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07-17-2016, 06:04 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
"I guess I've lived here too long," he replied, crassly, absently in a way as his soul fled out to sea.
She didn't know, did she? And for once, it wasn't his fucking immortality he was thinking about, it was his past—did she know that he had lived here a long, long time ago? Ruled here, before Kahlua had re-instated him? Did she know anything of who he had been, what he had done? And with his thoughtless admission, would it set her thinking? Would she say, oh, but compared to me, you've not been here long at all, have you?
And maybe he hadn't—his tenure had lasted less than a year. How long had he been here, now? How long since Kahlua had brought him home, a shaggy, mangy stray? Two years?
(Two years—)
Psyche had been dead for two years. Hototo had been dead for two years. His eyes stared stubbornly at the flaming horizon, a glassy darkness cradling the fragile depths; two years?
It scared him. It always had. The passage of time, lives and blood slipping between your fingers even as you tried so bad to hold on—but you never could. Things would always change, and there he stood, two years later, frosted hooves digging into the limestone as he was—painfully—reminded of times gone by. Two years.. and what had he done? He had promised vengeance over Psyche's body, had found solace and forgiveness in the presence of Kahlua, had.. had been saddled with a stubborn, recalcitrant, ugly man beside him, had fought foreign gods, and lost his daughter. Given up his crown.
Kahlua had disappeared. He hadn't seen Elding in forever. Tembovu had stabbed him, although he had asked for it. Where was Naerys? How was Glacia doing?
What was he doing? With himself, with his life? Wasting away? His existence felt pointless. Meaningless. He did nothing; he just .. existed, and suddenly, it wasn't enough, and just like the time Erthë had found him at the Edge his weight shifted backwards, hindquarters tensing as they prepared to launch him into oblivion—
(Anything but this.)
If he "died" he couldn't start over, anyway. He was too well-known. So even jumping was pointless.
Soft, black feathers brushed against his shoulder; he jumped, not forward, but sideways, head thrown high and eyes wide. Gods, he had forgotten about her somehow—well, not exactly forgotten, but in the face of all that darkness welling up from the bottom of his soul she had become .. not enough. Insignificant. Unable to stem the flow and pull him back to himself.
And he hated himself for it. Just like he hated himself for never having been that curious about who she was.
(But with all the names already carved into his sternum, and all the lives he already neglected, could he justify adding another?)
"Evidence of my madness is hardly lacking," he said, weakly, but there was no way to save face. He had zoned out, he had spooked, and she had witnessed it all. He forced his eyes shut. There was no hiding anything anymore. Once, he had contained everything within his skin, within his bones, and magic had lain like a shield around his mind—but what was even the point of having a magical barrier around his head, when he couldn't even control his emotions anymore?
And just like that, like a leaf thrown about in a rushing, bubbling brook, he felt the first flickering anger. Anger, at the world. Anger, at himself, and Sarazheha's gentle advice (honesty, brother) became a hard, jagged thing.
"I guess what I wanted to ask was, why the ability to take pain onto yourself? Why not just be able to take pain away? Or outright heal?" And he hated himself for letting it spill out over her, she, who seemed to never want anything but to help him; what had she done to deserve his scrutiny, his digging words? Why couldn't he just shut up and let things be, instead of give voice to well-hidden judgment masked in patient curiosity?
He had never been perfect. He had never been a saint. He had never been an angel.
He had never been anything but a narrow-minded, closed-off, selfish moron.
"What's in it for you?" he ended with, those too-sharp blue eyes sliding onto her as his hindquarters started to bunch again—because it was starting to look like the damned only way to save her from him.
[ @Alysanne - d'aw, you got post #1,300 <3 ]
She didn't know, did she? And for once, it wasn't his fucking immortality he was thinking about, it was his past—did she know that he had lived here a long, long time ago? Ruled here, before Kahlua had re-instated him? Did she know anything of who he had been, what he had done? And with his thoughtless admission, would it set her thinking? Would she say, oh, but compared to me, you've not been here long at all, have you?
And maybe he hadn't—his tenure had lasted less than a year. How long had he been here, now? How long since Kahlua had brought him home, a shaggy, mangy stray? Two years?
(Two years—)
Psyche had been dead for two years. Hototo had been dead for two years. His eyes stared stubbornly at the flaming horizon, a glassy darkness cradling the fragile depths; two years?
It scared him. It always had. The passage of time, lives and blood slipping between your fingers even as you tried so bad to hold on—but you never could. Things would always change, and there he stood, two years later, frosted hooves digging into the limestone as he was—painfully—reminded of times gone by. Two years.. and what had he done? He had promised vengeance over Psyche's body, had found solace and forgiveness in the presence of Kahlua, had.. had been saddled with a stubborn, recalcitrant, ugly man beside him, had fought foreign gods, and lost his daughter. Given up his crown.
Kahlua had disappeared. He hadn't seen Elding in forever. Tembovu had stabbed him, although he had asked for it. Where was Naerys? How was Glacia doing?
What was he doing? With himself, with his life? Wasting away? His existence felt pointless. Meaningless. He did nothing; he just .. existed, and suddenly, it wasn't enough, and just like the time Erthë had found him at the Edge his weight shifted backwards, hindquarters tensing as they prepared to launch him into oblivion—
(Anything but this.)
If he "died" he couldn't start over, anyway. He was too well-known. So even jumping was pointless.
Soft, black feathers brushed against his shoulder; he jumped, not forward, but sideways, head thrown high and eyes wide. Gods, he had forgotten about her somehow—well, not exactly forgotten, but in the face of all that darkness welling up from the bottom of his soul she had become .. not enough. Insignificant. Unable to stem the flow and pull him back to himself.
And he hated himself for it. Just like he hated himself for never having been that curious about who she was.
(But with all the names already carved into his sternum, and all the lives he already neglected, could he justify adding another?)
"Evidence of my madness is hardly lacking," he said, weakly, but there was no way to save face. He had zoned out, he had spooked, and she had witnessed it all. He forced his eyes shut. There was no hiding anything anymore. Once, he had contained everything within his skin, within his bones, and magic had lain like a shield around his mind—but what was even the point of having a magical barrier around his head, when he couldn't even control his emotions anymore?
And just like that, like a leaf thrown about in a rushing, bubbling brook, he felt the first flickering anger. Anger, at the world. Anger, at himself, and Sarazheha's gentle advice (honesty, brother) became a hard, jagged thing.
"I guess what I wanted to ask was, why the ability to take pain onto yourself? Why not just be able to take pain away? Or outright heal?" And he hated himself for letting it spill out over her, she, who seemed to never want anything but to help him; what had she done to deserve his scrutiny, his digging words? Why couldn't he just shut up and let things be, instead of give voice to well-hidden judgment masked in patient curiosity?
He had never been perfect. He had never been a saint. He had never been an angel.
He had never been anything but a narrow-minded, closed-off, selfish moron.
"What's in it for you?" he ended with, those too-sharp blue eyes sliding onto her as his hindquarters started to bunch again—because it was starting to look like the damned only way to save her from him.
[ @Alysanne - d'aw, you got post #1,300 <3 ]
Mauja
the white queen
