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08-31-2016, 01:46 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Anger is a slippery, exhausting beast; it's a fire burning you up, devouring everything. It licks the inside of your skin until you're raw and bleeding and broken but no one can see it—
He doesn't know who he hates the more in that moment; her, or himself?
She's caught in the crossfire, caught in the crosshairs of the unholy spawn of grief and fury and fear, but the question which begins to echo in the void is whether or not she deserves his wrath.
It's too late for that, though. It's too late for everything. (Most things, but it doesn't quite make it up to the surface; it drowns slowly in the black waters of his soul.) It's too late to take back the ice littering the ground, too late to call the blood back into split veins and rub pale skin clean of the red stains.
It's too late to say sorry. It's too late to—
Wide, black nostrils shudder with air. Blue eyes burn with the last vestiges of anger. She's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead.
(You can always say sorry to those who are still alive.)
You can apologize to corpses frozen stiff in a blood-churned battlefield, but they won't hear you, and it will not do anything to ease your guilt.
They're past the point of forgiving you.
And if the frigidity of his soul isn't enough to freeze the tears upon his cheek, I don't know what is.
Undying he is, but still warm, so the tears do not freeze. They linger like sinful stains on his flat cheeks, and briefly, he wonders if they will ever dry; it only seems fitting they'll remain there forever, proof of all his folly, all his shame, and all the things he has ever caused, done wrong. Nothing he can achieve in this unnatural lifespan can ever make up for all he has already done, and he listens in haughty silence, quivering behind the shield of his frozen fury. He is a lost, broken thing, and that is why he lashes out—he's as much afraid of what's unfurling within him as he is angry with her for having intruded upon his grief.
He wants to be smoke. He wants to be intangible, to drift upon the breeze, to escape these mortal coils and foibles, to be beneath the notice of others. (He wonders why he will live forever, when he does not enjoy living.) He doesn't want to be here, the muscles around his eyes straining to keep him from crying again, a dry ache burning his corneas. He doesn't want to stand here, listening to what he knows is truth, allowing her words to be the salty, stinging whiplash herding his errant emotions back into their pen where he lets them starve until, he hopes, they die.
It's been twelve years, and they're still not dead.
It's been nine years since he should've died. And he still hasn't moved on, because no one ever taught him how.
(But the truth is this: he never allowed anyone to teach him how.)
The more time which passed, the more he thinks about it, until it is a dead weight attached to his soul and he's sinking, always sinking, struggling against it but never managing to shake it off.
"I know," he spits at her back, the voice, the words, somehow the embodiment of defeat; dispirited, he concedes, breaks, folds in upon himself and stands just as what he is: a heathen in an empty shell.
She could say more. He could say more. But neither of them do; she knows and he knows that she knows, because he just admitted it to her, and it doesn't matter that Sacre is next to him, trying to comfort him, or that his foxes are licking the blood from his pastern, or that the ground is stained with her blood or that Alysanne took his side (—you shouldn't have, you shouldn't have, I'm the monster here), or anything. He's as lost as he's ever been as the conversations swells and ebbs around him.
Is that the sound of peace being made? Is it the faint nuances of forgiveness, between the piebald, the black, and the silvered gold? Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not, but what he knows is that he is not a part of that. He is in the blizzard, the storm howling around hallowed tombs, left out alone in the cold he had brought with him.
Defeated, Mauja's head droops, and amidst the rubble of ice his left hind hoof rests upon its frosted tip.
He has known this truth for years and years and years, and yet he is just the same as he was when he first realized it.
It would've been a blessing to die that night nine years ago.
[ @Alysanne @Sacre @Raeden I'm sorry for taking forever. I feel very bad for Raeden. :/ Poor thing. ]
He doesn't know who he hates the more in that moment; her, or himself?
She's caught in the crossfire, caught in the crosshairs of the unholy spawn of grief and fury and fear, but the question which begins to echo in the void is whether or not she deserves his wrath.
It's too late for that, though. It's too late for everything. (Most things, but it doesn't quite make it up to the surface; it drowns slowly in the black waters of his soul.) It's too late to take back the ice littering the ground, too late to call the blood back into split veins and rub pale skin clean of the red stains.
It's too late to say sorry. It's too late to—
Wide, black nostrils shudder with air. Blue eyes burn with the last vestiges of anger. She's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead.
(You can always say sorry to those who are still alive.)
You can apologize to corpses frozen stiff in a blood-churned battlefield, but they won't hear you, and it will not do anything to ease your guilt.
They're past the point of forgiving you.
And if the frigidity of his soul isn't enough to freeze the tears upon his cheek, I don't know what is.
Undying he is, but still warm, so the tears do not freeze. They linger like sinful stains on his flat cheeks, and briefly, he wonders if they will ever dry; it only seems fitting they'll remain there forever, proof of all his folly, all his shame, and all the things he has ever caused, done wrong. Nothing he can achieve in this unnatural lifespan can ever make up for all he has already done, and he listens in haughty silence, quivering behind the shield of his frozen fury. He is a lost, broken thing, and that is why he lashes out—he's as much afraid of what's unfurling within him as he is angry with her for having intruded upon his grief.
He wants to be smoke. He wants to be intangible, to drift upon the breeze, to escape these mortal coils and foibles, to be beneath the notice of others. (He wonders why he will live forever, when he does not enjoy living.) He doesn't want to be here, the muscles around his eyes straining to keep him from crying again, a dry ache burning his corneas. He doesn't want to stand here, listening to what he knows is truth, allowing her words to be the salty, stinging whiplash herding his errant emotions back into their pen where he lets them starve until, he hopes, they die.
It's been twelve years, and they're still not dead.
It's been nine years since he should've died. And he still hasn't moved on, because no one ever taught him how.
(But the truth is this: he never allowed anyone to teach him how.)
The more time which passed, the more he thinks about it, until it is a dead weight attached to his soul and he's sinking, always sinking, struggling against it but never managing to shake it off.
"I know," he spits at her back, the voice, the words, somehow the embodiment of defeat; dispirited, he concedes, breaks, folds in upon himself and stands just as what he is: a heathen in an empty shell.
She could say more. He could say more. But neither of them do; she knows and he knows that she knows, because he just admitted it to her, and it doesn't matter that Sacre is next to him, trying to comfort him, or that his foxes are licking the blood from his pastern, or that the ground is stained with her blood or that Alysanne took his side (—you shouldn't have, you shouldn't have, I'm the monster here), or anything. He's as lost as he's ever been as the conversations swells and ebbs around him.
Is that the sound of peace being made? Is it the faint nuances of forgiveness, between the piebald, the black, and the silvered gold? Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not, but what he knows is that he is not a part of that. He is in the blizzard, the storm howling around hallowed tombs, left out alone in the cold he had brought with him.
Defeated, Mauja's head droops, and amidst the rubble of ice his left hind hoof rests upon its frosted tip.
He has known this truth for years and years and years, and yet he is just the same as he was when he first realized it.
It would've been a blessing to die that night nine years ago.
[ @Alysanne @Sacre @Raeden I'm sorry for taking forever. I feel very bad for Raeden. :/ Poor thing. ]
