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06-02-2016, 05:22 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
And it breaks his heart to see her like this—
He was tired, exhausted in a way he had never been before, but it didn't matter any more. The ache in his bones was just another thing he had to cope with, the weight upon his eyelids chased away by the new, different grief opening up inside his chest.
That slow, tired lifting of her head, and the sluggish half-reaction of her ears—it was what sparked it, was solidified his worry into a hot leaden weight in the pit of his gut. No...
When had his daughter become the spitting image of him? Did grief run like a curse in his veins, passed onto his child? When had he let her become this haggard, haunted shadow of herself? She was a mother—she should've been happy, in the way that most of the mothers of his children never had, she should've been with Rhoa and her child and... He swallowed. A small, lifeless body had robbed her of that, and in his own misery, he had failed to be there for her.
His child, a mother.
His child.. broken just as he.
If not for myself, then for her.
If something dark spawned on the ledges with them, he would not have the energy to run. The coils of his muscles were taut and tired, and he shifted his stubborn stance to keep his hocks from quivering. For himself, he would not have moved in this dismal rain—but for her, he had to.
For her, he had to be strong, because she had no strength of her own left.
Running away seemed to be another thing passed down in his genes, as her heart ran out of her eyes and away from him. One black-rimmed ear flicked as sad blue eyes watched her face turn in another direction. Was she ashamed of her grief? Was this what he, and Sialia, had taught their girl? To always be a mountain, a glacier?
But mountains can crumble, and glaciers can melt.
And he was guiltily aware of that only once had he called any of his children more than merely a fond 'son' or 'daughter': only as Snö lay dying in a pool of her own blood on a foreign shore had that kind of words tumbled from his dark mouth. Only as he had already lost her had his heart cracked open and let out a little of what otherwise simply made him feel foolish, for love was an emotion which burned and scorched and he was, after all, made of ice.
"It feels like its killing me." And his eyes, icy as they simply were, softened at that, and he thought of all the long years, all the tears left unshed, all the grief which had stalked him in the shadows .. and he drew a shuddering breath, remembering how it had, at last, come tumbling out of the mess d'Artagnan made of his heart.
They moved at the same time, she to him, and he to her; his thick white neck draping over hers, soft black muzzle rubbing against her soaked withers. (Perhaps, the Gods cry because we have not cried enough—) He wanted nothing but to keep her from the pitfalls which had broken him, and yet, just like Snö, she wandered down the same lonely, desolate road, running from shadows and haunted by loss. They were a brood of ice, knowing nothing but how to lock their hearts into boxes, one after the other, as life kept trying to punch through.
And sometimes, it was the heart trying to get out.
"I know," he whispered back into the folds of her silken, ragged mane. "I know, love, but it won't. You just have to hold on to that in the most desolate of hours."
[ lel you're in good company @Glacia ]
He was tired, exhausted in a way he had never been before, but it didn't matter any more. The ache in his bones was just another thing he had to cope with, the weight upon his eyelids chased away by the new, different grief opening up inside his chest.
That slow, tired lifting of her head, and the sluggish half-reaction of her ears—it was what sparked it, was solidified his worry into a hot leaden weight in the pit of his gut. No...
When had his daughter become the spitting image of him? Did grief run like a curse in his veins, passed onto his child? When had he let her become this haggard, haunted shadow of herself? She was a mother—she should've been happy, in the way that most of the mothers of his children never had, she should've been with Rhoa and her child and... He swallowed. A small, lifeless body had robbed her of that, and in his own misery, he had failed to be there for her.
His child, a mother.
His child.. broken just as he.
If not for myself, then for her.
If something dark spawned on the ledges with them, he would not have the energy to run. The coils of his muscles were taut and tired, and he shifted his stubborn stance to keep his hocks from quivering. For himself, he would not have moved in this dismal rain—but for her, he had to.
For her, he had to be strong, because she had no strength of her own left.
Running away seemed to be another thing passed down in his genes, as her heart ran out of her eyes and away from him. One black-rimmed ear flicked as sad blue eyes watched her face turn in another direction. Was she ashamed of her grief? Was this what he, and Sialia, had taught their girl? To always be a mountain, a glacier?
But mountains can crumble, and glaciers can melt.
And he was guiltily aware of that only once had he called any of his children more than merely a fond 'son' or 'daughter': only as Snö lay dying in a pool of her own blood on a foreign shore had that kind of words tumbled from his dark mouth. Only as he had already lost her had his heart cracked open and let out a little of what otherwise simply made him feel foolish, for love was an emotion which burned and scorched and he was, after all, made of ice.
"It feels like its killing me." And his eyes, icy as they simply were, softened at that, and he thought of all the long years, all the tears left unshed, all the grief which had stalked him in the shadows .. and he drew a shuddering breath, remembering how it had, at last, come tumbling out of the mess d'Artagnan made of his heart.
They moved at the same time, she to him, and he to her; his thick white neck draping over hers, soft black muzzle rubbing against her soaked withers. (Perhaps, the Gods cry because we have not cried enough—) He wanted nothing but to keep her from the pitfalls which had broken him, and yet, just like Snö, she wandered down the same lonely, desolate road, running from shadows and haunted by loss. They were a brood of ice, knowing nothing but how to lock their hearts into boxes, one after the other, as life kept trying to punch through.
And sometimes, it was the heart trying to get out.
"I know," he whispered back into the folds of her silken, ragged mane. "I know, love, but it won't. You just have to hold on to that in the most desolate of hours."
[ lel you're in good company @Glacia ]
Mauja
the white queen
