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06-04-2015, 07:01 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Two pale little princesses... A fractured border, and one fractured heart.
He hadn't—well, fuck, what had he expected? She lived in his herd now, and not just in his memories (fuckfuckfuck; he wished he could just turn back time a few years, set him up in some place before all this shit had gone down, a—a time and a place where their paths could've crossed as often as they were bound to now before everything was too late.. before Roskuld, before he left, before Torleik, and that word ringing like a siren in his head (FILTH)). She had a role, a duty, as head of their rogues and spies—she was the memory to Thor's thought.
Of course he was going to run into her. Of course it was going to be like running headfirst into a glacier. Of course it was going to make his heart and mind explode in a thousand different directions at the same time.
There was anger—oh, was there anger, something black and bleak and hot unfurling, the tar in his veins melting and turning to fire, floating with his blood.
There was sorrow. Regret. A mournful dirge for every future he had lost with her.
(But there's something final to it, like a burial, like it's already dead but he just needs time to let go properly—)
There was pity. There was.. confusion. In his love-struck folly he had put her on a pedestal, and not only had she fallen, unforgivably fast and far, but how she could consider Torleik worthy of her—good enough for her—
—FILTH.
He couldn't say that he loved her anymore; what he had loved had been.. either who she had been, or nothing but an idea, a flickering, transient dream.
If Ophelia had chosen—if she had said that Torleik was good enough.. then Mauja would respect that, no matter how much it confused him.
He realized he had stopped moving, his white coat standing out like a beacon against the darkened backdrop (if he couldn't have mountains and snow, he should at least go live in a birch forest, right?) of firs and fog.
The anger had run its brief, fiery course, and left him just empty.
And aside from having noted the white mare she came with, he hadn't paid her any attention, so when she moved he blinked, like he suddenly realized she was there. His gaze ran over her once. No one he knew. Dainty, porcelain white, and—woah. His gaze snapped back to her face, thankful there was still some twenty yards between them to hide the movements of his eyes. Those were some wicked scars.
Two horns, one broken, rose from her skull. A cascade of ashen gray surrounded her slim neck.
Tattered and tarnished holy whites.
Everyone was clad in them these days.
Feeling decidedly awkward, because he was always awkward when marching up to newcomers and trying to introduce himself, he figured he should at least make himself more known instead of stand there like a mist-veiled creeper. "Welcome," he said, his light voice raised to carry the slight distance as his feet began to take him forward again; ears pointed curiously at them and gaze light. Experience masked the secrets in his heart, and masked them well.
[ @[Ophelia], @[Glasgow] ]
“I’m my mother’s rape.”
“She…she didn’t say that b-but….it was that…that huge rat bastard she calls her….”
“It’s like-- sometimes, Ma just gives me this look—and her eyes go dark and she’s not even looking at me anymore, it’s like I’ve got Pa’s face and...”
He hadn't—well, fuck, what had he expected? She lived in his herd now, and not just in his memories (fuckfuckfuck; he wished he could just turn back time a few years, set him up in some place before all this shit had gone down, a—a time and a place where their paths could've crossed as often as they were bound to now before everything was too late.. before Roskuld, before he left, before Torleik, and that word ringing like a siren in his head (FILTH)). She had a role, a duty, as head of their rogues and spies—she was the memory to Thor's thought.
Of course he was going to run into her. Of course it was going to be like running headfirst into a glacier. Of course it was going to make his heart and mind explode in a thousand different directions at the same time.
There was anger—oh, was there anger, something black and bleak and hot unfurling, the tar in his veins melting and turning to fire, floating with his blood.
There was sorrow. Regret. A mournful dirge for every future he had lost with her.
(But there's something final to it, like a burial, like it's already dead but he just needs time to let go properly—)
There was pity. There was.. confusion. In his love-struck folly he had put her on a pedestal, and not only had she fallen, unforgivably fast and far, but how she could consider Torleik worthy of her—good enough for her—
—FILTH.
He couldn't say that he loved her anymore; what he had loved had been.. either who she had been, or nothing but an idea, a flickering, transient dream.
If Ophelia had chosen—if she had said that Torleik was good enough.. then Mauja would respect that, no matter how much it confused him.
He realized he had stopped moving, his white coat standing out like a beacon against the darkened backdrop (if he couldn't have mountains and snow, he should at least go live in a birch forest, right?) of firs and fog.
The anger had run its brief, fiery course, and left him just empty.
And aside from having noted the white mare she came with, he hadn't paid her any attention, so when she moved he blinked, like he suddenly realized she was there. His gaze ran over her once. No one he knew. Dainty, porcelain white, and—woah. His gaze snapped back to her face, thankful there was still some twenty yards between them to hide the movements of his eyes. Those were some wicked scars.
Two horns, one broken, rose from her skull. A cascade of ashen gray surrounded her slim neck.
Tattered and tarnished holy whites.
Everyone was clad in them these days.
Feeling decidedly awkward, because he was always awkward when marching up to newcomers and trying to introduce himself, he figured he should at least make himself more known instead of stand there like a mist-veiled creeper. "Welcome," he said, his light voice raised to carry the slight distance as his feet began to take him forward again; ears pointed curiously at them and gaze light. Experience masked the secrets in his heart, and masked them well.
[ @[Ophelia], @[Glasgow] ]
