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i am the vanguard of your destruction
Movement forced blood through broken veins, pushed it to the surface of his skin—it was a macabre smile painted across his shoulder, a thin-lipped mouth moving silently in synch with the muscles underneath. The air kissed it, bitterly.
Pain tore at his frayed nerves as his body lurched forward, hammering the forgiving sand mercilessly. He beat it, time and again, and it simply shrugged, and didn't let him down.
Why wasn't more of the world like sand.
His blurred vision of this white angel disappeared, lost in the blue sky as he threw his head up while she fell, delicate and slender form hitting the dirt with a thud. It reverberated through his mind, a noise that made his bones tremble, and it just felt wrong. He wasn't here to put her down, he was.. he was here.. he was here because he had a heart... And it hammered in his chest, made him feel weak at the knees as he backpedaled. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, both shoulders aching, one dull from impact, one jagged and obnoxious; demanding.
But he had no time for them, except to savor that he was cracking open—he only had eyes for her, his mind tearing itself between past and present much like hers.
He had seen this before. He had been through this before, in another dream, with another woman, one of soft blackness and deceit as profound as his. They had charged with an army, forced themselves through enemy lines, and with each step that they came closer to victory his heart had rebelled.
For he had known what lain behind their protection, he had known who they had been sent to kill.
The only difference was that he was standing still, now—and the dragon's mouth that opened wide against his face did not cover the entire sky, but for all that he cared, it might as well. Silver jaws and sharp, sterling fangs glittered in the sunlight as the porcelain doll they protected rose.
Mauja had never been one to like pain, but now he wanted it. His eyes closed again.
It matched his heart. Winter itself bit him in the face, froze his tears and drove daggers into his flesh—his skin crawled, muscles jerking, a jolt driving itself all the way into his chest.
It was not fire.
He was almost disappointed.
When he opened his eyes again, she was lunging like a wolf. He let her. He deserved it. He wasn't here to beat her up, he wasn't here to defeat her, he was here simply because he'd happened to walk upon her and because the easiest way to do something had been to abuse where they were. If he'd stopped to think about it, he wouldn't have said it.
And now, he was paying for it, tasting it in the pinched skin on his left shoulder and the tug against the wound's half-crusted edges. His head went up again, eyes rolling back; gods, his entire head ached, he felt like he'd been battered against a wall, but at least he felt something. For once, he relished the pain, drank it in like sunshine and truth, and—hesitantly—swallowed the bitter dregs that came afterwards, with sanity and thought.
Once, he had allowed Voodoo to use him as a beating post. Now, he was doing it again—putting himself above and beyond the rules of the combat, winning by not committing, because if he didn't commit, he couldn't lose, right?
And that was his problem.
He never committed to anything. Always had one foot out the door. Always ready to run. Slipping out the back quietly. And now, he had done it too many times—would she ever again trust him? Until either of them died, and they knew the truth of his loyalty? Was he forcing her to live like he had? Always doubting?
Something in him gave way, doors closed and others opened. With a strangled yell he threw his head towards hers, eyes pinched shut as he braced for impact—it didn't matter with what part of his skull he hit her or where it landed, it didn't matter at all, because the only thing that mattered was the power building in his soul. Something, something was on the verge of happening, a roaring blackness threatening to swallow him, and in the disintegrating chaos of his mind a river of flame swept forth. It burned against the darkness, it burned against the hot tears of shame and guilt, and it burned against all the pain—it burned in the shape of a swan, still locked up in his chest.
Upon the fence the owls sat, eyes unblinking. Neither of them moved. This was, after all, not their fight.
[ 797 words, 2/3, @[Ophelia]. ]
Summary: takes the dragon's breath full against the face and Ophelia bites his left shoulder, not too far from the wound. he then tries to bash his head against hers, with very little aim.
Music: E.S. Posthumus - Ebla
Edit, with permission from Aud--
This was part of what I had to cut out of the post when trimming it down to below 800, but I just.. want to put it here, to keep it somewhere.
"If he'd stopped to think about it, he wouldn't have said it, wouldn't have done it, but he'd always wanted to—secretly his mind had painted images of her thinner body and her deer-like grace, and wondered how fierce the lion in her soul was, how deceptive her skin."
Pain tore at his frayed nerves as his body lurched forward, hammering the forgiving sand mercilessly. He beat it, time and again, and it simply shrugged, and didn't let him down.
Why wasn't more of the world like sand.
His blurred vision of this white angel disappeared, lost in the blue sky as he threw his head up while she fell, delicate and slender form hitting the dirt with a thud. It reverberated through his mind, a noise that made his bones tremble, and it just felt wrong. He wasn't here to put her down, he was.. he was here.. he was here because he had a heart... And it hammered in his chest, made him feel weak at the knees as he backpedaled. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, both shoulders aching, one dull from impact, one jagged and obnoxious; demanding.
But he had no time for them, except to savor that he was cracking open—he only had eyes for her, his mind tearing itself between past and present much like hers.
He had seen this before. He had been through this before, in another dream, with another woman, one of soft blackness and deceit as profound as his. They had charged with an army, forced themselves through enemy lines, and with each step that they came closer to victory his heart had rebelled.
For he had known what lain behind their protection, he had known who they had been sent to kill.
The only difference was that he was standing still, now—and the dragon's mouth that opened wide against his face did not cover the entire sky, but for all that he cared, it might as well. Silver jaws and sharp, sterling fangs glittered in the sunlight as the porcelain doll they protected rose.
Mauja had never been one to like pain, but now he wanted it. His eyes closed again.
It matched his heart. Winter itself bit him in the face, froze his tears and drove daggers into his flesh—his skin crawled, muscles jerking, a jolt driving itself all the way into his chest.
It was not fire.
He was almost disappointed.
When he opened his eyes again, she was lunging like a wolf. He let her. He deserved it. He wasn't here to beat her up, he wasn't here to defeat her, he was here simply because he'd happened to walk upon her and because the easiest way to do something had been to abuse where they were. If he'd stopped to think about it, he wouldn't have said it.
And now, he was paying for it, tasting it in the pinched skin on his left shoulder and the tug against the wound's half-crusted edges. His head went up again, eyes rolling back; gods, his entire head ached, he felt like he'd been battered against a wall, but at least he felt something. For once, he relished the pain, drank it in like sunshine and truth, and—hesitantly—swallowed the bitter dregs that came afterwards, with sanity and thought.
Once, he had allowed Voodoo to use him as a beating post. Now, he was doing it again—putting himself above and beyond the rules of the combat, winning by not committing, because if he didn't commit, he couldn't lose, right?
And that was his problem.
He never committed to anything. Always had one foot out the door. Always ready to run. Slipping out the back quietly. And now, he had done it too many times—would she ever again trust him? Until either of them died, and they knew the truth of his loyalty? Was he forcing her to live like he had? Always doubting?
Something in him gave way, doors closed and others opened. With a strangled yell he threw his head towards hers, eyes pinched shut as he braced for impact—it didn't matter with what part of his skull he hit her or where it landed, it didn't matter at all, because the only thing that mattered was the power building in his soul. Something, something was on the verge of happening, a roaring blackness threatening to swallow him, and in the disintegrating chaos of his mind a river of flame swept forth. It burned against the darkness, it burned against the hot tears of shame and guilt, and it burned against all the pain—it burned in the shape of a swan, still locked up in his chest.
Upon the fence the owls sat, eyes unblinking. Neither of them moved. This was, after all, not their fight.
[ 797 words, 2/3, @[Ophelia]. ]
Summary: takes the dragon's breath full against the face and Ophelia bites his left shoulder, not too far from the wound. he then tries to bash his head against hers, with very little aim.
Music: E.S. Posthumus - Ebla
Edit, with permission from Aud--
This was part of what I had to cut out of the post when trimming it down to below 800, but I just.. want to put it here, to keep it somewhere.
"If he'd stopped to think about it, he wouldn't have said it, wouldn't have done it, but he'd always wanted to—secretly his mind had painted images of her thinner body and her deer-like grace, and wondered how fierce the lion in her soul was, how deceptive her skin."
