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12-22-2014, 01:49 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He was no phoenix: he'd been burned a long time ago, but he had not risen from the gray swirl of ashes. There had been no rebirth for him, no new life in the colorless dawn—Mauja was as hollow as a burnt-out husk, blackened bones and dry veins. The spaces in his heart, the ones that ought to be full of love and life and joy, were barren, desolate, empty of all but fleeting moments of pain. He didn't weep for her. He felt no pity for her (guilt, shame, but no pity—her life was not his to judge).
He wept for himself. He wept for broken wings and hollow hearts. He wept because she was beautiful, lissome and dangerous all at once.
Maybe, just maybe, he wept for them.
The nerves of his head had begun to scream, and it had very little to do with the fact that he'd bashed his skull against her shoulder. No, it was the slow, creeping agony of thawing, of hot blood chasing the biting chill away—sweeping tendrils of fire, matching the odd burning in his soul.
Flame had never been his. What was it doing now, unfurling inside of him? He had no time to pause and analyze, but he wanted to, and in that moment she fled from him. Blue eyes slid open to the unforgiving sunlight, glittered upon droplets of perfect red. She was bleeding.
The world slowed. It ground to an agonizing halt, his breath full of the smoke of guilt; his anger began to burn again, struggled to escape his throat, but he choked on it again. She was bleeding, a tiny gash like a mimicry of the stinging one slapped across his own shoulder, and he knew without even the owls' input that red coated the sharp tip of his horn. Even his memory filled in with the moment's tug against the muscles of his neck, the telltale sensation of hitting flesh, even if just briefly.
She was bleeding and it was his fault.
Commit.
Because after all, he was bleeding too, and that was her doing.
He was past believing that trading eyes for eyes solved anything, and whatever strange thing smoldered in his soul certainly wasn't aimed at her, but if he couldn't rise to this challenge.. if he could not be a worthy opponent.. he would've failed her as profoundly as he had by disappearing.
So Mauja, the fell flame, turned to face her. She broke his heart a thousand times over simply by existing, and laying eyes upon her made him want to shatter—for a moment it flashed across his face again, that look of pain and worship, but he swallowed it. Steeled himself. Frozen tears coated his cheeks but no new ones blurred his vision, and the blue of his eyes was as emotionless as iron.
She broke his heart again with the emptiness of her gaze.
And then she was running, the sand as morbidly cheerful in helping her reach him as it was the other way around, and he planted all four feet firmly. He was done with running and he was done with.. with.. with standing around and being beat up? Yeah, right.
Why did he have to give up before he'd even tried? It was getting old.
He fell into the darkness. He fell into the flames. He let go, and the burning swan reached out, swept him up in its wings and spread them wide against the blue sky; his soul was free-falling again, through a golden blaze, the world spinning around him in a sickening blur. As the flaming bird streaked out from his chest it seared his skin, singed his long hair and blackened his pale fur—long wings beat against the spring air as it sped away next to them. Somewhere in the confusing haze of the unfamiliarity of the power, and the agony which had spawned it, he felt a tug at his senses, another lash across his shoulder. The scent of fresh blood overpowered the one of old, and he shifted upon the forgiving ground, trying to curve away so that her horn would not continue along its path and into the mess of his ribs or the crook of his hip, and something in him outright died from the proximity. She was too near. She was near at all. She was alive. She was broken and wounded but there was a wolf in her and he, he.. he tried to not wish about the past, tried to instead think of the future.
If they even had one.
Black lips peeled back from blunt teeth, and in a desperate attempt to hold on to her he lashed out, seeking to latch onto her spine.
Don't leave me.
Please.
[ 800 words, 3/3, @[Ophelia]. ]
Summary: as she hits him, a burning swan spawns by his chest and streaks away, probably rather close to her. he takes her horn across his shoulder and curves away to avoid further damage, and then tries to bite her topline.
On another note, it's really hard to fit all the words I need into 800 ;~; I want to bake more emotion and technical stuff relating to his injuries in but there is not enough space! -flailflail-
Music: Kent - Ingenting
He wept for himself. He wept for broken wings and hollow hearts. He wept because she was beautiful, lissome and dangerous all at once.
Maybe, just maybe, he wept for them.
The nerves of his head had begun to scream, and it had very little to do with the fact that he'd bashed his skull against her shoulder. No, it was the slow, creeping agony of thawing, of hot blood chasing the biting chill away—sweeping tendrils of fire, matching the odd burning in his soul.
Flame had never been his. What was it doing now, unfurling inside of him? He had no time to pause and analyze, but he wanted to, and in that moment she fled from him. Blue eyes slid open to the unforgiving sunlight, glittered upon droplets of perfect red. She was bleeding.
The world slowed. It ground to an agonizing halt, his breath full of the smoke of guilt; his anger began to burn again, struggled to escape his throat, but he choked on it again. She was bleeding, a tiny gash like a mimicry of the stinging one slapped across his own shoulder, and he knew without even the owls' input that red coated the sharp tip of his horn. Even his memory filled in with the moment's tug against the muscles of his neck, the telltale sensation of hitting flesh, even if just briefly.
She was bleeding and it was his fault.
Commit.
Because after all, he was bleeding too, and that was her doing.
He was past believing that trading eyes for eyes solved anything, and whatever strange thing smoldered in his soul certainly wasn't aimed at her, but if he couldn't rise to this challenge.. if he could not be a worthy opponent.. he would've failed her as profoundly as he had by disappearing.
So Mauja, the fell flame, turned to face her. She broke his heart a thousand times over simply by existing, and laying eyes upon her made him want to shatter—for a moment it flashed across his face again, that look of pain and worship, but he swallowed it. Steeled himself. Frozen tears coated his cheeks but no new ones blurred his vision, and the blue of his eyes was as emotionless as iron.
She broke his heart again with the emptiness of her gaze.
And then she was running, the sand as morbidly cheerful in helping her reach him as it was the other way around, and he planted all four feet firmly. He was done with running and he was done with.. with.. with standing around and being beat up? Yeah, right.
Why did he have to give up before he'd even tried? It was getting old.
He fell into the darkness. He fell into the flames. He let go, and the burning swan reached out, swept him up in its wings and spread them wide against the blue sky; his soul was free-falling again, through a golden blaze, the world spinning around him in a sickening blur. As the flaming bird streaked out from his chest it seared his skin, singed his long hair and blackened his pale fur—long wings beat against the spring air as it sped away next to them. Somewhere in the confusing haze of the unfamiliarity of the power, and the agony which had spawned it, he felt a tug at his senses, another lash across his shoulder. The scent of fresh blood overpowered the one of old, and he shifted upon the forgiving ground, trying to curve away so that her horn would not continue along its path and into the mess of his ribs or the crook of his hip, and something in him outright died from the proximity. She was too near. She was near at all. She was alive. She was broken and wounded but there was a wolf in her and he, he.. he tried to not wish about the past, tried to instead think of the future.
If they even had one.
Black lips peeled back from blunt teeth, and in a desperate attempt to hold on to her he lashed out, seeking to latch onto her spine.
Don't leave me.
Please.
[ 800 words, 3/3, @[Ophelia]. ]
Summary: as she hits him, a burning swan spawns by his chest and streaks away, probably rather close to her. he takes her horn across his shoulder and curves away to avoid further damage, and then tries to bite her topline.
On another note, it's really hard to fit all the words I need into 800 ;~; I want to bake more emotion and technical stuff relating to his injuries in but there is not enough space! -flailflail-
Music: Kent - Ingenting
