.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
06-14-2016, 08:25 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
He was by the Edge.
The sun was setting, a fiery wash of red and orange streaking across the foaming backs of waves, and rushing in towards the limestone cliffs. It glinted off of the back of some marine creature arcing up to the surface, glittered in a spray of water as the animal fell back down into the sea, and cast long shadows behind the ethereal stallion. The dying light painted his face with warm, soft tones of peach, and hung like a halo around his long hair.
But his eyes were as blue as they ever were, cast into darkness by his forelock, and in the shadow of himself the contrast gave his skin an icy tint. A few lonely gulls wheeled out over the water, their thin wings weaving slightly to keep them afloat in the air. Mauja watched them with a thoughtful expression.
Not much moved. His sides rose and fell to the slow rhythm of his breathing. The breeze toyed with his silken mane and tail. And his eyes followed the gulls in their slow, purposeful hunt.
Just ahead of him was a drop into oblivion. The tips of his front hooves nearly touched the air.
A long, long time ago, a single, lonely gull had done something to his heart. It had cried in the darkness of the night, ghosted upon its thin, slender wings above the muted waves, and hunted beneath the starlight—and onto that gull he had poured his pain, his love, his care.
It had been easier to pour it on a gull, than pour it on his daughter standing in the shallows. And after all these years, he could still see them both, perfect in his mind's eye, the sharp wash of moonlight glittering like halos around them. What had become of the gull he didn't know.
But his daughter had met her fate on a foreign shore. Mauja closed his eyes. He had neglected her. All her life, he had neglected her, and his attempts of making up for it had always come up short. When he thought he did the right thing, it was wrong. When he thought things were fine, they weren't.
The finality of the fact that he had run out of chances was a slow poison in his veins, and a weight in his heart. "Mér þykir leitt," he whispered to the the wind—the sunset—the world—to her.
And a gull of fire burst from his chest and soared out far over the waves.
[ I'm just sad I took forever in replying. D; @Alysanne ]
The sun was setting, a fiery wash of red and orange streaking across the foaming backs of waves, and rushing in towards the limestone cliffs. It glinted off of the back of some marine creature arcing up to the surface, glittered in a spray of water as the animal fell back down into the sea, and cast long shadows behind the ethereal stallion. The dying light painted his face with warm, soft tones of peach, and hung like a halo around his long hair.
But his eyes were as blue as they ever were, cast into darkness by his forelock, and in the shadow of himself the contrast gave his skin an icy tint. A few lonely gulls wheeled out over the water, their thin wings weaving slightly to keep them afloat in the air. Mauja watched them with a thoughtful expression.
Not much moved. His sides rose and fell to the slow rhythm of his breathing. The breeze toyed with his silken mane and tail. And his eyes followed the gulls in their slow, purposeful hunt.
Just ahead of him was a drop into oblivion. The tips of his front hooves nearly touched the air.
A long, long time ago, a single, lonely gull had done something to his heart. It had cried in the darkness of the night, ghosted upon its thin, slender wings above the muted waves, and hunted beneath the starlight—and onto that gull he had poured his pain, his love, his care.
It had been easier to pour it on a gull, than pour it on his daughter standing in the shallows. And after all these years, he could still see them both, perfect in his mind's eye, the sharp wash of moonlight glittering like halos around them. What had become of the gull he didn't know.
But his daughter had met her fate on a foreign shore. Mauja closed his eyes. He had neglected her. All her life, he had neglected her, and his attempts of making up for it had always come up short. When he thought he did the right thing, it was wrong. When he thought things were fine, they weren't.
The finality of the fact that he had run out of chances was a slow poison in his veins, and a weight in his heart. "Mér þykir leitt," he whispered to the the wind—the sunset—the world—to her.
And a gull of fire burst from his chest and soared out far over the waves.
[ I'm just sad I took forever in replying. D; @Alysanne ]
Mauja
the white queen
