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01-21-2016, 11:03 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
[ post #1,200 is for you <3 ]
There is always a time when something gives way—when bridges go out under heavy burdens, when tethers and chains, bones, break, when logic misfires and control slips, when things go where they should not be—
—and it was always so easy to be wise in the aftermath, to trace these rugged, jagged lines to their source, and the nightmares turned to if only's, but nothing ever turned back time, and nothing ever seemed to make you wiser, Mauja.
(I suppose that's why you are where you are now.)
You know how destructive fire is. You know how a single, errant spark can incinerate nations. You know fire, much too intimately, a memory etched permanently in your mind—of how it slips and crawls along your skin, down your throat, how it bites and sears so deeply you nearly breathe it in. Fire doesn't just burn you, it takes you, digs its roots in deep as it makes its home in your flesh. You have felt it more than you've seen it, the black, charred ruin.. the single, brief moment of respite when it just hits, the shock which numbs all nerves to the agony they are about to endure. Being burned is a higher, purer form of pain, white-hot edges delicately pushing you out of your mind and into something glorious as it ravages your body—until you fall back into it. Until you feel it, with every fiber of your being.
And then, it'll haunt you, forever.
While you're the one who has been lost in the fire, Tembovu is the one who has lost to it. You know this, Mauja, you know why Torasin died in this forest, and yet you bring flames to the burned man's hearth.
What did you expect?
Truth is, he had barely thought about—something in the back of his mind had rebelled, whispered do not bring more fire, but he hadn't really heard it. Hadn't really thought about it. To him, it was just—just light. It was just a sparrow. Something to show Tembovu where he was, who he was, to put a face on his pale, nameless body; a selfish little comfort here in the absolute darkness and smothering rage.
Oh, he had seen it, Tembovu's rage. Heard it in the low roar of his breathing, a mirror-image to the flames. Mauja's rage was of a different kind: cold and calculating, sharp edges of ice, precise and clear. When Mauja's ire was roused, things died with lances of ice embedded in their hearts.
(He doesn't know of flaming fury, but he knows how little it takes to pull the trigger.)
To your credit, at least you weren't surprised when it came.
In the slight moment between hope and despair, you had seen it, a ripple of red through the black chest, and when it had spawned you at least had had the decency to think oh fuck and the little sparrow (—your hope) had gone out in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes, we just.. wish things would turn out differently. That we would be wrong about something (or right, depending on what we thought), that we would do something right—but there's always something that has to go wrong.
That's what he (you) is doing. Wishing. (But wishes can't save you now, Mauja.)
He heard it as if it came from very far away—like an echo of a dream, a hand extended to save him, but he had already fallen from where it could reach him. It was wordless, a sound of raw emotion, unaltered, unhindered by meaningless words. It was just a shout, a bellow, a roar, coming from behind the veil of charging darkness; sudden sweat pooled against his dark skin, the low, insidious glow reflecting in his blue eyes.
It was a warning. It was fear. It was everything Mauja needed—a little compassion. To know that he was loved, even in the face of this beast he had, needlessly, unleashed.
Time seemed to slow. The molten beast came closer, a shadow on hooves thundering behind him but hopelessly unable to catch up with the destructive force he had set loose. Tusks and eyes gleamed in the gloomy darkness, and Mauja, oh Mauja...
His heart beat out his panic, his eyes searching, once, above the back of the igneous beast—looking for that again, a little assurance, a little love.. something to hold on to.
And shadow to his pulse were two others, wings locking in agonized glides.
There's so much at stake and you don't know what to do, because there's nowhere you can go.
You're just a horse, just flesh and bones, and this thing coming at you is so much more—so much hotter than your body can handle. You do what you can, you do the only thing you can, even if it seems foolish: like a single rock attempting to hold back a flood.
But there's just no way you can avoid it.
But you're not wired to lay down and give up. You're wired to flee, haunches bunching as you start to spin to the right—but that's as far as you get.
You should've known better, Mauja, you should've known not to bring more fire to a man already burning, and that's why you are where you are—lying on your pristine, snowy side, presenting charred ruin to the tree-covered sky.
Fallen, as you ever were.
(But your hearts have not fallen from the sky.)
[ I did some very brief research. Magma has a temperature of 700-1300 degrees Celsius/1300-2400 degrees Fahrenheit. Ouch. Basically, Mauja is lying on his right side, his entire left side more or less...destroyed by fire. He's alive, just 100% traumatized. Short quote from this thread. ]
There is always a time when something gives way—when bridges go out under heavy burdens, when tethers and chains, bones, break, when logic misfires and control slips, when things go where they should not be—
Red blood spiraled slowly down the sharp edge of an ice spike, the tip hidden in the golden man's chest cavity as it had punched its way in there, through ribs and lungs.
—and it was always so easy to be wise in the aftermath, to trace these rugged, jagged lines to their source, and the nightmares turned to if only's, but nothing ever turned back time, and nothing ever seemed to make you wiser, Mauja.
(I suppose that's why you are where you are now.)
You know how destructive fire is. You know how a single, errant spark can incinerate nations. You know fire, much too intimately, a memory etched permanently in your mind—of how it slips and crawls along your skin, down your throat, how it bites and sears so deeply you nearly breathe it in. Fire doesn't just burn you, it takes you, digs its roots in deep as it makes its home in your flesh. You have felt it more than you've seen it, the black, charred ruin.. the single, brief moment of respite when it just hits, the shock which numbs all nerves to the agony they are about to endure. Being burned is a higher, purer form of pain, white-hot edges delicately pushing you out of your mind and into something glorious as it ravages your body—until you fall back into it. Until you feel it, with every fiber of your being.
And then, it'll haunt you, forever.
While you're the one who has been lost in the fire, Tembovu is the one who has lost to it. You know this, Mauja, you know why Torasin died in this forest, and yet you bring flames to the burned man's hearth.
What did you expect?
Truth is, he had barely thought about—something in the back of his mind had rebelled, whispered do not bring more fire, but he hadn't really heard it. Hadn't really thought about it. To him, it was just—just light. It was just a sparrow. Something to show Tembovu where he was, who he was, to put a face on his pale, nameless body; a selfish little comfort here in the absolute darkness and smothering rage.
Oh, he had seen it, Tembovu's rage. Heard it in the low roar of his breathing, a mirror-image to the flames. Mauja's rage was of a different kind: cold and calculating, sharp edges of ice, precise and clear. When Mauja's ire was roused, things died with lances of ice embedded in their hearts.
(He doesn't know of flaming fury, but he knows how little it takes to pull the trigger.)
To your credit, at least you weren't surprised when it came.
In the slight moment between hope and despair, you had seen it, a ripple of red through the black chest, and when it had spawned you at least had had the decency to think oh fuck and the little sparrow (—your hope) had gone out in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes, we just.. wish things would turn out differently. That we would be wrong about something (or right, depending on what we thought), that we would do something right—but there's always something that has to go wrong.
That's what he (you) is doing. Wishing. (But wishes can't save you now, Mauja.)
He heard it as if it came from very far away—like an echo of a dream, a hand extended to save him, but he had already fallen from where it could reach him. It was wordless, a sound of raw emotion, unaltered, unhindered by meaningless words. It was just a shout, a bellow, a roar, coming from behind the veil of charging darkness; sudden sweat pooled against his dark skin, the low, insidious glow reflecting in his blue eyes.
It was a warning. It was fear. It was everything Mauja needed—a little compassion. To know that he was loved, even in the face of this beast he had, needlessly, unleashed.
Time seemed to slow. The molten beast came closer, a shadow on hooves thundering behind him but hopelessly unable to catch up with the destructive force he had set loose. Tusks and eyes gleamed in the gloomy darkness, and Mauja, oh Mauja...
His heart beat out his panic, his eyes searching, once, above the back of the igneous beast—looking for that again, a little assurance, a little love.. something to hold on to.
And shadow to his pulse were two others, wings locking in agonized glides.
There's so much at stake and you don't know what to do, because there's nowhere you can go.
You're just a horse, just flesh and bones, and this thing coming at you is so much more—so much hotter than your body can handle. You do what you can, you do the only thing you can, even if it seems foolish: like a single rock attempting to hold back a flood.
But there's just no way you can avoid it.
But you're not wired to lay down and give up. You're wired to flee, haunches bunching as you start to spin to the right—but that's as far as you get.
You should've known better, Mauja, you should've known not to bring more fire to a man already burning, and that's why you are where you are—lying on your pristine, snowy side, presenting charred ruin to the tree-covered sky.
Fallen, as you ever were.
(But your hearts have not fallen from the sky.)
[ I did some very brief research. Magma has a temperature of 700-1300 degrees Celsius/1300-2400 degrees Fahrenheit. Ouch. Basically, Mauja is lying on his right side, his entire left side more or less...destroyed by fire. He's alive, just 100% traumatized. Short quote from this thread. ]
Mauja
the white queen
