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It was a terrible nightmare. It had to be. Who in this world, which held such things as flowers, blue skies, and the sun could have seen this scene and let it be so. Here upon the windswept snowy plain, with the sharp edges of rocks piercing up through like reality, they could have let such two souls as the grey and the golden join and not feel the hundred pounds of guilt weighing upon them. Did it weigh upon the golden? Certainly some heaviness like a weighted blanket had settled on his shoulders as he saw the grey mare. Was it guilt? If the golden was moved to feel pity, he certainly could have felt guilt, but was it there? Who had stolen Midas? By who’s high hand was it arranged? Who was the last to speak to him? Who was the last to taunt him...Perhaps not, for none of those darts seem to be able to pang his chest though most certainly some were true. The golden would not feel responsibility for the downfall of the Galant Midas. The long descent of that czar to the downfall which he accepted was an accepted outcome, and far removed from the individual actions of the golden. There were forces at work here, where the golden admitted were beyond his hand alone. Be it the great pegasus’s stubbornness, or the need to escape of evil from the Edge members, he would have met his end somehow, if not in body then in spirit. His fate was decided long ago, and now was just the finishing of the deal. It was done. That part at least could be sealed with washing of hands in terms of business. It was all just good business. But this. A widow, crawling in the fits of madness to the feet of the heavens in the throes of her grief. Was that just good business? The form wavers, the grey mare choking on her own grief and madness. Body flinches with each hack, under the golden cloak. Though she sighes, and the blood begins to signal a worse fate in sight, the gold is too wrapped in his thoughts to notice how closely the cold hand grows. His mind absorbs his whole self, as it does so often, but why was this so different? To be sure it was the same golden standing here as had thrown lies to the face of Gaucho, and danced before the dark eyes of Deimos. This was the same vain, proud, sleuth, yet it is not. A chill runs down his spine and he feels the cold more than he had before. It is the same golden, but he is set naked before the frozen hells. The lies woven had been tied snug about him. Those which called him handsome, strong, and unbroken becoming a blanket which padded him from the world, and warmed his heart enough to live. The golden was the same, but the blankets had been stripped away by the grey. The hollow shell created cracking to reveal the terrifying form within. A failed, withered, torn creature. To have so much commandeering his own mind, and restricting any effort to put forth a display of concern, it should be forgiven that his eyes were so hard. Gold and earth brown, usually a spark of energy, now dulled like cold furnaces, and dead ashes. His head, swarming, and locked as it was still held high, as it looked down to the mare’s low form. It could have been mistaken for arrogance with its seeming unaffected stance towards the pleas of her coughs and wounds. Instead it stood as a broken machine, run dry of oil, and frozen in place, ready to rust away in the snow and ice. How could he move normally? When such rules and manners had been tossed aside along with the protections he had built round himself. It took her chocked question to finally breath life onto the broken machine. Harks flinch with the volume. It was so loud. Though to a normal creature about it may have been but a whisper, to him she was practically yelling it at him. Foreleg twitches, but at last the creature moves. Horned head at last lowers, but it is not the fluid movements full of grace and effortlessness which usually waltz him through life. This was slow, and grinding, as if he was having to crank down his head with old gears still sounding out their age. They were now no more than a half a length from each other. In a whisper, he breathes like a faraway voice. “Thranduil…” Earth eyes connect to hers and in those glittering gold eyes he loses himself. Haldir was losing himself as well. The small dark deer, now most scattered by this shivering torn figure, and the golden’s obsession with it, was side skirting around the pair. His fear, of this scene, gutting him, and could not stand it. Pale eyes tear away and see the half dark figure of another (the white hidden against the snow). Her voice rises, though undiscernible in the winds, and the deer hurries towards the keeper of innocence, and hope. He did not like what had taken the grey, and he could feel the icey spears growing in his heart with the fear the same power was affecting the gold. But though he keeps his path to the keeper he cannot help but also look back. He can feel the chill rising, and his little heart beats faster for its coming touch. Jittering pace, losing its natural grace brings him close to the winged girl, who reveals to be in her own dramas. The golden, was left to be lost with the grey. Did he see the wounds at her side anymore? How could he when such a wound has torn across her eyes and soul. Again his withered heart swells with pity. There is not cure among the healers of Helovia which can stitch up such wounds. Though even if there were, such would not be sought out. This was not the time for the fast and hurried call of healers and the assurances of healing and tomorrow. Being cursed with the same sickness the gold knew too well, upon such a cliff as this mare tread, there was no thought to tomorrows, only yesterdays. Was there such things as comfort in this place? In this world, where all has been torn asunder and towers crumbled, could comfort really exist? Could actually be felt? There were touches, graces of breath and skin, a grasp or clasp in the quaking of hearts. There are words, soft and kind, smooth and gentle. There were always gestures of given gifts, and lending of cloaks and blankets for warmth. There was comfort, but how could one give it, if they felt none themselves? How could he give her warmth, when he could not even light a fire in his soul to start? How could he give her comfort when he knew it not to help? What good would it do her to hear a falsifier’s voice in the throes of a tornado? What good would it do to feel his rough touch against the silk of a memory? What good would it do to feel the artificial warmth of things, when a beating heart is needed? They are nothing but to prolong the half-life, and so are in vain. Again, the gold pities her, for there was no comfort he could give. So the gold does not even move to reach his muzzle out to hers, and falls silent again. She is not though, madness blinding her to the fate she has placed herself in, she calls out to the golden figure. He flinches to hear it for such happens with the name of the dead are called like the living. When they are expected to answer. How is the golden to answer? He is not Midas, and as uncovered, he feels no remorse or responsibility for answering that call. But to leave her as this? Her face turns and one eye searches depths blind to mortality. Yet could he tell her the truth of the world and say the three words she knows but does not wish to see. Midas is dead. So instead, in the pain of pity her name whispers out again. “Africa….” But it fades into the cold. Haldir turns to hear his bonded’s voice, but he still cannot stand the scene. He has come to more unhappy tidings though. The beautiful bird was standing over a wilted figure, looking on with her own bonded with braced features but wrinkled faces, confusion. It brings the deer in closer to look himself, but he wished most instantly he had not. It is wilted, listless, and followed by the same hand as the mare before the golden. A bleat of pleading echos from him as he backs up to cower beside the girl. Had Haldir ever cowered? You would not have thought he knew how, but so he does. Needing the light heart of the girl beside him he shelters there, but as he looks upon the scene before him he fears even her banner for hope will fall. Pale eyes turn, with the truth of fate hidden in their pupil less depths, to her and seek to find hers. A dark mist swirls about his hooves, this time unbeckoned and uncalled. Coming forth from the very need of his own soul, to sooth it, and if gleamed, hers. Together sheltering under the banners of tomorrows. The golden, was still a world from his bonded. Perhaps the connection is what drove the deer so fearfully to the girl’s side, for he felt the true weights kept in the terrors of the world. For surely, in those was the golden lost. The mare’s name whispered into the air, the gold lets out a long exhale, his breath steaming the distance between them. Would she accept the truth, or would she cling to the illusions? The golden had faced the truth. He had let it write the novels of the repeated story upon the walls where his heart had been. One story of truth written over and over, with each remembrance it burned the walls where it had once been kindled. This was not a moment of pity to be washed away with the next thought. This pity ran deeper and deeper with each unfolding of the story. It hit harder, for instead of the same truth the golden had learned to shoulder, this was a new story, burning with the freezing cold for it was another’s which he could not touch. “Africa…he…” But the golden could not finish it. It was not his truth to tell. He pitied her, for only she could write that truth, and only she could burn the first telling on the wall of her soul. He pitied her, for neither could he stop it and restore her, nor could he bear away the truth which set to burn her. And what after the stinging pain of that first telling? There were only more to come. A lifetime’s worth, awaiting her in the dark shadows of the world, or when she glimpses upon her daughter. The golden pitied Africa because he began to realize, she might not be able to bear that burden. "talk talk talk" OOC:: Haldir is using his magic, Zahra chooses to be affected by it, the reactions are a slowed heart rate, and un-tensing of nerves (basically calming). If not it'll just be him. He's basically worked it up because he's a bit terrified. Also someone needs to hit me atop the head with a novel and remind me I'm not writing one of those XD Once again, sorry for the word count, please do not feel the need to copy it. Tag:: @[Africa] Wardrobe:: circlet, golden cloak, hawk necklace, armband, satchel (invisibility cloak, polearm, knife) Identities:: Amphere, Cashmere....>> Thranduil
His words are clever and bright
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