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04-07-2016, 05:42 PM
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Rikyn
A short laugh barks from his lips as her hooves whistle through the chilled air just beneath his chin, sending the curled tendrils of his winter beard rippling, continuing outward as she turns around like a sadistic angel to glower at him. He laughs because she was dumb enough to think her squat, broken legs could reach his face. He laughs because he’s managed to make calm, cool Erthë do something more than pretend to be a talking machine, programmed to interrupt, prod at sensitive parts of a person’s being, and walk away, and that the laugh might keep cracks forming in her icy facade. He laughs because he knows that her useless leg probably hurts like hell, and that, while he didn’t directly caused the pain, he’s managing to throw some knives back. Her female indignity only furthers the depth of his delight at having tricked her into playing his hateful game; even when she starts howling that he is an idiot, when the world around her freezes, falls about her in flakes of snow, the stallion relishes the small victory.
It is cool as hell though – the “I’m angry so watch me make the air sparkle” thing - a truth which he will take to his grave, even if he has to eat his own tongue. Something about it makes him wonder if he couldn’t one day have a power to emphasize just how very little room he has in him to deal with shit – right now he’d be radiating avalanches. Maybe then, she’d have minded her damn business and stayed where she was when she saw him below. Instead, she takes another well aimed, metaphorical kick at the basket full of roiling doom. The things within howl as the basket twirls, and she carries on down the beach, smug as a cat having finally pinned the mouse which has taunted them all spring. They always come in, just to walk away. They do it because I’m… me. “Who would want to be friends with someone like you?” No one. But he already knows that, doesn’t he? She wouldn’t be the first one to remind him, and she probably won’t be the last. It doesn’t change that it makes him sink inwardly, no matter how still the barely composed portrait of rage stands on the beach, his smile vanished. It doesn’t change that the rage, hot and molten, cools into impassioned steel, as if the freezing of the air around her freezes, too, his inner struggle against the darkness that threatened to devour him. The escape from emotional hurt that he had chased down the beach… Why did he bother? No matter what he did, where he ran, life would hurt. It was the way it was. He just didn’t understand why others had to constantly remind him all the time, or to taunt him with what he didn’t have, like she had when she’d first arrived, and tried leaving without a word. How callous mortals can be with one another, without a single thought. "Then go," leave me alone again, he manages, the edge of his voice somehow dulled, dizzy from the emotional spiral dragging downward, the battle of the inner voice that sees the truth, the voice that strives to hide it, to twist it to a better purpose, and a third which seeks to protect the heart, "I’ve only had your company this long because I chased you down, anyway." Its his turn to walk away now, no longer wanting to fight her as his mood swings from the slamming brutality of rage to the dark, steady sea of no fucks, the pain of his savaged ankles digging into the sand the only sort of sensation he’d allow himself to feel for the duration of the day – except perhaps the subtle ache in his temples, the residual memory of tears. He does so because it’s the only way to escape looking at the bigger truths, ones that require a lot more thinking and a much bigger headache than this small one, now. Things like his mother’s lack of love for anyone, himself included; the loss of his home to time, the distance between himself and Erebos, the vanishing of Adelric. The truth that Aithniel had not left him, but that he had turned his back on her, again and again, that he had only ever let her down. The wonder, itching, scratching, in the back of his mind, the question as to whether or not it was his fault that those he loved now left him, too, as some recompense from the Gods, First or otherwise – and the deeper curiosity as to whether or not his heart had been deceived by lies, if his path was one which would bring him peace, and redemption, or leave him forever dwelling in the impotent outrage that had filled him as he’d towered over Erthë. He was tired of them all. Tired of others parading around, pretending like they cared, when all they cared about was what they wanted. She had come down here for some purpose that had suited her, and when it didn’t any longer, she left. He may be a “prat” unworthy of friendship, but at least he didn’t pretend to be anything more than he was, like everyone else he met, hiding behind smiles to avoid confrontation. He was tired of always finding that others had no answers, and that they were as lost as to the truth of everything as he was – that, maybe, no one knew. And that… well, that scared him more than anything else.  |
