but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Truth: sledgehammer, or stiletto?

He couldn't help but feel like a small, fine knife, sliding in between ribs and going, mercilessly, straight for the heart—cold, surgical precision. If he erred on his way, it was because her heart beat, and her body shuddered with it, that foolish, mortal life.

That precious, sacred thing; Mauja's pale eyes blinked, slowly. At some point, truth had become everything to him. Truth, and clarity; honesty. To dispel every smoke curtain in the world, to tear every blindfold from the heads of others, and of himself. To open eyes, and keep them open. To batter himself against the established order until hypocrisy, corruption, and evil had been vanquished.

And in that, there was bitterness—when you took everything else away, life itself became meaningless, barren, so tightly controlled by a prohibition to do others harm that nothing could be done because the ripples always spread so far and something would get rocked by it.

It was a worthless, sterile existence, and yet it was the path his bloodied hooves stood upon as he failed himself and her and kept poking, pressing, prodding, arrogant and self-righteous in his perception that he was right.

That he knew the truth. That he saw to the core of someone he didn't know. That he heard all the flaws of her logic as she shied from the obvious, painful truth: that we aren't as great as we think. And that included him, too, perched on the white-bleeding limestone cliff and knowing that truth only existed because we believed in it.

(And, that he had no right to be doing this to her.)

And still, the hesitant confession spilling from dark lips was a touch away from the whole of it, falling just shy of the heart of the matter; eyes half-open, but going the right away, and as he held up his warped mirror for her to see herself his heart broke. For her. Because she had to endure this—endure him, and the poison-coated stiletto he was sinking into her flesh.

“I just want to help.”

Why had she even come tonight? She had been looking for him—

And look at them now, listen to her now, and his eyes closed, heart stuttering out the truth but it didn't make it past his lips. Alysanne, always so bright, so exuberant, broken; he wanted to blame himself. For surely, this was his fault? There had been no need to call this to her attention.. unless she, like he, wanted to live an honest life with her eyes truly open.

He didn't know. Couldn't know. “I’m sorry, I just…” I'm the one who should be saying sorry, he thought, opening his eyes to look at her again. She took a step back. She looked like she wanted to run.

From him? From herself? From what he was forcing her to listen to, to think about? "Alysanne..." He said her name, gently, a mere breath; a plea, asking her to stay, if but for a moment longer. His pulse had gone up again, but this time, there was no anger in it. "You want to be loved." And his sad, blue eyes focused upon her, shimmering with soft, soft light. "Needed," he added after a breath's pause, still feeling sad—for her, for having to endure this, for thinking that he didn't want her around, for.. for.. well, it wasn't like he had done a good job of convincing her otherwise..?

"And there is nothing wrong with that," he concluded, wondering if he wasn't quite done tormenting her yet; if she ran...

He would not give chase. Not now.

[ @Alysanne ]

Mauja

the white queen