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05-19-2015, 01:42 PM
It is coming. The cold hand reaching up to the north draws ever near. Every moment the air seems to chill, and the rotation of the earth slow, as it breaks upon each creature the realization of this fact: the time is near. There was yet breath in that grey creature’s breast, and with it she shows more and more her fate. The golden faces her, and his earth eyes looking into hers. He does not yet see her doom. He sees only the mirror of himself years ago, which blinds him to seeing how much farther she has fallen than he had. The golden in those days long ago had not carried the physical wounds she held. Had his own hand been of more power that day he might have, for their pain had felt like a pin prick compared to his heart. For you see, unlike this poor mare, who’s blood spills upon the snow before a still and silent brethren, the golden had found others in his grief. He had known the ties of herd, and unlike the fate of this mare, those ties had stopped what could have been the same death march to the heavens. He has yet to see the canyons of differences between his tale and hers. For now, all that rests upon his heavy chest is that they are so similar. The urgency of her madness though unsettling was, he thought it the same, a dramatization of memories. Had his fall been as shattering? Was this how cracked his mind had been? How fractured is being? It had been years ago, and a never shrinking nightmare, leaving seams which assumption and imagination had begun to fill in. With such a vivid picture before him, it could not be helped that he assumed her pain the same as his. Her fate would be as his had been. It was what kept him so locked onto her, and looking with such a reserved hand at the mare’s pain. He pitied her, but he did nothing more, for he felt he could do nothing more. Then the mare begins to crack the mirror. Grey head swings about. Golden harks, having been forward flip back. The pale whites lining her eyes sent shivers down his spine, but he held. How could he imagine what fate was about to befall her, or what cold dark hand haunted her steps. So he stays still, looking towards her. As she turns, earth eyes find the scars digging deeply into her flesh, and a bitter copper taste grows in his mouth. In reaction to the gore of the image his body signaling its distaste. Yet he holds. They alone did not seem severe, and her thrashing and swaying proved distractions. The gold leans back from her. He did not want to be tossed about with her, for he was still locked away a reserved. The paleness in the mirror did not frighten him. Only when her body sways dangerously in the wind does the first pang flash gold in his eyes, like from an echo of striking clock. It does not piece it together, but he can feel the first crack in the mirror. The gold steps forward and leans in again, as the mare stills and looks to him. Like a line tracing over the crack in the mirror over and over he looks to her eyes and into her soul. Wait though, what was- The gray mare shouts. Whole body flinches at the exuberant voice shouting with the joy of a child. Earth eyes grow more and more present to see hers coming to life. What was this? Was the gold mistaking grief for complete insanity? He seeks to pull away but her voice continues its narration of what only her eyes can see. The gold having not a clue what has sparked this as she looks to him wants to pull back. The gold wants the space between them again. Perhaps if he backed up, the cracks in the mirror would not seem so large. Her voice and the confusion hold the gold though from simply stepping away. She cries to the face of the gold for some unseen ghost to come back. Or was she speaking to him? Surely not? The thoughts of confusion swirl with those of pity and shared stories to prolong yet still the golden’s thought of her doom. Then comes what he did not expect. A hoof strikes out, coming close to the gold and he startles, stumbling back a step. She throws her words on him like knives. Pulling them from her own flesh she throws them at his. Haunches tuck and shoulders drop. His body losing the rigidity it possessed earlier. Where is he? This was no worse than calling out his name and expecting an answer. Another crack ripples through the glass and this time in tracing it, it slices his finger, letting blood swell up from within. His heart shutters to see it. He does not like the way of this grief. Why does she not accept the truth? Why does she not do as him and find others who can aid her? Did she not know what she felt? The golden had pitied her before, reserved and without guilt for that reservation. Now though his mind begins to muddle. The wayward emotions clouding the water so he could not see clearly. Call it from sleeplessness, the trauma, or the mare, he could not hold himself as he had. Instead of rationalizing his inability to aid this lost soul in the mirror, he feels it now. Haldir was falling to the same troubles, but his instincts were keeping him from the black hole. The small dark deer had come to the child and her bonded with a sunken head and low ears. Especially as the kitsune growled at the deer he sunk all the more, but he came all the same. The threat of a growl was nothing compared to the horrors of witnessing the gold alone, and feeling his heart tamper from their bond. The small creature was being tortured by his own protector, much as the black Silas felt in his faintness. But this was not a dark corner, or cold cave to hide in. The bright girl was the banner of hope and light, and she did not disappoint him, yet. Her frame leans forward and it causes the deer to trip a little faster towards her. That small smile, like a cup of hot chocolate warms his soul from the cold that threatened it. Had he not seen the small dark bird he might have even smiled back. But the fainting companion could not be ignored. Even this place of hope and light could not be untouched by the black shadows of the ill-fated day. Oh but this carrier of hope and life was not afraid. How the deer, looking into her eyes, marveled the warmth they still possessed. It called him and drew him to let his nose touch hers. Oh to feel the warm breath and soft comfort of another! The small deer had almost never felt such tenderness and true heart. Like laying by a warm fire he leans in all the more to her side, intoxicated by even the small act of comfort so honestly and whole heartedly given. (Haldir didn’t get out much you understand). His ease might also have had to do with dark fog wrapping about him. Perhaps in later ages he would learn more control so as to not fall under its spell himself, but here it was a most welcomed circumstance. The small deer too breathes easier. Safe, he thought in the warm fireside of life’s banner. Such respite from the terror of the scene beyond was not to last. We cannot by magic or shelter under another hide from the world forever. It will be there when we awake and it will continue while we hide. So is the lesson the deer was to learn as the girl tears away from his side. He lingers in his peace though, like waking from a sleep he loathes to leave its soft comforts. A scream though pierces his heart and like an electric shock, fills it with the dread of the world again. His little heart patters back up to speed and breath comes short again. Head, having drifted back up in the lulls of their moment drops once more, and as the girl continues to yell he shuts back his ears and eyes to cling one last moment to what peace he knew. For the horror of this moment was worse, it was full and bold, for now in that scream the dark deer could see the banner of hope falling. He saw in its place the same of those in the heart of his bonded, and he wished it all away. He wished he could leave and his soul never to feel the taint of the golden again. He wished to be free. Haldir wished, for the first time, he was not bonded. The small dark deer, cowering in the snow from the cries of beyond was not exactly alone. As the mountains and snow muffed the scene beyond he opens those pale eyes, watered as they were with tears. He did not find comfort in what he saw though. There in the snow was a black zephyr, without breath or heartbeat. Shivers went down the babe’s spine as he saw the still bird and could feel the cold hand had come. He moves, with shakes and tremors to look back to the gathering. Their shapes were formless and distant. Haldir was much alone with this creature of death. Much much alone. His soul reached out though. A small, weak and tailless bleat whispers to the cold bird. Ears lift slightly, in wait, perhaps in the same fit of grief as the grey mare beyond him. But of course it does not come. His body fall back again and his soul begins to tear at itself. The watery eyes can not hold back any longer, and in the fit of aloneness and the realization of death the small dark deer cries. Again, never in his life had he cried. Tears pour forth from him and he sniffles and hiccups once. His body in a reaction all its own moves forward, slinking to the dead creature. Its dark outline blurred by the tears. His small dark head nuzzled the small creature, lift its head as his legs tuck and body wraps around it. Like fawns awaiting their mother he has curled with the lost zephyr, crying in a bitterness of loneliness. Wishing away all his short life had so far brought him. The golden’s wish was not much different. Though the current madness of his own soul kept his bonded’s plight from his thought’s grasp. Starring into the eyes of Africa the gold was losing his reserved attitude, for the blood had poured from his finger and stained the crack on the mirror as yet more began to fissure it. The grey mare pulls back and mutters. But it is not what broke the glass. She smiles. A grin twisting at her lips she lets them curl. Another flash of gold, like the strike of a clock flashes in his eye. He can feel the cold of the coming fate, it grows on him. A final crack splinters the mirror. So many now lace the glass he can not see his face. This is not his tale. This is not her fate. The mare swings, swooning to the left, and she falls. The glass shatters. The cold hand revealed. She will die. Before her body hits the snow the gold breaks his reservation. He steps forward, crowned head lowering as if to catch hers. This was not some thought out movement or in fit with his earlier calm thoughts. She was not him. This was not his tale. The cold which began to smother her, now strangled him. It burned in the coldest fires his estrangement from this place. It threw in his fact, like a cold slap those thoughts, and that this death was what would break him. It was not a mirror, it was a prophecy. And it scared him. Many times in grief he had warmed to the thought of death. A long slow sleep where he could forget all that plagued him. Where he could never step into the throws of a thunderstorm amid madness again. The hand of death may have been cold but it was a hand to hold you, and keep you. It wanted you. More than once, with the sting of pain still fresh on his heart he had paused a top a cliff or ledge. How quick it would be, how easy. He was not scared then. How could he have been? But he had not taken that last step, nor let his body fall to never rise. Perhaps he had was so wrapped in his lies there was still a glimmer or two in the darkness he could fool himself with. They fooled him into thinking there was more to himself. There were plots to plan, and manipulations to twist, all of which he was still in fine shape to do. Perhaps there was still a small wick flame of let of his form self. Some inkling of the banners of hope and Perhaps in a twisted way he had grown used to the pain. Felt it come and go like winter’s wind without a sense of anger towards it. Its weight upon his back, felt familiar and secure. To have death thrown like a cold bucket of water over him, then startled him. It scared him. Seeing her body fall like a slow motion, he steps forward. He moves to stop it. He moves against death. In the prophecy before him he sees those long plunges he thought to make, and his form illuminated in the lightening storms, and he does not want them. The golden does not want death to claim him like this. His pain was still hard pressing on his throat, but there was more that should keep death at bay. For him, and for her. But it was too late for her, she was falling. The cold hand caressing her back already. The golden steps forward, perhaps to break her fall, but he never makes it there. A screaming call rings out over the snow and the gold freezes, to look up upon it. The girl he had ignored earlier now came barreling towards the fallen mare. Jerking back the gold gives her room, his thoughts a swirl of chaos. A child. A child. That is what this was all about right? No- that was his tale and this is hers. The roles reversed, the damage doubled. She cries at the mother’s feet, not the other way around. He was lost for a moment in the detanglement of the stories which he had woven together. His heart began to pound and rattle. There wasn’t much time. But perhaps in the, dare we say, panic of the moment he found himself spinning his wheels stuck and struggling to comprehend and process. Then she stops and looks to the gold and pleads. She’ll find there a sunken dark sea, where his soul is as much a lost ship as hers. For it pains him worse to look upon the youth’s features. To see the babe’s short crest of mane, her spindly legs, and narrow shoulders yet to fill out with life. The lies he had wrapped in that babes and children were but ordinary had crashed down. What strength they gave to look upon such features without the twinge of a heart were torn, shattered in pieces of glass on the ground. This emotional chaos, a hurricane of massive size in his soul could little be seen on the outside. To the world his bones had gone rigid and his face washed away to its base of heaviness and weight. He could not move, with such a storm inside of him as the filly was spilling forth. Only when she turns her pleas to the mare does the gold move. Whether from weariness or grief it can not be told, but his legs give way. They crumble, falling slow but forward, so his body rests near the babe. He does not touch her. His own grief, finding it impossible to detangle from this can not bear to yet look directly on her. For her pleas, this was all she receives. He was no religious guide, not enlightened enough to speak of better places and peaceful souls. He was no comforter, not with a blanket to spare to cover her shivering shoulders. But worst of all, that which cut his own grief the most. He was not the father, not entitled to shield her eyes or protect her from the truth unfolding. So all the gold could do was lie beside them, a fellow pained soul. But his heart rediscovering some pieces which cling to life, willing himself to not die with her. Though their stories and grief the same, he could not fall to the same fate, and the struggle and realities of the pathetic ties to life left him without strength to even stand. Head heavy with the weight of these thoughts sways as well, but it holds for a moment. His lips, finding themselves unexpectedly dray and cracked speaks up. He was trying to make sense, trying to do something. Though he could not place himself in those roles he was here, and he chosen not to follow her. Pain would still await him when he rose. And it would most likely follow him like a curse still as it always had, but his fate would not be hers just yet. And though he rejected this prophecy before him, he welcomed it for her. For though death and madness he could make a choice against she had not been given the kind hand of fate to choose. She had suffered the shackles of her doom, but she was done struggling. The golden may have rebeled against his own acceptance of death, but for Africa, it was to be her salvation. So he at last faces up to her earlier questions, though forgotten perhaps they were some reality he clinged to. “Zahra is here. She is strong.” It was a strange twist of tongue, and it came out broken and jointed as he glanced to the girl. It made all his being twist inside out to do so. Yes she was strong. Even the golden, as hateful of Midas as he still was in this moment would not deny she had his strength. She would carry on. The gold could not say she will be fine, though it is a traditional phrase, or other such assurances, for they were not true. And this was not a place for lies. So he moves on. Knowing she struggle and pines, and seeks only one vision. He offered it, in a rejection of his death he rejects his earlier limitations of comfort and gives her all he can. “He is not here. Go Africa. He is waiting.” Then the golden’s crown head lowers, and lays by hers in the snow, with one long exhale rolling out of his tired body. Two souls admitting the same struggles on a long road, but each taking different paths, for the gold would inhale, but it seemed soon she would not. "talk talk talk" OOC:: ;-; 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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