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It was easier this way—easier to hide, to sink into the depths of his past but with a thin film of ice between him and the emotions. (Wasn't that how it had always been? He'd been detached. He had always been detached.)
Breath continued to smoke from immortal lungs, making it so easy to lie, as plain a truth as the blood still coursing red through his aching veins. He was curious—tempted—to what would happen if his body was bled dry, or hacked to pieces. Would his presence linger like a spirit? Would he, finally, become the ghost he had been his entire life?
Memories flickered at the forefront of his mind. The Basin on a cold, dark night, full of shadows which had nothing to do with blocked light. And.. dead things walking. Rotting flesh, rotting lips, dry voices creaking up from open throats and punctured lungs; was that what the future had in store for him?
It would certainly let the Moon have a good laugh at him thirty years down the line.
Kahlua. (Ouch.) Kaj. (Hate.) Archibald. (Hate.) Midas. (Irritation.) Thranduil. (A stranger.) Helovia made for good stories. And how sweet wouldn't it be, for it to just be stories to him, as well? Names and faces unknown, snippets of deeds pulled from the mists of time and not carved into his bones like a painful reminder of age. He himself probably didn't feature in any stories but perhaps the earliest (and who was around to tell them, anyway?), but he had been a grayed-out shadow in them all: watching, waiting, living. Where another could speak of an age of darkness, he could still recall the storm sweeping the Gods from their land and the profound, silent blackness superseding it.
"It's as good a place as any to start," he mused after she voiced her frustration, watching the subtle, slow shift of the fog. "It's about, mh, three years ago now?" Long before she was born. He still remembered her little form, asking her mother to wake up from the puddle of blood she slept in; she was still a child, still spindly and thin and awkward in the way of youth. She had seen much already. She had witnessed the cruelty and haphazard, violent chaos of the world. She did not want stories padded with lies and fluff when the truth was dark and gritty.
She wanted that dark, gritty truth, and as she flung her next question at Mauja he realized that she deserved the truth—anyone did, honestly, and whatever child-like innocence Erthë had once possessed had been taken from her. There was nothing left to shield.
Slowly, he let his gaze return to the sea he couldn't see. "I came here a little over six years ago," he said, quietly. He had been six years old, three years a soldier, three years an arrogant, albeit powerful, idiot. That made for more than half his life spent in Helovia, though not all of it in the Edge—and not all of it in Helovia, either. He had come and gone a few times, but he supposed with his acceptance of the Moon's gift his wandering days were over. Who knew, perhaps he would drop dead the moment he set his hoof outside of the borders?
".. and six years ago, was when Helovia as we know it today began to take form. It was a land rebuilding, ravaged by a war spurred by two gods—Sun and Earth. The unicorns of the Edge had long since fled into the sea, and those who stayed were slaughtered in the crossfire. It only ended when mostly everyone was dead, and marked the start of a new era. Those, like me, who came as strangers to this land mingled with those who had survived, and forged the future." His snowy shoulders heaved in a small shrug. It felt like an eternity ago—a lifetime ago, a thousand different futures laid out before him, and none of them had come to pass. Made out of ice, shadow, and memory, he turned his head back to fix his gaze upon her. "There are many points in time where I could start the story of the Edge. I leave it up to you to decide."
[ LOOK CHAN I'M BEING GOOD AND NOT TAGGING YOU THIS TIME XD ]
Breath continued to smoke from immortal lungs, making it so easy to lie, as plain a truth as the blood still coursing red through his aching veins. He was curious—tempted—to what would happen if his body was bled dry, or hacked to pieces. Would his presence linger like a spirit? Would he, finally, become the ghost he had been his entire life?
Memories flickered at the forefront of his mind. The Basin on a cold, dark night, full of shadows which had nothing to do with blocked light. And.. dead things walking. Rotting flesh, rotting lips, dry voices creaking up from open throats and punctured lungs; was that what the future had in store for him?
It would certainly let the Moon have a good laugh at him thirty years down the line.
Kahlua. (Ouch.) Kaj. (Hate.) Archibald. (Hate.) Midas. (Irritation.) Thranduil. (A stranger.) Helovia made for good stories. And how sweet wouldn't it be, for it to just be stories to him, as well? Names and faces unknown, snippets of deeds pulled from the mists of time and not carved into his bones like a painful reminder of age. He himself probably didn't feature in any stories but perhaps the earliest (and who was around to tell them, anyway?), but he had been a grayed-out shadow in them all: watching, waiting, living. Where another could speak of an age of darkness, he could still recall the storm sweeping the Gods from their land and the profound, silent blackness superseding it.
"It's as good a place as any to start," he mused after she voiced her frustration, watching the subtle, slow shift of the fog. "It's about, mh, three years ago now?" Long before she was born. He still remembered her little form, asking her mother to wake up from the puddle of blood she slept in; she was still a child, still spindly and thin and awkward in the way of youth. She had seen much already. She had witnessed the cruelty and haphazard, violent chaos of the world. She did not want stories padded with lies and fluff when the truth was dark and gritty.
She wanted that dark, gritty truth, and as she flung her next question at Mauja he realized that she deserved the truth—anyone did, honestly, and whatever child-like innocence Erthë had once possessed had been taken from her. There was nothing left to shield.
Slowly, he let his gaze return to the sea he couldn't see. "I came here a little over six years ago," he said, quietly. He had been six years old, three years a soldier, three years an arrogant, albeit powerful, idiot. That made for more than half his life spent in Helovia, though not all of it in the Edge—and not all of it in Helovia, either. He had come and gone a few times, but he supposed with his acceptance of the Moon's gift his wandering days were over. Who knew, perhaps he would drop dead the moment he set his hoof outside of the borders?
".. and six years ago, was when Helovia as we know it today began to take form. It was a land rebuilding, ravaged by a war spurred by two gods—Sun and Earth. The unicorns of the Edge had long since fled into the sea, and those who stayed were slaughtered in the crossfire. It only ended when mostly everyone was dead, and marked the start of a new era. Those, like me, who came as strangers to this land mingled with those who had survived, and forged the future." His snowy shoulders heaved in a small shrug. It felt like an eternity ago—a lifetime ago, a thousand different futures laid out before him, and none of them had come to pass. Made out of ice, shadow, and memory, he turned his head back to fix his gaze upon her. "There are many points in time where I could start the story of the Edge. I leave it up to you to decide."
[ LOOK CHAN I'M BEING GOOD AND NOT TAGGING YOU THIS TIME XD ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
