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12-04-2016, 07:14 AM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Who was he to ask for her secrets?
Mauja was a dragon in his own right, hoarding secrets like gold, hiding every facet of his soul deep within—and it wasn't so much physical secrets like little tidbits about himself, his heart, his mind. Somehow, it was less daunting to tell someone he had killed countless of others, helpless victims sentenced to death for nothing, than it was to think of telling someone that he really, really, really liked yellow.
—one was a fact, a piece of a bloodbath past, the other was personal. And Mauja, well, I think we all know by now, that Mauja doesn't exist. Mauja doesn't consider himself to exist, beyond the need of the moment and the all-too-real flesh of his body. To share the little things, what he likes, what brightens his days when he lets them, to speak of it is unthinkable—
So, really, who was he to turn her question back upon her, ask to do that which was so unthinkable to him? He should be perfect—emotionless, always able, capable, no fuss. Quick and clean and sterile.
“I… I don’t even know if it makes any sense.” It was a feeble defense, but Mauja said nothing. Trust me, it does, he wanted to say—because, after she admitted to her own less-than-perfect state of mind, she hadn't said anything but that offer, so, he had simply decided it had pertained to what she had said. But still, he didn't want to argue about it, mainly because he felt like it was too juicy a distraction for her to ignore. If they could argue grammar and meaning and semantics, she could turn away from the question he had asked.
And thus, he was silent, watching her wage a war in silence, and wondering what the fuck he was doing.
But when she spoke, it hit far too close to home, and turned his head away. (He doesn't want her to see, that look in his eyes—)
Mesec's voice echoed in his head, the answer he wished to, bitterly, speak to her rhetorical question, as Mesec had Mauja's; every day. Every. Fucking. Day.
The Frostheart had been all those things Mauja had wanted to be: cunning, intimidating, uncomplicated. Merciless and calculating. Cold, cold, cold like his name, an organ frostbitten and dead, a soul steeped in blood and fine with it. But then.. but then Sparkplug had thrown him in a delta of time streams, he had realized he was in love with a hybrid mare, and he had come back a broken, depressed creature who had never really snapped out of it.
Then everything else had happened. And now he stood next to a Pegasus, genuinely concerned about her, completely fine with helping to (when he wasn't busy falling into glaciers) run a mixed species herd with a striking lack of plans for world domination.
Like, what the actual fuck. How had that happened?
And where was that glacial, pristine warrior, the disciplined soldier who could make his way through a spar without either trying to kill his opponent, or chanting I'm sorry over and over in his head while he took a beating?
His blue eyes remained on the forest, her words washing over him like salt on a whipped skin; snow fell in apologetic silence, blanketing trees and bushes and horses alike, and Mauja the Dragon wanted to just wander off into the trees and forget all about this morning. For what could he say, without drawing a parallel to himself? “That probably doesn’t even sound like much it’s just… I don’t know. I miss what I used to be and have been wondering if there's anyway to go back, or if she's lost.”
If it's not much, then I'm not much, either, he thought, dully, into the silence. His past five years had seemed to revolve around the same dilemma—who have I become, and how do I go back to being who I was?
".. if you find her," he finally said, talking to the trees, his voice a quiet hush in a cloud of white, "tell her to send the Frostheart my way."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure if he meant it—could he go back to being what he had been? He craved the structure he had once lived by, needed the slow, insidious scheming to feel alive, but could he do it? Could he take all of it back, return to being racist, narrow-minded, and selfish? To not take heed of anyone but his own brethren? And even that had only worked for so long, before Ophelia had come along, dredging long lost parts of him up to the surface.
He sighed, and closed his eyes. Pressed them together, a frown growing on his face. The cold seeping through his skin was nothing compared to the chill spreading within.
"Alysanne," he said after a moment, still staring at the backside of his eyelids, seizing onto the only solid thing. Her name was an anchor to his drifting mind. "What happened? A challenge between two herds..?"
Mauja was a dragon in his own right, hoarding secrets like gold, hiding every facet of his soul deep within—and it wasn't so much physical secrets like little tidbits about himself, his heart, his mind. Somehow, it was less daunting to tell someone he had killed countless of others, helpless victims sentenced to death for nothing, than it was to think of telling someone that he really, really, really liked yellow.
—one was a fact, a piece of a bloodbath past, the other was personal. And Mauja, well, I think we all know by now, that Mauja doesn't exist. Mauja doesn't consider himself to exist, beyond the need of the moment and the all-too-real flesh of his body. To share the little things, what he likes, what brightens his days when he lets them, to speak of it is unthinkable—
So, really, who was he to turn her question back upon her, ask to do that which was so unthinkable to him? He should be perfect—emotionless, always able, capable, no fuss. Quick and clean and sterile.
“I… I don’t even know if it makes any sense.” It was a feeble defense, but Mauja said nothing. Trust me, it does, he wanted to say—because, after she admitted to her own less-than-perfect state of mind, she hadn't said anything but that offer, so, he had simply decided it had pertained to what she had said. But still, he didn't want to argue about it, mainly because he felt like it was too juicy a distraction for her to ignore. If they could argue grammar and meaning and semantics, she could turn away from the question he had asked.
And thus, he was silent, watching her wage a war in silence, and wondering what the fuck he was doing.
But when she spoke, it hit far too close to home, and turned his head away. (He doesn't want her to see, that look in his eyes—)
Mesec's voice echoed in his head, the answer he wished to, bitterly, speak to her rhetorical question, as Mesec had Mauja's; every day. Every. Fucking. Day.
The Frostheart had been all those things Mauja had wanted to be: cunning, intimidating, uncomplicated. Merciless and calculating. Cold, cold, cold like his name, an organ frostbitten and dead, a soul steeped in blood and fine with it. But then.. but then Sparkplug had thrown him in a delta of time streams, he had realized he was in love with a hybrid mare, and he had come back a broken, depressed creature who had never really snapped out of it.
Then everything else had happened. And now he stood next to a Pegasus, genuinely concerned about her, completely fine with helping to (when he wasn't busy falling into glaciers) run a mixed species herd with a striking lack of plans for world domination.
Like, what the actual fuck. How had that happened?
And where was that glacial, pristine warrior, the disciplined soldier who could make his way through a spar without either trying to kill his opponent, or chanting I'm sorry over and over in his head while he took a beating?
His blue eyes remained on the forest, her words washing over him like salt on a whipped skin; snow fell in apologetic silence, blanketing trees and bushes and horses alike, and Mauja the Dragon wanted to just wander off into the trees and forget all about this morning. For what could he say, without drawing a parallel to himself? “That probably doesn’t even sound like much it’s just… I don’t know. I miss what I used to be and have been wondering if there's anyway to go back, or if she's lost.”
If it's not much, then I'm not much, either, he thought, dully, into the silence. His past five years had seemed to revolve around the same dilemma—who have I become, and how do I go back to being who I was?
".. if you find her," he finally said, talking to the trees, his voice a quiet hush in a cloud of white, "tell her to send the Frostheart my way."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure if he meant it—could he go back to being what he had been? He craved the structure he had once lived by, needed the slow, insidious scheming to feel alive, but could he do it? Could he take all of it back, return to being racist, narrow-minded, and selfish? To not take heed of anyone but his own brethren? And even that had only worked for so long, before Ophelia had come along, dredging long lost parts of him up to the surface.
He sighed, and closed his eyes. Pressed them together, a frown growing on his face. The cold seeping through his skin was nothing compared to the chill spreading within.
"Alysanne," he said after a moment, still staring at the backside of his eyelids, seizing onto the only solid thing. Her name was an anchor to his drifting mind. "What happened? A challenge between two herds..?"
