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11-17-2015, 12:26 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Who are we? (Just souls searching the darkness for light—)
What are we? (Lost, so impossibly lost, because that light is nowhere to be found—)
It was dark behind his closed eyelids, darker than the world outside; no stars were reflected in the inky seas, no moonlight breaking through the thick cover of clouds. But behind his eyelids he was alone with his thoughts, with his darkness—his shadows. No matter which way he turned it spread from horizon to horizon, and the whipping wind tore at his hair and it lashed against his eyes and forced them shut so that no matter where he went he could not look for a way out—
Frosted hooves shuffled in the relative stillness of the night, feeling once for the edge. It wouldn't surprise him if he grew blinded enough by his grief to actually stumble off of it one day. It would be a bittersweet death.
“It may not be the first,” Tembovu was saying, his voice gentle as his gargantuan frame pressed lightly into Mauja's touch; idly he wondered if all capable of speaking so tenderly had been broken once. How else would they have learned the need for gentleness? Tembovu had come from a land in ruins—that was all he knew, and all he needed to know to know that there lay a dark path behind him. Salvation and retribution came in many different forms.
“But remember that it will not be the last.”
Mauja didn't want there to be another time.
He didn't want to have to stand here at all, head bowed and heart broken, taking comfort in a man as pale as the sands d'Artagnan had loathed—in some ways, he even wanted to be angry with Tembovu for daring to exist, for daring to comfort him when another man had ripped his heart out and walked away—
As if pushing him away would make anything easier. As if telling him the whole fucked-up story of how he had cared so deeply for someone and then failed to spend half his lifetime with him would fix anything, other than let him be alone with his scalding tears; they were pouring out of his eyes again, breath hitching in his throat, because it was fucking beautiful. Grief had tumbled him down, shattered his walls and his defenses, and in his defeat he was too weak to be the coward and turn Tembovu away.
He was too tired to resist, too tired to know anything but to be struck by his words, by the gesture—by the warmth standing solid next to him, radiant like a fucking sunrise, promising to be there the next time the world fell apart around him.
Had anyone ever dared to do it before? Had anyone ever had the courage to not tiptoe around it with curses and sarcasm?
“Just because it is not my fault does not mean I do not feel sorrow for your loss, Mauja. The death of a child is…” And somewhere between there and the end of Tembovu's words, Mauja was laughing, bitterly, brokenly, eyes squeezed shut against the guilt and the pain—a burden not even the warm air against his forelock could lift. Because here he stood, mourning someone who wasn't even dead while his child lay cold in the ground.
"It's just so fucked up," he whispered, babbled, through the stream of uncontrolled emotion—still half-sobbing, half-laughing, the sound too bitter and dark. "Snö's dead and—" He gulped in air, staggering drunkenly to the side, away from Tembovu, teetering dangerously close to the edge again; wild-eyed, he watched his friend, unable to stop it, yet wishing he could, because.. because what if it was so fucked up that Tembovu would actually walk away? Mauja couldn't tell anymore. "And—that's it! SHE'S JUST DEAD!" He was shaking his head now, white hair whipping everywhere, rocks clattering down the side to their watery grave far below; he was trembling, trying to back away from the drop into the sea, but his legs wouldn't obey so all he ended up doing was half-sitting and shaking. "She's just dead, she's dead, she won't come back, she didn't choose to go, she died! But he—" His hind legs gave out all the way and he tumbled down on hocks and ass, barely noticing what happened as his gaze fixed on nothing somewhere halfway between his nose and the horizon. "He left, and in the middle of this fucked up story of children dying it's just—it's just this thing—this fucking thing burning in my head like .. why?" His eyes were burning again but there were no tears to put the fire out, and his head turned, and he stared up at Tembovu from the bottom of his ruin—whispering, so hesitantly, so shakily. "Why did he leave me?"
[ He probably can reach him like that; horses can do this after all ^^ ]
What are we? (Lost, so impossibly lost, because that light is nowhere to be found—)
It was dark behind his closed eyelids, darker than the world outside; no stars were reflected in the inky seas, no moonlight breaking through the thick cover of clouds. But behind his eyelids he was alone with his thoughts, with his darkness—his shadows. No matter which way he turned it spread from horizon to horizon, and the whipping wind tore at his hair and it lashed against his eyes and forced them shut so that no matter where he went he could not look for a way out—
Frosted hooves shuffled in the relative stillness of the night, feeling once for the edge. It wouldn't surprise him if he grew blinded enough by his grief to actually stumble off of it one day. It would be a bittersweet death.
“It may not be the first,” Tembovu was saying, his voice gentle as his gargantuan frame pressed lightly into Mauja's touch; idly he wondered if all capable of speaking so tenderly had been broken once. How else would they have learned the need for gentleness? Tembovu had come from a land in ruins—that was all he knew, and all he needed to know to know that there lay a dark path behind him. Salvation and retribution came in many different forms.
“But remember that it will not be the last.”
Mauja didn't want there to be another time.
He didn't want to have to stand here at all, head bowed and heart broken, taking comfort in a man as pale as the sands d'Artagnan had loathed—in some ways, he even wanted to be angry with Tembovu for daring to exist, for daring to comfort him when another man had ripped his heart out and walked away—
As if pushing him away would make anything easier. As if telling him the whole fucked-up story of how he had cared so deeply for someone and then failed to spend half his lifetime with him would fix anything, other than let him be alone with his scalding tears; they were pouring out of his eyes again, breath hitching in his throat, because it was fucking beautiful. Grief had tumbled him down, shattered his walls and his defenses, and in his defeat he was too weak to be the coward and turn Tembovu away.
He was too tired to resist, too tired to know anything but to be struck by his words, by the gesture—by the warmth standing solid next to him, radiant like a fucking sunrise, promising to be there the next time the world fell apart around him.
Had anyone ever dared to do it before? Had anyone ever had the courage to not tiptoe around it with curses and sarcasm?
“Just because it is not my fault does not mean I do not feel sorrow for your loss, Mauja. The death of a child is…” And somewhere between there and the end of Tembovu's words, Mauja was laughing, bitterly, brokenly, eyes squeezed shut against the guilt and the pain—a burden not even the warm air against his forelock could lift. Because here he stood, mourning someone who wasn't even dead while his child lay cold in the ground.
"It's just so fucked up," he whispered, babbled, through the stream of uncontrolled emotion—still half-sobbing, half-laughing, the sound too bitter and dark. "Snö's dead and—" He gulped in air, staggering drunkenly to the side, away from Tembovu, teetering dangerously close to the edge again; wild-eyed, he watched his friend, unable to stop it, yet wishing he could, because.. because what if it was so fucked up that Tembovu would actually walk away? Mauja couldn't tell anymore. "And—that's it! SHE'S JUST DEAD!" He was shaking his head now, white hair whipping everywhere, rocks clattering down the side to their watery grave far below; he was trembling, trying to back away from the drop into the sea, but his legs wouldn't obey so all he ended up doing was half-sitting and shaking. "She's just dead, she's dead, she won't come back, she didn't choose to go, she died! But he—" His hind legs gave out all the way and he tumbled down on hocks and ass, barely noticing what happened as his gaze fixed on nothing somewhere halfway between his nose and the horizon. "He left, and in the middle of this fucked up story of children dying it's just—it's just this thing—this fucking thing burning in my head like .. why?" His eyes were burning again but there were no tears to put the fire out, and his head turned, and he stared up at Tembovu from the bottom of his ruin—whispering, so hesitantly, so shakily. "Why did he leave me?"
[ He probably can reach him like that; horses can do this after all ^^ ]
