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i am the vanguard of your destruction
Stood was, he realized after a moment, a rather incorrect way of describing the situation. The delicate mare laid among the roots of an oak, cradled and sheltered (or perhaps lain up for sacrifice), but not asleep, no. The light of her halo, the thing which had drawn him, shifted only marginally as she peered at him, and whatever budding guilt his mind might've begun to develop was swept away by the gentle breeze. He had ruined nothing with his presence—perhaps tarnished some scenic perfection, cast a shadow through the fog, a shadow over a heart, but..
Wasn't all of life like that? Irrevocably altering everything you came upon—for better or for worse? And there was no way to know, no way to tell how it would fall out. The most careful of preparations could lead to the most disastrous results, and the most impulsive things could lead to the most wondrous ones.
He wonders if he'll ever get to savor that.
It was all theory, anyway, that anything could happen at any time, for any reason, with or without precursors; a giant star could fall from the sky any moment and incinerate them all.
Or he'd say some key words to a key character figuring upon the stage of his mind, and either his world would explode or.. explode, anyway, for different reasons. It was just one of those things, and the reason he was frustrated with himself—because the fragile balance had been upset, and no matter what he did now, something had to actively change. He couldn't just sink back beneath the surface and pretend to forget what he couldn't.
The fog was thickening around him. One black-rimmed ear flicked in the murky night, blue eyes sweeping an arc over the tree-lined horizon; was he being greeted, embraced by it, or hidden, told to get lost? Perhaps the angel he had found, her halo a silver-shimmer in the night, did not want company. Perhaps she desired to be alone, lying upon her cold bed of mortal soil, and contemplating whatever sin (bah) she had committed in order to get thrown out of heaven by the select, righteous few—bah, again.
Mauja was as much a fallen angel as anyone, and barely religious at all; what he knew of faiths full of angels and light and heavenly realms all reeked of hypocrisy, and something that bordered on complacent populations. The promise of "heaven" for a good life was just a thin disguise, a gold casing for the sharp-tongued whip.
Besides, there were no angels here.
Just Mauja and a mare, the fog pulling back, her voice whispering what? and he looked at her kind of blankly, wondering what she was wondering about. What he had said? (Well, what had he said?) Who he was? What he was doing here? Why he was just standing there, some other specter in the fog, and looking at her? (Because it was kinda creepy, now that he thought about it.)
Oh, and look—she had spread her wings for him all of her own accord. It curved his lips into the slightest of smiles, though for a moment it was tinged with something bitter, and dark.
What sort of idiot goes around asking little girls to spread their wings? Gods. The Mauja kind of idiot. Ever since that day he'd been suspended in some weird state of terrorizing himself with bad thoughts and it seemed like it went on even now. The smile faded into a brief grimace, visible for barely more than a heartbeat before it disappeared into the snow.
But barely did he have time to shed his own problems and intrusive thoughts that another presence broke the stillness (when had she come so close, without him noticing?). Steel-blue eyes snapped from the intriguing mare to the newcomer—spotted, just like he, just like Myrrine (can I stop thinking about her?), and what she said as she so brazenly stood next to him had him torn between the desire to play along, and the desire to smack her. That fire didn't need more fuel.
"If you were, there probably would've been some kind of noises to discourage you," he muttered under his breath instead, tail fanning out once in the night to lash against his hocks.
The serenity was ruined—that odd feeling of walking in a dream, the halo-mare less celestial, more real—and replaced with something that made him feel out of place, and uncomfortable.
The world was a cruel place.
[ @[Maren], @[Rei], Secret Garden - Nocturne ]
Wasn't all of life like that? Irrevocably altering everything you came upon—for better or for worse? And there was no way to know, no way to tell how it would fall out. The most careful of preparations could lead to the most disastrous results, and the most impulsive things could lead to the most wondrous ones.
He wonders if he'll ever get to savor that.
It was all theory, anyway, that anything could happen at any time, for any reason, with or without precursors; a giant star could fall from the sky any moment and incinerate them all.
Or he'd say some key words to a key character figuring upon the stage of his mind, and either his world would explode or.. explode, anyway, for different reasons. It was just one of those things, and the reason he was frustrated with himself—because the fragile balance had been upset, and no matter what he did now, something had to actively change. He couldn't just sink back beneath the surface and pretend to forget what he couldn't.
The fog was thickening around him. One black-rimmed ear flicked in the murky night, blue eyes sweeping an arc over the tree-lined horizon; was he being greeted, embraced by it, or hidden, told to get lost? Perhaps the angel he had found, her halo a silver-shimmer in the night, did not want company. Perhaps she desired to be alone, lying upon her cold bed of mortal soil, and contemplating whatever sin (bah) she had committed in order to get thrown out of heaven by the select, righteous few—bah, again.
Mauja was as much a fallen angel as anyone, and barely religious at all; what he knew of faiths full of angels and light and heavenly realms all reeked of hypocrisy, and something that bordered on complacent populations. The promise of "heaven" for a good life was just a thin disguise, a gold casing for the sharp-tongued whip.
Besides, there were no angels here.
Just Mauja and a mare, the fog pulling back, her voice whispering what? and he looked at her kind of blankly, wondering what she was wondering about. What he had said? (Well, what had he said?) Who he was? What he was doing here? Why he was just standing there, some other specter in the fog, and looking at her? (Because it was kinda creepy, now that he thought about it.)
Oh, and look—she had spread her wings for him all of her own accord. It curved his lips into the slightest of smiles, though for a moment it was tinged with something bitter, and dark.
What sort of idiot goes around asking little girls to spread their wings? Gods. The Mauja kind of idiot. Ever since that day he'd been suspended in some weird state of terrorizing himself with bad thoughts and it seemed like it went on even now. The smile faded into a brief grimace, visible for barely more than a heartbeat before it disappeared into the snow.
But barely did he have time to shed his own problems and intrusive thoughts that another presence broke the stillness (when had she come so close, without him noticing?). Steel-blue eyes snapped from the intriguing mare to the newcomer—spotted, just like he, just like Myrrine (can I stop thinking about her?), and what she said as she so brazenly stood next to him had him torn between the desire to play along, and the desire to smack her. That fire didn't need more fuel.
"If you were, there probably would've been some kind of noises to discourage you," he muttered under his breath instead, tail fanning out once in the night to lash against his hocks.
The serenity was ruined—that odd feeling of walking in a dream, the halo-mare less celestial, more real—and replaced with something that made him feel out of place, and uncomfortable.
The world was a cruel place.
[ @[Maren], @[Rei], Secret Garden - Nocturne ]
