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05-17-2015, 07:26 AM
He was tired.
He was tired beyond belief, and not in the way that demands sleep. He was tired of these thoughts, of these questions—of these looks he got, the ones that whispered you used to be so much more. He was tired of thinking, of being—
—she charged at him, her gait sort of uneven, jagged, pieces of her heart bleeding out through the cracks, and her eyes were so dead as she came at him, horn pointing for his heart—
—tired of never being good enough.
There was blood on her teeth.
One ear, porcelain white rimmed with black, flicked, uncertain, hesitant, even as he took that single step backwards with all his defenses falling down again—there was blood on her teeth but he couldn't feel anything, aside from the heat of a bruise blossoming on his shoulder.. tiny pinpricks of pain at the roots of his mane. That ear flicked again, half-forward, then leaning back again; nothing he felt answered the question.
And there were tears on her cheeks.
“Then do—“ she began, pausing to spit blood out, and it stuck on her mouth in some kind of mockery he couldn't place—and he just stared at her, wary and hesitant and afraid because he knew just as little of her as she knew of him (or?).
There's nothing to know about me.
His breathing had grown quiet with the fear, the instinct to run frozen into complete stillness. It suddenly sat too deep.
And it was composed out of a million different things—I don't exist—What are you doing?—Please—I don't want to hurt you—You're crying—
—I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.
“Then don’t,” the face of his demise said, so quiet, choking on blood that must've flowed from somewhere within, black hooves drawing her closer to the ghost she was hunting—
"I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying—" he babbled brokenly, eyes wide and shining in the first starlight—and he backed, afraid of letting her closer, of letting her in again, because when she had exploded out of his chest the mess she'd left of his heart had hurt.
And it would hurt again.
Everything would hurt, always.
And he would've kept on backing, matching her step for step, if it wasn't for those pillars—those damned, cursed, fucking marble pillars some long dead genius had put in this sorry corner of the world. His ass came up against the smooth surface again, and for a moment he tried to fold in on himself, a brittle leaf blown over by the night breeze, but he couldn't—he couldn't escape her.
He couldn't escape reason.
He couldn't escape himself.
But you don't exist—
She needed answers. She—gods, he didn't know what she needed, or what he needed, or anything, but the reason it hurt so fucking much to watch her white-hot eyes and tears was because he cared—because he wanted to.. fix this?
No—he wanted to fix her.
With each word she spoke—each step she took—he breathed, quiet and shallow, too fast, too fast, fleeing down the long, winding corridors of his mind.
It was coming apart. It was all coming apart.
Backed up against the Rotunda, he could barely understand what she was saying, what she was asking, and then her eyes changed—her voice changed—but she kept advancing, relentless and merciless and—her mouth still smeared with the red she kept swallowing, her cheeks still glistening in the autumn starlight.
She was close—she was close, and he was terrified, his heart hammering wildly in his broken chest, but it couldn't get anywhere.
“Are you sayin’ the only reason I’m standing here now is because of a trick of the light?”
"I don't know," and it just slid out of his mouth with one of his breaths, tainting the air between them, and he choked in the next inhalation—because she was there again, so close that he could practically feel the heat emanating from her bruised body, and—
Memories overlapped.
"I don't know," he repeated, dumb, babbling, the depth blown out of his eyes—they were just wide and pale, with.. with nothing underneath. He blinked, he—he breathed, he lived, but he couldn't think because everything was just a jumbled mess—why—and each time he reached for his thoughts they slipped out of his grasp, like smoke—
—but she was there, anchoring him with her touch, leaving a bloodied little mark across his heart (where her mother's horn should've gone in) and it was what kept him from running.
"You're crying," he whispered, head moving gracelessly; the tip of his muzzle connected with her cheek (again), but without finesse—more like it collided with her, as if he wasn't quite in control of what he did anymore. "You're injured," he went on, his voice a hot whisper against her head, and he realized—he realized in the back of his mind that he ought to go lay down.
Before he fell back down.
[ @[Roskuld] ]
He was tired beyond belief, and not in the way that demands sleep. He was tired of these thoughts, of these questions—of these looks he got, the ones that whispered you used to be so much more. He was tired of thinking, of being—
—she charged at him, her gait sort of uneven, jagged, pieces of her heart bleeding out through the cracks, and her eyes were so dead as she came at him, horn pointing for his heart—
—tired of never being good enough.
There was blood on her teeth.
One ear, porcelain white rimmed with black, flicked, uncertain, hesitant, even as he took that single step backwards with all his defenses falling down again—there was blood on her teeth but he couldn't feel anything, aside from the heat of a bruise blossoming on his shoulder.. tiny pinpricks of pain at the roots of his mane. That ear flicked again, half-forward, then leaning back again; nothing he felt answered the question.
And there were tears on her cheeks.
“Then do—“ she began, pausing to spit blood out, and it stuck on her mouth in some kind of mockery he couldn't place—and he just stared at her, wary and hesitant and afraid because he knew just as little of her as she knew of him (or?).
There's nothing to know about me.
His breathing had grown quiet with the fear, the instinct to run frozen into complete stillness. It suddenly sat too deep.
And it was composed out of a million different things—I don't exist—What are you doing?—Please—I don't want to hurt you—You're crying—
—I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.
“Then don’t,” the face of his demise said, so quiet, choking on blood that must've flowed from somewhere within, black hooves drawing her closer to the ghost she was hunting—
"I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying—" he babbled brokenly, eyes wide and shining in the first starlight—and he backed, afraid of letting her closer, of letting her in again, because when she had exploded out of his chest the mess she'd left of his heart had hurt.
And it would hurt again.
Everything would hurt, always.
And he would've kept on backing, matching her step for step, if it wasn't for those pillars—those damned, cursed, fucking marble pillars some long dead genius had put in this sorry corner of the world. His ass came up against the smooth surface again, and for a moment he tried to fold in on himself, a brittle leaf blown over by the night breeze, but he couldn't—he couldn't escape her.
He couldn't escape reason.
He couldn't escape himself.
But you don't exist—
She needed answers. She—gods, he didn't know what she needed, or what he needed, or anything, but the reason it hurt so fucking much to watch her white-hot eyes and tears was because he cared—because he wanted to.. fix this?
No—he wanted to fix her.
With each word she spoke—each step she took—he breathed, quiet and shallow, too fast, too fast, fleeing down the long, winding corridors of his mind.
It was coming apart. It was all coming apart.
Backed up against the Rotunda, he could barely understand what she was saying, what she was asking, and then her eyes changed—her voice changed—but she kept advancing, relentless and merciless and—her mouth still smeared with the red she kept swallowing, her cheeks still glistening in the autumn starlight.
She was close—she was close, and he was terrified, his heart hammering wildly in his broken chest, but it couldn't get anywhere.
“Are you sayin’ the only reason I’m standing here now is because of a trick of the light?”
"I don't know," and it just slid out of his mouth with one of his breaths, tainting the air between them, and he choked in the next inhalation—because she was there again, so close that he could practically feel the heat emanating from her bruised body, and—
Memories overlapped.
"I'm falling apart," he admitted in a small whisper.
“Hey… Hey…guy…. …Come on. It's cold as hell.”
"Ljós," he whispered to himself as he followed her, his mind unable to find the exact words it wanted to describe the situation, the feeling.
Light.
“….what do you want?”
"I don't know," he repeated, dumb, babbling, the depth blown out of his eyes—they were just wide and pale, with.. with nothing underneath. He blinked, he—he breathed, he lived, but he couldn't think because everything was just a jumbled mess—why—and each time he reached for his thoughts they slipped out of his grasp, like smoke—
—but she was there, anchoring him with her touch, leaving a bloodied little mark across his heart (where her mother's horn should've gone in) and it was what kept him from running.
"You're crying," he whispered, head moving gracelessly; the tip of his muzzle connected with her cheek (again), but without finesse—more like it collided with her, as if he wasn't quite in control of what he did anymore. "You're injured," he went on, his voice a hot whisper against her head, and he realized—he realized in the back of his mind that he ought to go lay down.
Before he fell back down.
[ @[Roskuld] ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
