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02-08-2015, 05:23 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,
[ "We're on a mission from God!" ]
He had always loved the edge—the sheer, dead-drop fall into heaving seas, white foaming crests beating against the pale rock, spraying into the air like spittle. He had always loved the mist that hung between the trees and ghosted silently over open ground, the pearly water droplets that clung to his legs and made him shimmer in starlight.. to pace along death's rim, just a misstep from death or agony, frozen hooves hugging the safety of the ground while flirting with open air. There was something soothing about it, as it took the edge off his worries and his thoughts.
But the game always grows tiring, especially after the fifth time you nearly tumble to your death, so Mauja had abandoned his pastime and replaced it with something he was quite good at: brooding. The wind off the sea chased the sweltering heat away, and as the sun sank towards the open horizon the temperature continued to drop. It was a blessing. He had suffered through the Sun's wrathful summer in this place once before, and this tasted too much of that.
As he stood there, staring out over the ocean, it struck him how long ago it had been that he lost this place.. and how the one who had taken it from him had, in turn, abandoned it. She had not appointed Kahlua and Kaj—the moon-bitch had. Mauja had been in no state to contend for it. Mauja had been unfit to lead for a long, long time.
His heart was too dark, too hateful, and he didn't know if he could ever again rule this place without becoming a snarling beast. It was always difficult to go back to some place, either to pick up the pieces and keep going, or to just.. start something new.
But this place—he loved this place. Something about it soothed him.. made it a little easier to breathe.
Neither Irma nor Diego had lived with him in the Edge. That was how long ago it was. He had sworn, to someone, everyone, Snö, that they would live here again. That they would take it back. And he wanted to, to once again roam these forests with d'Artagnan by his side, to watch Snö grow up, Psyche and Deimos lurking in the shadows like something spawned from hell...
But things change. Irma's talons broke the skin on his withers in a comforting, blood-tinged squeeze, and upon his haunches Diego shifted uneasily. He gave the haughty owl what comfort he could before the wind brought him his name, distorted halfway but clearly, it was his name. Haunting dragon cries echoed it, and something in his heart died a little more. So much for Ophelia scarring over, if the first thing his treacherous mind whispered was I wish it was her dragon calling for me.
He blinked it from his eyes, took a few steps back from the edge and the flaming sunset, and turned to face her. He hadn't spoken with her since that day on the sky island, and hadn't seen her since the day the Gods had descended to spit fire at their sister. Much had, clearly, happened since.
And he hadn't been prepared.
Her sides were full with foal, belly round and swaying in a fashion that was much too characteristic of pregnancy to be mistaken for fatness. It lanced into his skull, into his heart, with such a merciless jolt that she could've simply punched him straight in the face instead of just gone looking for him, seemingly as happy as always.
He couldn't even label the emotions, much less gather his shattered thoughts, a glass sphere dropped on the floor and broken into a million scattered pieces. She.. he.. he stood stunned, ice crawling through his every vein and patching up every hole, every crack, trying to shore up his breaking existence and keep him from simply ceasing to function.
It wasn't.. that he'd somehow thought he had any kind of claims on her, at all—nor had he thought he'd wanted to. It was just.. the feeling of having thought that there had been, well, something, some kind of them, just a fucking feeling of something—the voice in the back of his mind whispered things of logic and rationality but he couldn't listen.
He hadn't been prepared, and now he didn't know if he'd ever felt as confused and heartbroken before.
But he looked as calm as always, safely locked away behind his ice armor; maybe his eyes were a bit more distant, as the bruised remains of his heart crawled further and further away, looking for some safe place to hide and nurse itself back to something resembling health. Only Diego reacted to the confusing storm of stumbling, stuttering emotion, giving it voice in a single harsh cry, wings spreading and beating the air before settling again.
"Kahlua," he heard himself say from afar. There was some kind of pounding in his head, a keening crescendo ringing in his ears. He felt faint, his breathing too shallow, too fast even as he tried to calm it.
He had no right to feel this way, but he still did, lying dazed on a cold hard floor somewhere, surrounded by the ruin of his life and staring vacantly at distant, merciless stars.
He had always loved the edge—the sheer, dead-drop fall into heaving seas, white foaming crests beating against the pale rock, spraying into the air like spittle. He had always loved the mist that hung between the trees and ghosted silently over open ground, the pearly water droplets that clung to his legs and made him shimmer in starlight.. to pace along death's rim, just a misstep from death or agony, frozen hooves hugging the safety of the ground while flirting with open air. There was something soothing about it, as it took the edge off his worries and his thoughts.
But the game always grows tiring, especially after the fifth time you nearly tumble to your death, so Mauja had abandoned his pastime and replaced it with something he was quite good at: brooding. The wind off the sea chased the sweltering heat away, and as the sun sank towards the open horizon the temperature continued to drop. It was a blessing. He had suffered through the Sun's wrathful summer in this place once before, and this tasted too much of that.
As he stood there, staring out over the ocean, it struck him how long ago it had been that he lost this place.. and how the one who had taken it from him had, in turn, abandoned it. She had not appointed Kahlua and Kaj—the moon-bitch had. Mauja had been in no state to contend for it. Mauja had been unfit to lead for a long, long time.
His heart was too dark, too hateful, and he didn't know if he could ever again rule this place without becoming a snarling beast. It was always difficult to go back to some place, either to pick up the pieces and keep going, or to just.. start something new.
But this place—he loved this place. Something about it soothed him.. made it a little easier to breathe.
Neither Irma nor Diego had lived with him in the Edge. That was how long ago it was. He had sworn, to someone, everyone, Snö, that they would live here again. That they would take it back. And he wanted to, to once again roam these forests with d'Artagnan by his side, to watch Snö grow up, Psyche and Deimos lurking in the shadows like something spawned from hell...
But things change. Irma's talons broke the skin on his withers in a comforting, blood-tinged squeeze, and upon his haunches Diego shifted uneasily. He gave the haughty owl what comfort he could before the wind brought him his name, distorted halfway but clearly, it was his name. Haunting dragon cries echoed it, and something in his heart died a little more. So much for Ophelia scarring over, if the first thing his treacherous mind whispered was I wish it was her dragon calling for me.
He blinked it from his eyes, took a few steps back from the edge and the flaming sunset, and turned to face her. He hadn't spoken with her since that day on the sky island, and hadn't seen her since the day the Gods had descended to spit fire at their sister. Much had, clearly, happened since.
And he hadn't been prepared.
Her sides were full with foal, belly round and swaying in a fashion that was much too characteristic of pregnancy to be mistaken for fatness. It lanced into his skull, into his heart, with such a merciless jolt that she could've simply punched him straight in the face instead of just gone looking for him, seemingly as happy as always.
He couldn't even label the emotions, much less gather his shattered thoughts, a glass sphere dropped on the floor and broken into a million scattered pieces. She.. he.. he stood stunned, ice crawling through his every vein and patching up every hole, every crack, trying to shore up his breaking existence and keep him from simply ceasing to function.
It wasn't.. that he'd somehow thought he had any kind of claims on her, at all—nor had he thought he'd wanted to. It was just.. the feeling of having thought that there had been, well, something, some kind of them, just a fucking feeling of something—the voice in the back of his mind whispered things of logic and rationality but he couldn't listen.
He hadn't been prepared, and now he didn't know if he'd ever felt as confused and heartbroken before.
But he looked as calm as always, safely locked away behind his ice armor; maybe his eyes were a bit more distant, as the bruised remains of his heart crawled further and further away, looking for some safe place to hide and nurse itself back to something resembling health. Only Diego reacted to the confusing storm of stumbling, stuttering emotion, giving it voice in a single harsh cry, wings spreading and beating the air before settling again.
"Kahlua," he heard himself say from afar. There was some kind of pounding in his head, a keening crescendo ringing in his ears. He felt faint, his breathing too shallow, too fast even as he tried to calm it.
He had no right to feel this way, but he still did, lying dazed on a cold hard floor somewhere, surrounded by the ruin of his life and staring vacantly at distant, merciless stars.
du lät exakt som ismael.
