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07-06-2016, 08:08 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
He hadn't expected to be dragged into the conversation—not in such a concrete, tangible way, at least. Her explanation seemed—
—flimsy.
It was the only way he could describe it. Why take the pain away, and rely on someone else to heal them, when she could simply heal them instead? Pain was an uncomfortable truth of life, pain was a part of life, just as important as happiness, contentment, sorrow—he had had more than his fair share of pain and sorrow, and the scars to show for it. Twice he had been on the brink of death, and twice he had pulled through. And, wasn't the removal of pain as backwards as his immortality? He no longer had cause to fear death—he could throw himself into silly fights because, as far as he knew, even if they chopped him up to pieces and burned them, he'd still bloody exist in some backwards manner. It had stolen half of his need for caution, for care, removed any and all reasons to take care of himself—and without pain, what was left? If they could charge into battle, if they could stumble and get bruised, and just—be numbed?
He opened his mouth, prepared to—argue? Was that rude of him, to suggest she put her soul to better uses?
But he didn't get very far, not a single word passing his lips as she spoke again, green eyes solemn, on him. “I could have used it that day in the Deep Forest. Taken some of your pain onto myself to calm you, to make it easier while we were healing...”
That Day.
That second time he had almost died, that day when fire and shadow had merged into a single, destructive beast—a charred, molten creature, magma shining through tar-dark cracks as it charged at him. All of Tembovu's rage, all of Tembovu's sorrow, bundled up in a searing, hot body wreaking havoc on mortal flesh.
His mouth closed, blue eyes troubled, as he stared out at sea again. He didn't remember much after the beast had hit him—just darkness, and silence, a paralyzing agony in which every trembling heartbeat had throbbed through his entire body. His owls remembered more, though. They remembered the silence he had been shocked into, before his lungs had started moving again. They remembered how Diego had given up and fallen onto Tembovu; how Irma had screamed with a pain not her own—and how, finally, Mauja had screamed, too.
“But you seem to have healed just fine.”
He felt weak. Sick. As if his knees would buckle any moment and send him pitching over the edge, falling, at last, into the embrace of the sea—
"My rugged appearance was an affront to the Lady Moon," he replied, lightly, too lightly, eyes racing from one end of the horizon to the other, and back again, unseeing.
How do you say to someone, that you would rather have kept your pain? How do you say to someone, that pain is as much a part of you as your legs are? How do you say to someone, that taking the pain away, takes the sincerity out of the action?
Or was that just him being strange?
"Pain..." he rumbled after a moment, before falling into thoughtful silence for a second or so. His gaze had stilled, fallen to the foaming waves and the drifting sheets of mist curling in the air. "We should not be afraid of pain. It teaches us things, things that can't be taught softly, gently, in ways only a sharp pebble or a bruise can—I am..." He hesitated, as the sadness in his pale eyes crystallized into the icy shield which hid his heart. "I am not sure I would have wanted you to take my pain that day," he finally said, quietly. "It became a part of me, part of my life, and—to have taken it, even just some of it, would have been a very private kind of theft. It hurt more than I have words for, but it was still my pain." The words I'm sorry danced temptingly upon his tongue.
After a moment, he snorted. "But I guess not everyone is as mad as I am."
[ @Alysanne ]
—flimsy.
It was the only way he could describe it. Why take the pain away, and rely on someone else to heal them, when she could simply heal them instead? Pain was an uncomfortable truth of life, pain was a part of life, just as important as happiness, contentment, sorrow—he had had more than his fair share of pain and sorrow, and the scars to show for it. Twice he had been on the brink of death, and twice he had pulled through. And, wasn't the removal of pain as backwards as his immortality? He no longer had cause to fear death—he could throw himself into silly fights because, as far as he knew, even if they chopped him up to pieces and burned them, he'd still bloody exist in some backwards manner. It had stolen half of his need for caution, for care, removed any and all reasons to take care of himself—and without pain, what was left? If they could charge into battle, if they could stumble and get bruised, and just—be numbed?
He opened his mouth, prepared to—argue? Was that rude of him, to suggest she put her soul to better uses?
But he didn't get very far, not a single word passing his lips as she spoke again, green eyes solemn, on him. “I could have used it that day in the Deep Forest. Taken some of your pain onto myself to calm you, to make it easier while we were healing...”
That Day.
That second time he had almost died, that day when fire and shadow had merged into a single, destructive beast—a charred, molten creature, magma shining through tar-dark cracks as it charged at him. All of Tembovu's rage, all of Tembovu's sorrow, bundled up in a searing, hot body wreaking havoc on mortal flesh.
His mouth closed, blue eyes troubled, as he stared out at sea again. He didn't remember much after the beast had hit him—just darkness, and silence, a paralyzing agony in which every trembling heartbeat had throbbed through his entire body. His owls remembered more, though. They remembered the silence he had been shocked into, before his lungs had started moving again. They remembered how Diego had given up and fallen onto Tembovu; how Irma had screamed with a pain not her own—and how, finally, Mauja had screamed, too.
“But you seem to have healed just fine.”
He felt weak. Sick. As if his knees would buckle any moment and send him pitching over the edge, falling, at last, into the embrace of the sea—
"My rugged appearance was an affront to the Lady Moon," he replied, lightly, too lightly, eyes racing from one end of the horizon to the other, and back again, unseeing.
How do you say to someone, that you would rather have kept your pain? How do you say to someone, that pain is as much a part of you as your legs are? How do you say to someone, that taking the pain away, takes the sincerity out of the action?
Or was that just him being strange?
"Pain..." he rumbled after a moment, before falling into thoughtful silence for a second or so. His gaze had stilled, fallen to the foaming waves and the drifting sheets of mist curling in the air. "We should not be afraid of pain. It teaches us things, things that can't be taught softly, gently, in ways only a sharp pebble or a bruise can—I am..." He hesitated, as the sadness in his pale eyes crystallized into the icy shield which hid his heart. "I am not sure I would have wanted you to take my pain that day," he finally said, quietly. "It became a part of me, part of my life, and—to have taken it, even just some of it, would have been a very private kind of theft. It hurt more than I have words for, but it was still my pain." The words I'm sorry danced temptingly upon his tongue.
After a moment, he snorted. "But I guess not everyone is as mad as I am."
[ @Alysanne ]
Mauja
the white queen
