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06-11-2017, 11:38 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
His pulse was the slow and steady roll of the waves.
His breathing, the sea sighing against shore.
He wasn't much more than driftwood—discarded, salt-stained, waterlogged. Pale. Not quite recognizable as what they once had been. Flotsam and jetsam; little clues and pieces of a whole. Nothing fancy, just something that ought to be dead but didn't have enough decency to actually be.
He'd made a choice, on that foggy, moonlit night. It had been a vain thing, driven by fear and pride and a dream of glory, but little more than vanity parading as altruism. Had Tembovu seen how hollow his soul had been? Was that why there had been mourning in his voice? Because Mauja, fool and dreamer, had chosen to have no distant horizon, to have his life span from now until forever, with no real end in sight.
He had wanted to make a change. To be some kind of timeless sentinel, a guardian pacing the world and doing good—keeping peace and time. Being more than the sad, bitter residue of a brief and bright fire.
Being more than the sum of himself.
Pathetic.
He had chosen isolation. He had chosen loneliness. He had chosen agony.
A long, long road unwalked, unaccompanied. A journey with no end. Surely, nothing better than what he had already been through; so why had he taken it? And what had he done with it, his curse masquerading as a blessing? And what had he done with himself?
If his mind hadn't been soaked in darkness, he might've had some answer. Some theory. Something more than the shame and the anger and the guilt gnawing him raw from within as black waves closed over his head, and poured into his lungs.
Something more than failure.
What had he accomplished, honestly? (This is what got you here in the first place.) He was a fallen star; nothing but ashes, from which nothing, nothing, could rise.
Three times he had died now. Twice he had risen.
The morning sun burned golden on the mist rising from the fetid pools; roots clung to silt, trying to hold it together, to keep the wide expanse of the ocean at bay. It was early still, the cold clinging to the crisp air further inland. A few hesitant birds trilled.
He was just another body lain to rest in arms of the Marsh, stuck in the debris (driftwood, it's all driftwood, even that pale thing pretending to once have been a horse—) shored up among the grounding roots.
Just another dead.
The minutes ticked by.
Then the wet sound of his breathing started up again.
His breathing, the sea sighing against shore.
He wasn't much more than driftwood—discarded, salt-stained, waterlogged. Pale. Not quite recognizable as what they once had been. Flotsam and jetsam; little clues and pieces of a whole. Nothing fancy, just something that ought to be dead but didn't have enough decency to actually be.
He'd made a choice, on that foggy, moonlit night. It had been a vain thing, driven by fear and pride and a dream of glory, but little more than vanity parading as altruism. Had Tembovu seen how hollow his soul had been? Was that why there had been mourning in his voice? Because Mauja, fool and dreamer, had chosen to have no distant horizon, to have his life span from now until forever, with no real end in sight.
He had wanted to make a change. To be some kind of timeless sentinel, a guardian pacing the world and doing good—keeping peace and time. Being more than the sad, bitter residue of a brief and bright fire.
Being more than the sum of himself.
Pathetic.
He had chosen isolation. He had chosen loneliness. He had chosen agony.
A long, long road unwalked, unaccompanied. A journey with no end. Surely, nothing better than what he had already been through; so why had he taken it? And what had he done with it, his curse masquerading as a blessing? And what had he done with himself?
If his mind hadn't been soaked in darkness, he might've had some answer. Some theory. Something more than the shame and the anger and the guilt gnawing him raw from within as black waves closed over his head, and poured into his lungs.
Something more than failure.
What had he accomplished, honestly? (This is what got you here in the first place.) He was a fallen star; nothing but ashes, from which nothing, nothing, could rise.
Three times he had died now. Twice he had risen.
The morning sun burned golden on the mist rising from the fetid pools; roots clung to silt, trying to hold it together, to keep the wide expanse of the ocean at bay. It was early still, the cold clinging to the crisp air further inland. A few hesitant birds trilled.
He was just another body lain to rest in arms of the Marsh, stuck in the debris (driftwood, it's all driftwood, even that pale thing pretending to once have been a horse—) shored up among the grounding roots.
Just another dead.
The minutes ticked by.
Then the wet sound of his breathing started up again.
