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01-13-2016, 07:19 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Early matters little to someone who haunts the world—someone who drifts, like the wind, like fog, trickling in through the cracks and then whisking away again without a word. He had been away, doing nothing, anything, everything, going where his feet took him and where his restless mind commanded him. He had visited ghosts in the north, danced under the stars, and finally, he was being blown home, carried in like a single, early snowflake by a defiant wind. Frost refusing to melt to the pale, early sunshine glittered in its muted rays, bending stiffened vegetation beneath his weight and failing to pop back when he passed.
The world was like that: ever-changing, moving to the lightest of touches. Even when it felt like bringing about change was like trying to bring down a mountain you changed things, albeit not the ones you were attempting to.
The owls rode upon his back, Irma at the withers, Diego just behind, oddly enough. They were tired, of this incessant wandering, of the way he moved ceaselessly, they were tired of sleeping in trees only to have to fly like a storm to catch up with him—just as he had grown tired of waiting for them. So things changed, they slept on him, and he carried them safely home.
He was tired of being away now. He was tired of not seeing the evergreen trees of home, of chasing lost futures and trying to remember forgotten dreams. He wanted some safety, some peace, time and space to breathe, to make new futures and dream new dreams. Pieces of his past he could carry with him into the future, re-claim them in his current life, but some were better left alone in the snow.
The former was the reason he had gone all the way to the Aurora Basin, the reason he had sought for something to hold on to—a way to bridge gaps and mend distances. Had he succeeded? He didn't know. Only time would tell if a rekindled flame would take hold, or if it would sputter, and go out again, leaving them in darkness.
Perhaps he ought to have rested more on his way south. Perhaps he ought to have listened to the owls, stopped to forage and doze while they slept, but few were the times he had. The past hours clung to him like iron weights, an ache beginning to form in his shoulders and hips, a sense of hazy exhaustion threatening to cloud the edges of his attention. He was a creature made to endure, but in his sudden desperation to come home (—to safety) he had pushed past his boundaries.
Still, he could've gone another day without breaking: his body was fine, his lungs at ease, heart beating leisurely. It was his mind threatening to shatter.
The sun was mellow, half-hidden, but revealing secrets all the same. An unknown shadow had fallen across their border, the hind end of some draft stallion presenting itself to his view. For a brief, sickening moment Mauja thought it was Aaron, but the scent was wrong, and the closer he came the more obvious it was that it wasn't Aaron. This stranger was too tall, maybe a tad sturdier, too, and the colorful hellhound was nowhere to be seen. A nicker broke the early morning stillness, a cry for attention. At least he respected the borders, which definitely earned him some brownie points from Mau.
Absolute rest would have to wait a little longer. The owls slept, their consciousnesses lost in a deep, comforting darkness, a weight across his own mind, tugging at him as it had for the past hours. He wanted to join them in oblivion.
"You stand at the borders of the World's Edge," he commented when he was close enough, picking his way past roots and rocks to come stand beside the stranger. Tall, but not as tall as Mauja. He felt oddly smug about that. "And you seem as if you seek something." Mauja's voice was light and gentle, soft and quiet there in the morning; the owls would wake easily, but as well as he could he anchored them in safety and sleep. They had flown long before giving in to his stubbornness, and taken their rest. And so, he hoped this stranger would speak with the same softness, for Mauja was not sure he could mute their senses to the voice of a stranger if it cut too loud. "What is it?"
[ @Luken! <3 ]
The world was like that: ever-changing, moving to the lightest of touches. Even when it felt like bringing about change was like trying to bring down a mountain you changed things, albeit not the ones you were attempting to.
The owls rode upon his back, Irma at the withers, Diego just behind, oddly enough. They were tired, of this incessant wandering, of the way he moved ceaselessly, they were tired of sleeping in trees only to have to fly like a storm to catch up with him—just as he had grown tired of waiting for them. So things changed, they slept on him, and he carried them safely home.
He was tired of being away now. He was tired of not seeing the evergreen trees of home, of chasing lost futures and trying to remember forgotten dreams. He wanted some safety, some peace, time and space to breathe, to make new futures and dream new dreams. Pieces of his past he could carry with him into the future, re-claim them in his current life, but some were better left alone in the snow.
The former was the reason he had gone all the way to the Aurora Basin, the reason he had sought for something to hold on to—a way to bridge gaps and mend distances. Had he succeeded? He didn't know. Only time would tell if a rekindled flame would take hold, or if it would sputter, and go out again, leaving them in darkness.
Perhaps he ought to have rested more on his way south. Perhaps he ought to have listened to the owls, stopped to forage and doze while they slept, but few were the times he had. The past hours clung to him like iron weights, an ache beginning to form in his shoulders and hips, a sense of hazy exhaustion threatening to cloud the edges of his attention. He was a creature made to endure, but in his sudden desperation to come home (—to safety) he had pushed past his boundaries.
Still, he could've gone another day without breaking: his body was fine, his lungs at ease, heart beating leisurely. It was his mind threatening to shatter.
The sun was mellow, half-hidden, but revealing secrets all the same. An unknown shadow had fallen across their border, the hind end of some draft stallion presenting itself to his view. For a brief, sickening moment Mauja thought it was Aaron, but the scent was wrong, and the closer he came the more obvious it was that it wasn't Aaron. This stranger was too tall, maybe a tad sturdier, too, and the colorful hellhound was nowhere to be seen. A nicker broke the early morning stillness, a cry for attention. At least he respected the borders, which definitely earned him some brownie points from Mau.
Absolute rest would have to wait a little longer. The owls slept, their consciousnesses lost in a deep, comforting darkness, a weight across his own mind, tugging at him as it had for the past hours. He wanted to join them in oblivion.
"You stand at the borders of the World's Edge," he commented when he was close enough, picking his way past roots and rocks to come stand beside the stranger. Tall, but not as tall as Mauja. He felt oddly smug about that. "And you seem as if you seek something." Mauja's voice was light and gentle, soft and quiet there in the morning; the owls would wake easily, but as well as he could he anchored them in safety and sleep. They had flown long before giving in to his stubbornness, and taken their rest. And so, he hoped this stranger would speak with the same softness, for Mauja was not sure he could mute their senses to the voice of a stranger if it cut too loud. "What is it?"
[ @Luken! <3 ]
Mauja
the white queen
