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12-17-2015, 08:57 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ Sorry for the slight delay, still struggling with exhaustion. ]
"Kiba burned you."
Kiba. He had almost forgotten the name of that unfortunate soul, of that brown, valiant dragon who had only wished to defend the one he loved the most—and for that love, and the fear it inspired, they had both died, and taken a little piece of Mauja's soul with them. For was that not how it was? Each and every death he had caused had taken from him, a little soul-light to guide them down the dark river, a piece of guilt torn from his consciousness, a memory carved into the lining of his skull—
He did not want to count them, those deaths. He did not want to think of the screams and the tears and the pleading he had witnessed with a dead and deaf heart—of all the good he could've done, all the mercy he could've had. Instead, he had been cold.
Torasin's death should've been a murder. It should've been glorious retribution, pay-back for what Mirage had done, but it hadn't—he had wanted to make amends, but he hadn't known how, and instead he had killed him. "Yes," he said ever so softly, staring at the peacefully closed eye. It should've been murder, but what did it matter when they all died in the end? Would it have made anything better, if he had wanted life to end? That he had even been able to think that, that he should've done it intentionally, that he.. that he ought to have hated .. as if hate could justify anything .. and he trembled there in the darkness of his past, trembled, as Aaron's voice floated through his consciousness—cold, as if frozen, disbelieving, struggling with some idea, some concept, and failing to simply understand it. Suddenly (asking? begging? demanding?) that understanding from Mauja, who struggled too, with the burden of what he had said, and what he was saying, staring into the golden eyes of the dragon-child.
And someone was—not exactly chanting but there was a rhythm, a lilt and a cadence to his voice, a sort of ritualistic flow that demanded attention without comprehension. The words were a tide, a rise and a fall, soft and gentle like the current of water around rocks in a shallow brook—and something in the voice spoke of that very same water, of the murmur as it swirled in hidden pockets. It was a soothing voice, but he heard no words, trapped in the gaze of a creature belonging not wholly to either world. She was warm—her eyes were warm, something to hold on to as the darkness threatened to sweep him away.
Because he was afraid, again; death had torn one of the last foundations of his life out from under him, robbed him of the one he could pin and build his hatred upon, stolen that last refuge with the cold, sharp blade of truth (—and he was afraid, because he stood there in the Edge, speaking the truth at long, long last).
But first, something else had to burn.
Warm air caressed his face, a touch as soothing as that barely-known voice had been as it had slipped through his ears, and Mauja closed his eyes. "I need you to help me," but did she really? Did she really need Mauja? Regardless—it felt better. The warmth of her breath, the presence of her scaled muzzle hovering so close to his, anchored him, stroked his frizzled nerves, and an almost tangible wave of relaxation swept through him.
He could do this. They could do this. The smallest, most fragile of smiles curved his dark lips, and the plush tip of his muzzle bumped tentatively against hers. The distinction between scale and velvet skin was strange, but not unpleasant.
Mirage had always seemed larger than her relatively nondescript body—she had commanded loyalty and armies, had stood up against her demons and for what she believed in, and hunted for justice, even though Mauja could not believe in the concept of it. And so, it seemed only fitting that she burn as something huge.
Slowly he backed away, from both Amaris and corpse, trusting the dragon-child to either move herself or to be fire-proof if she stayed put—but there, he hesitated for a moment, casting a wary glance at the forest around them, and the child standing by Aaron's side now. There was one last thing.. and his gaze, calmer now, but still somehow so detached from everything he ought to know, and ought to be, settled on Amaris again. "Do not let the rest of the forest burn," he pleaded with her quietly, not sure what he himself could do if the fire tried to spread.
Then, it spawned before his chest; fire crackled into life in an impressive wingspan stretching to nearly 11 feet, with a deceptively small body suspended between the beating, flaming wings. It hung there for a moment, staining Mauja's chest and mane soot-black with its heat, scorching the topmost layer of skin in a way that felt nearly sweet—but his magic was not meant to be held, and the albatross struggled a second more against its bonds before breaking free, colliding with the black body in a shower of sparks and flame. Not even a second later the much-hotter dragonfire blasted through the air, and Mauja winced, backing up further.
And so it was that Mirage burned, at long last—surrounded by those who had loved her, those who had hated her, and those who had not known her.
Slowly, Mauja melted further back. His work here was nearly done. He had found Mirage; he had .. spoken with her, as much as one can speak to the dead, and in his own way, he had honored her as he could. With her death, she had stolen another piece of his life, and with all that he thought he knew—all that he thought he wanted—turned to ashes on the wind.. he was a broken man struggling to find enough pieces to fit together, and he was unsure of what would come out once something finally clicked.
He wanted to disappear, to melt into the shadows, to walk with the company of the mist-creatures and wonder who he had been all this time, and who he was becoming, and how many more wrongs he had pinned on someone else simply because that was easier than the harrowing of introspection—but there were more ghosts lingering here, and his gaze shifted briefly to Aaron as he waited for the fire to rage, to consume, and to, finally, cease.
He would not leave until it was out. He owed this one last vigil to Mirage, for she had borne the weight of his misdirected hatred through all of these years, and now, she had finally opened his eyes and set him free.
"I don't think I ever hated you," he murmured into the hissing of the pyre.
[ @Aaron @Amaris @Alune || feel free to approach him about Torasin again while he's watching the fire. just didn't find any good way to tie it into my post :/ ]
"Kiba burned you."
Kiba. He had almost forgotten the name of that unfortunate soul, of that brown, valiant dragon who had only wished to defend the one he loved the most—and for that love, and the fear it inspired, they had both died, and taken a little piece of Mauja's soul with them. For was that not how it was? Each and every death he had caused had taken from him, a little soul-light to guide them down the dark river, a piece of guilt torn from his consciousness, a memory carved into the lining of his skull—
He did not want to count them, those deaths. He did not want to think of the screams and the tears and the pleading he had witnessed with a dead and deaf heart—of all the good he could've done, all the mercy he could've had. Instead, he had been cold.
Torasin's death should've been a murder. It should've been glorious retribution, pay-back for what Mirage had done, but it hadn't—he had wanted to make amends, but he hadn't known how, and instead he had killed him. "Yes," he said ever so softly, staring at the peacefully closed eye. It should've been murder, but what did it matter when they all died in the end? Would it have made anything better, if he had wanted life to end? That he had even been able to think that, that he should've done it intentionally, that he.. that he ought to have hated .. as if hate could justify anything .. and he trembled there in the darkness of his past, trembled, as Aaron's voice floated through his consciousness—cold, as if frozen, disbelieving, struggling with some idea, some concept, and failing to simply understand it. Suddenly (asking? begging? demanding?) that understanding from Mauja, who struggled too, with the burden of what he had said, and what he was saying, staring into the golden eyes of the dragon-child.
And someone was—not exactly chanting but there was a rhythm, a lilt and a cadence to his voice, a sort of ritualistic flow that demanded attention without comprehension. The words were a tide, a rise and a fall, soft and gentle like the current of water around rocks in a shallow brook—and something in the voice spoke of that very same water, of the murmur as it swirled in hidden pockets. It was a soothing voice, but he heard no words, trapped in the gaze of a creature belonging not wholly to either world. She was warm—her eyes were warm, something to hold on to as the darkness threatened to sweep him away.
Because he was afraid, again; death had torn one of the last foundations of his life out from under him, robbed him of the one he could pin and build his hatred upon, stolen that last refuge with the cold, sharp blade of truth (—and he was afraid, because he stood there in the Edge, speaking the truth at long, long last).
But first, something else had to burn.
Warm air caressed his face, a touch as soothing as that barely-known voice had been as it had slipped through his ears, and Mauja closed his eyes. "I need you to help me," but did she really? Did she really need Mauja? Regardless—it felt better. The warmth of her breath, the presence of her scaled muzzle hovering so close to his, anchored him, stroked his frizzled nerves, and an almost tangible wave of relaxation swept through him.
He could do this. They could do this. The smallest, most fragile of smiles curved his dark lips, and the plush tip of his muzzle bumped tentatively against hers. The distinction between scale and velvet skin was strange, but not unpleasant.
Mirage had always seemed larger than her relatively nondescript body—she had commanded loyalty and armies, had stood up against her demons and for what she believed in, and hunted for justice, even though Mauja could not believe in the concept of it. And so, it seemed only fitting that she burn as something huge.
Slowly he backed away, from both Amaris and corpse, trusting the dragon-child to either move herself or to be fire-proof if she stayed put—but there, he hesitated for a moment, casting a wary glance at the forest around them, and the child standing by Aaron's side now. There was one last thing.. and his gaze, calmer now, but still somehow so detached from everything he ought to know, and ought to be, settled on Amaris again. "Do not let the rest of the forest burn," he pleaded with her quietly, not sure what he himself could do if the fire tried to spread.
Then, it spawned before his chest; fire crackled into life in an impressive wingspan stretching to nearly 11 feet, with a deceptively small body suspended between the beating, flaming wings. It hung there for a moment, staining Mauja's chest and mane soot-black with its heat, scorching the topmost layer of skin in a way that felt nearly sweet—but his magic was not meant to be held, and the albatross struggled a second more against its bonds before breaking free, colliding with the black body in a shower of sparks and flame. Not even a second later the much-hotter dragonfire blasted through the air, and Mauja winced, backing up further.
And so it was that Mirage burned, at long last—surrounded by those who had loved her, those who had hated her, and those who had not known her.
Slowly, Mauja melted further back. His work here was nearly done. He had found Mirage; he had .. spoken with her, as much as one can speak to the dead, and in his own way, he had honored her as he could. With her death, she had stolen another piece of his life, and with all that he thought he knew—all that he thought he wanted—turned to ashes on the wind.. he was a broken man struggling to find enough pieces to fit together, and he was unsure of what would come out once something finally clicked.
He wanted to disappear, to melt into the shadows, to walk with the company of the mist-creatures and wonder who he had been all this time, and who he was becoming, and how many more wrongs he had pinned on someone else simply because that was easier than the harrowing of introspection—but there were more ghosts lingering here, and his gaze shifted briefly to Aaron as he waited for the fire to rage, to consume, and to, finally, cease.
He would not leave until it was out. He owed this one last vigil to Mirage, for she had borne the weight of his misdirected hatred through all of these years, and now, she had finally opened his eyes and set him free.
"I don't think I ever hated you," he murmured into the hissing of the pyre.
[ @Aaron @Amaris @Alune || feel free to approach him about Torasin again while he's watching the fire. just didn't find any good way to tie it into my post :/ ]
