearning, cold void was bridged again, by someone not even half his size and already three times as brave.
A soft touch that was more of an attack, roughly shoving its way past the permanent aura of get-the-hell-away-from-me, past the tension and straight into the depths of him. And this time, it wasn't just a muzzle's velvet touch, full of hesitant pity and anger, but the entire broadside of her neck pressed against his chest, head straining against his shoulder as if to hook over his back and hold him there.
Maybe Glacia was just as lost as he—just as frozen, just as insecure, and maybe she, just like he, retreated rather than risked hurt. He could, after all, just push her away. Lock up his heart and all its whispered painful secrets.
He was, what, ten? Maybe it was time that he too grew a spine.
He didn't care about the black mare anymore. He didn't care about ghosts. He didn't care that they had a witness. He didn't care if the world finally got to know all that he was and wasn't—he didn't care about anything aside from the feeling of a small girl pushed against his chest.
The feeling of, finally, being wanted.
His large, white head hooked over the curve of her back, tilted so his cheek pressed against her on the opposite side of her spine—warm, she was warm, and small, and in a way she was vulnerable, but he was vulnerable too, but simply through sheer size he became her shield.
His long hair tangled over hers, spilled like the ethereal stuff of memories over her black skin as he pressed her against himself. And for a moment—he didn't care if it wasn't more than just a moment, a heartbeat, because for that moment at least it was his—he felt peace. Warmth, in the darkness of the backside of his eyelids.
He forgot the world. He forgot their witness, the black mare. He forgot his name and he didn't care who was the mother of this child. He forgot everything but the feeling of her, small and black and tentative, and the warmth where her skin pressed against his—he forgot everything but those four points in the compass of his heart.
Two for the owls,
One for her,
And one—
for himself.
[ @[Glacia] ]
