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11-01-2015, 06:45 AM
somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
The world spun on, mercilessly, when all he wanted was for it to stop—to get off this ride, take a step to the side. He didn't want to be part of this anymore. He didn't want to be part of this wicked, wicked lottery of life, where cruel whim decided who lived and who died; that which would've been the glorious future, was dead and cold, while the old lived on.
Aviya and Snö had been the brightest, coldest stars in the Plague sky, raised in a cult meant for them—a cult which would leave the world a better place (or so, he had thought) for them to live in, a cult, a crusade, they were to take over. Five or so years ago they had been born, sheltered in fog, as their fathers and mothers struggled to scour the world clean of hornless filth.
But that future had been lost, already before they died—lost, in the compassion of Mauja's fractured heart, lost, in the climate of this world which shackled the Red Doctor. And the world had been left as bad a place as it had ever been, and still they had been the future, of everything. The continuation of existence.
And now, they were dead, both of them, slain by foreign gods in lands that were not Helovia, truly.
There had been more than random whims and madness to his offering the Edge to Roskuld—how would they ever become the caretakers of this world, when the old fell to the roadside in a pool of their own stagnant blood, if they were never taught how to? If they never got to test their wings?
But, he supposed that crying over your dead daughter made you seem more mad than you were, and the need to be left alone with his grief had overruled any desire to argue about it. He had tried, goddamnit, to not just leave the Edge and let them figure out the pieces for themselves—
The stark blood red of the sky was growing duller, fading, and through the rugged sound of his own breathing he heard something else—through the scent of his own snot and tears he smelled something else.
A guest to his grief; an intruder upon his mourning; another lost soul lost in the lost world. One black-rimmed ear gave a listless flick, and then he stopped caring—if he ever had.
Where he had never wanted to weep in front of someone, he now found that it did not matter; where he had always worn ice as an armor, his bleeding heart was staining his sleeve red. He was a father mourning the loss of two daughters; a ..something mourning the loss of his brother; a friend left behind by his friend; a.. he squeezed his blue eyes shut. A man (he supposed) left alone in the dark with a candle and no one to share its light with.
In more ways than he had understood, d'Artagnan had been his everything.
And now, he was gone.
"Uhm, are you okay?" the stranger asked with a sterling voice, accompanied by the ringing of metal against horn; a foreleg brushed against his rigid shoulder, threatening to upset his precarious balance as he knelt under the weight of his grief. No, he thought to say, but no words passed his dark lips: just another breath wreaking havoc on its way out, a gasp disturbing the rhythm of his inhalation. No, I'm not okay.
Mauja had lost before. He had lost his unit (and Isir with them—), he had lost countless of comrades, many lifetimes, his parents, and in Helovia, had had kept on losing, to death or the winds of the world. And each loss had been a crack in the armor around his heart, until d'Artagnan had made every wall come tumbling down.
Mauja had lost before, but he had never grieved.
And now, he had a lifetime's worth of loss to mourn.
The stranger was humming, a soft and soothing sound edged with anxiety, accompanied by the on-and-off clicking of metal against something—backed up by a breathing that grew more rugged, the hint of her sides expanding brushing against the curve of his barrel. In a thick voice she said it would be fine, the most commonly told lie Mauja had ever heard; another sob tore its way out of his lungs and he struggled back to his feet, thrusting his neck in under hers, seeking what solace he could find in the shadow of a stranger.
[ @Dacianna || YOU SIB YOU. ]
Aviya and Snö had been the brightest, coldest stars in the Plague sky, raised in a cult meant for them—a cult which would leave the world a better place (or so, he had thought) for them to live in, a cult, a crusade, they were to take over. Five or so years ago they had been born, sheltered in fog, as their fathers and mothers struggled to scour the world clean of hornless filth.
But that future had been lost, already before they died—lost, in the compassion of Mauja's fractured heart, lost, in the climate of this world which shackled the Red Doctor. And the world had been left as bad a place as it had ever been, and still they had been the future, of everything. The continuation of existence.
And now, they were dead, both of them, slain by foreign gods in lands that were not Helovia, truly.
There had been more than random whims and madness to his offering the Edge to Roskuld—how would they ever become the caretakers of this world, when the old fell to the roadside in a pool of their own stagnant blood, if they were never taught how to? If they never got to test their wings?
But, he supposed that crying over your dead daughter made you seem more mad than you were, and the need to be left alone with his grief had overruled any desire to argue about it. He had tried, goddamnit, to not just leave the Edge and let them figure out the pieces for themselves—
The stark blood red of the sky was growing duller, fading, and through the rugged sound of his own breathing he heard something else—through the scent of his own snot and tears he smelled something else.
A guest to his grief; an intruder upon his mourning; another lost soul lost in the lost world. One black-rimmed ear gave a listless flick, and then he stopped caring—if he ever had.
Where he had never wanted to weep in front of someone, he now found that it did not matter; where he had always worn ice as an armor, his bleeding heart was staining his sleeve red. He was a father mourning the loss of two daughters; a ..something mourning the loss of his brother; a friend left behind by his friend; a.. he squeezed his blue eyes shut. A man (he supposed) left alone in the dark with a candle and no one to share its light with.
In more ways than he had understood, d'Artagnan had been his everything.
And now, he was gone.
"Uhm, are you okay?" the stranger asked with a sterling voice, accompanied by the ringing of metal against horn; a foreleg brushed against his rigid shoulder, threatening to upset his precarious balance as he knelt under the weight of his grief. No, he thought to say, but no words passed his dark lips: just another breath wreaking havoc on its way out, a gasp disturbing the rhythm of his inhalation. No, I'm not okay.
Mauja had lost before. He had lost his unit (
Mauja had lost before, but he had never grieved.
And now, he had a lifetime's worth of loss to mourn.
The stranger was humming, a soft and soothing sound edged with anxiety, accompanied by the on-and-off clicking of metal against something—backed up by a breathing that grew more rugged, the hint of her sides expanding brushing against the curve of his barrel. In a thick voice she said it would be fine, the most commonly told lie Mauja had ever heard; another sob tore its way out of his lungs and he struggled back to his feet, thrusting his neck in under hers, seeking what solace he could find in the shadow of a stranger.
[ @Dacianna || YOU SIB YOU. ]
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
