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,

Som det strålar från ditt hjärta
Som en motorväg av ljus
Genom hålet i mitt hjärta
Kommer räddningen till slut

Heart.. to heart; breath to breath, flesh to bone and back again. It moved between them, in them, unseen, bounded with the force of a pulse and creeping out with the tears and the words and the worries. The past couple of minutes became a tumble and a cascade, a rush in his mind, some kind of blurred memory insisting on overlapping with the present when really, it should just stay where it was, cached away for later introspection. He'd been fighting so hard to keep his own darkness at bay, to leash and chain the demons and cauterize his tears, but here they were anyway, the spotlight slowly shifting onto him.

All because he couldn't keep the stupid shadows out of his voice, out of his eyes, out of his goddamned life, but how could he when that shit was in his blood? When it was like a blindfold, shutters half-closed against the sun and refusing to come up again, a filter between everything he saw and everything he felt? Like it had to pass through something embedding a sharp piece of memory in it, robbing him of any moments of peace and bringing the cathedrals down all around in a shower of rubble and a halo of light through broken windows until it was nothing but a testament of failure and shattered glory. Like nothing could ever come to pass without his heart going ouch between two beats, a sharp little stab to remind him of what the future held.

Never to just rest in the light, and soak it up, well fuck, because he hid in the darkness still and each time he came out something had to remind him of why it was better there, consorting with the monsters he knew rather than the ones he didn't. It was familiar, an old kind of pain, but now it was lathered in a fresh edge of guilt. I'm sorry, he wanted to say, glancing up at her as she rocked into violent motion, for somehow making this about me.

But I tried.

What happened then wasn't really what he had expected—not that he'd really expected anything, mind, it was.. just.. whenever this had happened the past few years.. he could count the times when he'd received anything but the whole "you used to be so much more" deal. Years ago, Psyche had turned out to be not at all who he had thought (ouch), but then he'd been starved for it, until, until.. until her, and.. until Kahlua.

She could've just walked away. Taken her grief and left him in his pool of blackness on the floor.

Or rushed him to stomp out the fluttering, pathetic flame of his life.

And for a moment, he almost thought she was doing the latter, someone finally seeing a bit of sense—no, shut up—and he had a moment's wild panic, struggling in the throes of hope and denial and despair and betrayal and guilt and shame—

But then she was just there, a tidal, ancient force smashing into him hard enough to make him grunt and nearly topple sideways, and they were back where they had begun, her voice rattling fervently against his neck.

And she was the one apologizing, when it should've been him, and he didn't care at all that she'd just landed on him—didn't even think about it—just felt his ears flick back kind of sadly as his gaze slid off the point of her hip and onto the wall. This had been about her and he didn't want to take her words and her apologies and her soothing presence because it hadn't been about him. He was a thief in her ruin.

He was an ice revenant with his heart carefully caged away.

And she breathed fires of—shut up.

þor.

He could've sworn that was his brother's voice right there, but there had been no whisper of the wind, nothing stirring in the cavern, so it must've come from within—a memory, a guess, an excuse?

Dare.

So he dared, slowly turning his head to cradle her neck, her voice still beating against him, so soft, like a moth's wings—you're here, and he wondered what he had tried to do. Let go? Let her in? All it felt like was like freezing over, nursing the ice around the wound back into its place, and feeling it settle over his mind like a chilling numbness, all soft smiles to make it not quite so dark.

Or maybe it was just resignation, lips pulling at her skin, at her mane, cheek rubbing against withers—he wanted to say, don't worry and you didn't bring me back; I live there, but he was silent again, the words dying upon his tongue. It wasn't about him. This wasn't about him. And it hadn't been her fault. And.. the.. it... He'd felt guilt when it had been about him, about the darkness devouring his thoughts and the light and hope and—so why bring it back? Why not just.. take where she'd left off, pressed against his chest, hidden in the long tendrils of his mane, and just.. let the rest be?

"No," he finally said, and he wondered what it was that he said no to—her apologies? Himself? Agreeing with her? With a soft sigh he laid his head upon her back again, as if there never had been space between them, as if nothing had driven her to her feet and away—as if nothing had pulled her back, when she could've just left this mess on the floor and walked out.

The good thing about armor is that it keeps you together.

Keeps your heart from spilling out the cracks.

"I am tired of breaking all my promises," forgive me for making it about me again, "so I can't promise to always be here," because I tend to disappear like smoke in the wind, "but I will never leave you until death takes me," and that's the only thing I can give.

"And," he went on, the corner of his mouth curling up again, "maybe not even then."

How it beams out of your heart
Like a highway of light
Through the hole in my heart
Salvation comes at last

[ @[Roskuld], the clunky bottom quote is my free-hand translation of the top one ]