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02-11-2015, 08:10 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
It's a mistake and he knows it—knew it in the same moment that he decided to throw his horn in her direction, because he knew what that glow in her belly was, and he knew how much it would fucking hurt.
But he did it anyway, to show his conviction, that he was not afraid, and then he simply had to pay for it. Do nothing, unless you are willing to face the consequences, and his world erupted into a familiar, nerve-fraying, heart-shattering pain. For the first heartbeat of it it was just hot, shocking the body for a blessed, split second of agony at a bearable level, but that's all you get: half a second's respite.
After that, you catch up, and it's like someone bludgeoning you in the head.
And the scent comes just a moment after.
It blinded him, and his scream tore out of the owls' distant throats instead of his own, because fuck that he was going to let them know how it hurt—how it pulsed, how it ate, how it transformed every, single, fucking, moment into raw pain, every breath and every beat coursing through broken nerves that shrieked in his mind.
Distance to the memories had dulled them, had made him forget just how exquisite an agony it was. Within, he trembled with it, but outside, he remained rigid, moving, drunk on conviction and powered by belief—legs moved, sides heaved, but eyes saw nothing but half-shadows in a dark world as the pain devoured him.
Dried skin broke, blackened edges stained red with blood, the air biting and fuck he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, but he be damned before he'd let them see how it hurt—before he was weak before them—before he'd let them know they had won.
If he could lie to them, if he could trick them, he'd do it. Fuck it he'd do it, and as his harsh breath pounded in and out of his choking lungs he barely felt the collisions of unsullied flesh; a shoulder against a thigh, a hoof smacking against his own thigh and crushing blood vessels mercilessly, promising a bruise that was infinitesimal compared to the charred line drawn haphazardly over his back.
He was weak because he was grateful Abraham didn't come after him again; turned himself, slung his body around and stood rigid, regal, tall, the white perfection of his back sullied by raw, red flesh and stinking, blackened ridges, desperation and stubbornness the only things keeping him from breaking and fleeing.
Besides, he had nowhere to run, and in stillness he could trick the pain into receding.
And maybe he was wrong anyway—"She was going to die whether it was my doing or not! Would you rather her suffer?!"—but he didn't want to listen, because his heart was a gaping wound the size of the galaxy, still bleeding from where someone else had taken from him. His ragged breathing punctuated his silence, the mad glint of his eyes slowly receding; did he speak truth? Had the mare been too far gone? Stiffly, posture cold, he turned his neck and defied the pain, and stared at the smoldering ruin that had been Quinn.
"You did not need to desecrate her," he finally said, winter's cold bite in his harsh voice as he stood there as if his back hadn't been been reduced to ruin again, as if there wasn't any pain in his body just in his fucking mind, a display of strength he didn't know he still had in him. "You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog!"
So maybe, just maybe, the blue rage in his eyes had faded, and maybe he had been wrong, but some things he was not wrong about.
Fuck, it hurt, leeching at his patience and his resolve.
"Don't speak to me of mercy if you cannot deliver it with respect," he finally spat, viciously quenching the trembling his body wanted to put on, wishing for the adrenaline to devour him again and take the pain away.
[ @[Abraham], @[Volterra] ]
But he did it anyway, to show his conviction, that he was not afraid, and then he simply had to pay for it. Do nothing, unless you are willing to face the consequences, and his world erupted into a familiar, nerve-fraying, heart-shattering pain. For the first heartbeat of it it was just hot, shocking the body for a blessed, split second of agony at a bearable level, but that's all you get: half a second's respite.
After that, you catch up, and it's like someone bludgeoning you in the head.
And the scent comes just a moment after.
It blinded him, and his scream tore out of the owls' distant throats instead of his own, because fuck that he was going to let them know how it hurt—how it pulsed, how it ate, how it transformed every, single, fucking, moment into raw pain, every breath and every beat coursing through broken nerves that shrieked in his mind.
Distance to the memories had dulled them, had made him forget just how exquisite an agony it was. Within, he trembled with it, but outside, he remained rigid, moving, drunk on conviction and powered by belief—legs moved, sides heaved, but eyes saw nothing but half-shadows in a dark world as the pain devoured him.
Dried skin broke, blackened edges stained red with blood, the air biting and fuck he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, but he be damned before he'd let them see how it hurt—before he was weak before them—before he'd let them know they had won.
If he could lie to them, if he could trick them, he'd do it. Fuck it he'd do it, and as his harsh breath pounded in and out of his choking lungs he barely felt the collisions of unsullied flesh; a shoulder against a thigh, a hoof smacking against his own thigh and crushing blood vessels mercilessly, promising a bruise that was infinitesimal compared to the charred line drawn haphazardly over his back.
He was weak because he was grateful Abraham didn't come after him again; turned himself, slung his body around and stood rigid, regal, tall, the white perfection of his back sullied by raw, red flesh and stinking, blackened ridges, desperation and stubbornness the only things keeping him from breaking and fleeing.
Besides, he had nowhere to run, and in stillness he could trick the pain into receding.
And maybe he was wrong anyway—"She was going to die whether it was my doing or not! Would you rather her suffer?!"—but he didn't want to listen, because his heart was a gaping wound the size of the galaxy, still bleeding from where someone else had taken from him. His ragged breathing punctuated his silence, the mad glint of his eyes slowly receding; did he speak truth? Had the mare been too far gone? Stiffly, posture cold, he turned his neck and defied the pain, and stared at the smoldering ruin that had been Quinn.
"You did not need to desecrate her," he finally said, winter's cold bite in his harsh voice as he stood there as if his back hadn't been been reduced to ruin again, as if there wasn't any pain in his body just in his fucking mind, a display of strength he didn't know he still had in him. "You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog!"
So maybe, just maybe, the blue rage in his eyes had faded, and maybe he had been wrong, but some things he was not wrong about.
Fuck, it hurt, leeching at his patience and his resolve.
"Don't speak to me of mercy if you cannot deliver it with respect," he finally spat, viciously quenching the trembling his body wanted to put on, wishing for the adrenaline to devour him again and take the pain away.
[ @[Abraham], @[Volterra] ]
