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01-10-2015, 05:12 AM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
Frost-fucking-heart.
And now it was too late. Now it would always be too late. Now.. her ears would never hear what he had to say, what he always should've said, and her eyes wouldn't see that he was finally here again, and.. and all the things she had never told him, she'd never say. The only thing left between them was silence and emptiness. Mauja swallowed. The world was a distant din, the roar of a waterfall just beyond the bend, muted out by the tall sentinel trees; accompanying it was the fast-paced, uneven thunder of his heart.
And everything was his fault. Everything, all the time, everywhere, had been his fault. She had died without him. She had faced whatever last trial alone. And in the years before this.. reunion, he had not been there for her.
He had no right to mourn her.
He'd been nowhere, for himself. The guilt only made the pain harder to bear, eyes pressing shut as ragged breaths passed through wide nostrils. It was one thing to lose someone who had somehow become as much part of you as yourself—another to lose them knowing how much you'd let them down.
"Dad.." she whispered, and his blue eyes slowly slid open again. Snö. Snow. Daughter.
It hurt. He didn't want to let her in. Didn't have any strength left for her, because he was already coming apart.
But he had to. Because she needed him, and no matter how much it forced the crack in his heart open wider, he needed her too. She was as much of an orphan as you could be, raised by dogs and ghosts. For all that he'd been missing in her life.. he couldn't rob her of the only semblance of a parent she had left.
The world would go on without them. Without him. Without his attention. A large, white head draped over a thinner varnish roan neck, a curtain of pale hair falling to veil her from the pain of the moment.
The worst of it was that he hadn't been kept away from them. The worst of it was that he'd left them, as if he could and nothing would change. And then, he'd never done enough to earn their forgiveness.
He'd always disappeared again. Chasing lost dreams and broken hopes and some chance of redemption, not realizing that the past couldn't free him; only the future could.
And death, cruel and indiscriminate, slowly counted down, whispering that if it was not his time running out, it was theirs.
He wanted to yell. To roar. Wanted to scream until the pressure in his chest lessened and the world wasn't so dark around the edges.
But he couldn't.
"Rest with our kin, aunt," and he realized he'd never asked Psyche of their homeland, as he'd promised her so many years ago in that cave. Just another number in the reckoning. He breathed in, smelled little but Snö and the salt of his own tears, blinked, forcing the sorrow from his gaze. Deimos stood silent vigil across from him, the Reaper's necrotic touch beating subtly against his frozen body like echoes of a time long past. Once, he'd been used to it, to the dizzying, soul-sucking sensation of trying the beast's patience with a touch. And Ophelia—he could've laughed, bitterly, at the irony of it all—giving his child the advice he couldn't.
And others. Spread out around them. Golden, black (right, that was Glacia's mom), disfigured draft, and.. Kahlua. Kahlua, staring in uncomprehending shock. Kahlua, turning, and running. His heart kept beating in its confusion, but he couldn't make sense of it, couldn't even begin to guess. Just swallowed, and tried to pull himself together. Tear-glazed blue met the cold, definite of silver and crimson. "He will be brought to justice." "He will," the broken beast whispered back at her, wondering who he was.
But that didn't matter. He didn't care who 'he' was. He'd rip them apart anyway.
Slowly, his eyes returned to Psyche. Drank her in. So innocent, so plain in death without the fire of her amber eyes, without the deadly elegance of her movements, and the sweetened poison dripping from her lips. Psyche, no more, no less, delicate and black and hopelessly, utterly dead.
A fresh wave of tears tracked down his face.
"I will not leave her for others to gawk at," he finally managed, another fragile whisper borne by a too-weak voice. His head abandoned its place across Snö's neck and bent, a final touch, black velvet against black velvet, but the spark, the connection, was gone. Psyche was gone.
Psyche was gone and in the brief moment he truly understood the meaning of it the world nearly threw him to the ground, and he could barely breathe for the fire-pain running rampant through his veins.
And then he locked himself up again, shielded himself from the knowledge, swept up the reptile skin from the ground and handed it to Irma—she'd come down, a little ball of white, her tiny heart bleeding not because she cared about Psyche, but because his did. She took the evidence, and returned to doing yet another thing Mauja couldn't: caring for Diego, too young to defend himself against the vicious strength of his bonded's grief.
Who went around with a big, pale snake capable of strangling horses?
"Sleep well, darling," and this time he knew where to find them, those little birds birthed from his pain. Hawks—for she had always been a hawk to him—of fire hung in front of him for a moment, their flaming wings beating, beating, beating.. but no amount of willpower could induce the moment into the lifeless. He swallowed. This would be the last time he saw her. The last time anyone saw her.
He let go of the birds, and they fell, too-hot and elegant, to touch her black hide and scorch it, sear her dead, dried skin. Slowly he incinerated the woman he had loved. Protected her as best as he could in death, when she could no longer protect herself. Protected her, as he never had in life, because she had always been so strong, and who was he to assume she needed anything at all?
They had raised their walls high, and only once could he remember letting her see him.
The fire crackled, its heat washing against his face. Slowly he drew back a step, forced back by the power of his own creation, muzzle trailing over Snö's back as he moved. What do you say, when you've just lost someone you didn't quite know you cared so much for, until it was too late? What do you say to a child who just lost its mother? What do you say to someone you loved and let down just as badly as everyone else? What do you do when you feel like you cannot hold your existence together anymore? When all you want to do is simply fall apart, and lay there on the ground, and never rise again?
His eyes, scorched clean by the fire, red-rimmed and so dark, turned back to Ophelia. His mind was full of snakes and fire. "Gaucho?" he breathed, a hot whisper.
It was the only one he knew who fit the bill.
Someone's lying in the grass, with frosty clothes, so still and white
And the blue lights are blinking, to think how much you can do with a little knife...
[ NOTE: Psyche's body is now burning. And here's some music. And some more. Also, Mauja has no team. Tagging @[Ophelia] because he's trying to talk to her ;~; ]
And now it was too late. Now it would always be too late. Now.. her ears would never hear what he had to say, what he always should've said, and her eyes wouldn't see that he was finally here again, and.. and all the things she had never told him, she'd never say. The only thing left between them was silence and emptiness. Mauja swallowed. The world was a distant din, the roar of a waterfall just beyond the bend, muted out by the tall sentinel trees; accompanying it was the fast-paced, uneven thunder of his heart.
And everything was his fault. Everything, all the time, everywhere, had been his fault. She had died without him. She had faced whatever last trial alone. And in the years before this.. reunion, he had not been there for her.
He had no right to mourn her.
He'd been nowhere, for himself. The guilt only made the pain harder to bear, eyes pressing shut as ragged breaths passed through wide nostrils. It was one thing to lose someone who had somehow become as much part of you as yourself—another to lose them knowing how much you'd let them down.
"Dad.." she whispered, and his blue eyes slowly slid open again. Snö. Snow. Daughter.
It hurt. He didn't want to let her in. Didn't have any strength left for her, because he was already coming apart.
But he had to. Because she needed him, and no matter how much it forced the crack in his heart open wider, he needed her too. She was as much of an orphan as you could be, raised by dogs and ghosts. For all that he'd been missing in her life.. he couldn't rob her of the only semblance of a parent she had left.
The world would go on without them. Without him. Without his attention. A large, white head draped over a thinner varnish roan neck, a curtain of pale hair falling to veil her from the pain of the moment.
The worst of it was that he hadn't been kept away from them. The worst of it was that he'd left them, as if he could and nothing would change. And then, he'd never done enough to earn their forgiveness.
He'd always disappeared again. Chasing lost dreams and broken hopes and some chance of redemption, not realizing that the past couldn't free him; only the future could.
And death, cruel and indiscriminate, slowly counted down, whispering that if it was not his time running out, it was theirs.
He wanted to yell. To roar. Wanted to scream until the pressure in his chest lessened and the world wasn't so dark around the edges.
But he couldn't.
"Rest with our kin, aunt," and he realized he'd never asked Psyche of their homeland, as he'd promised her so many years ago in that cave. Just another number in the reckoning. He breathed in, smelled little but Snö and the salt of his own tears, blinked, forcing the sorrow from his gaze. Deimos stood silent vigil across from him, the Reaper's necrotic touch beating subtly against his frozen body like echoes of a time long past. Once, he'd been used to it, to the dizzying, soul-sucking sensation of trying the beast's patience with a touch. And Ophelia—he could've laughed, bitterly, at the irony of it all—giving his child the advice he couldn't.
And others. Spread out around them. Golden, black (right, that was Glacia's mom), disfigured draft, and.. Kahlua. Kahlua, staring in uncomprehending shock. Kahlua, turning, and running. His heart kept beating in its confusion, but he couldn't make sense of it, couldn't even begin to guess. Just swallowed, and tried to pull himself together. Tear-glazed blue met the cold, definite of silver and crimson. "He will be brought to justice." "He will," the broken beast whispered back at her, wondering who he was.
But that didn't matter. He didn't care who 'he' was. He'd rip them apart anyway.
Slowly, his eyes returned to Psyche. Drank her in. So innocent, so plain in death without the fire of her amber eyes, without the deadly elegance of her movements, and the sweetened poison dripping from her lips. Psyche, no more, no less, delicate and black and hopelessly, utterly dead.
A fresh wave of tears tracked down his face.
"I will not leave her for others to gawk at," he finally managed, another fragile whisper borne by a too-weak voice. His head abandoned its place across Snö's neck and bent, a final touch, black velvet against black velvet, but the spark, the connection, was gone. Psyche was gone.
Psyche was gone and in the brief moment he truly understood the meaning of it the world nearly threw him to the ground, and he could barely breathe for the fire-pain running rampant through his veins.
And then he locked himself up again, shielded himself from the knowledge, swept up the reptile skin from the ground and handed it to Irma—she'd come down, a little ball of white, her tiny heart bleeding not because she cared about Psyche, but because his did. She took the evidence, and returned to doing yet another thing Mauja couldn't: caring for Diego, too young to defend himself against the vicious strength of his bonded's grief.
Who went around with a big, pale snake capable of strangling horses?
"Sleep well, darling," and this time he knew where to find them, those little birds birthed from his pain. Hawks—for she had always been a hawk to him—of fire hung in front of him for a moment, their flaming wings beating, beating, beating.. but no amount of willpower could induce the moment into the lifeless. He swallowed. This would be the last time he saw her. The last time anyone saw her.
He let go of the birds, and they fell, too-hot and elegant, to touch her black hide and scorch it, sear her dead, dried skin. Slowly he incinerated the woman he had loved. Protected her as best as he could in death, when she could no longer protect herself. Protected her, as he never had in life, because she had always been so strong, and who was he to assume she needed anything at all?
They had raised their walls high, and only once could he remember letting her see him.
The fire crackled, its heat washing against his face. Slowly he drew back a step, forced back by the power of his own creation, muzzle trailing over Snö's back as he moved. What do you say, when you've just lost someone you didn't quite know you cared so much for, until it was too late? What do you say to a child who just lost its mother? What do you say to someone you loved and let down just as badly as everyone else? What do you do when you feel like you cannot hold your existence together anymore? When all you want to do is simply fall apart, and lay there on the ground, and never rise again?
His eyes, scorched clean by the fire, red-rimmed and so dark, turned back to Ophelia. His mind was full of snakes and fire. "Gaucho?" he breathed, a hot whisper.
It was the only one he knew who fit the bill.
Someone's lying in the grass, with frosty clothes, so still and white
And the blue lights are blinking, to think how much you can do with a little knife...
[ NOTE: Psyche's body is now burning. And here's some music. And some more. Also, Mauja has no team. Tagging @[Ophelia] because he's trying to talk to her ;~; ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
