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01-29-2014, 03:50 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
[ No worries. <3 ]
You can only hide behind silence for so long, until the pounding of pulses and the rhythm of breaths drown it out; when the mind catches up, it's too late. And it's too late now. Quiet breaths escaped from a dark, still muzzle, eyes glazed over and locking away every little bit of anguish left inside: he could see the moment when she realized he wasn't going to answer. When logic, intelligence, won out over silence. The only way to keep holding his tongue would be to leave. Or make her leave. Fly into a frenzy of ice and pointed tips and hound her from the peninsula of the gods and out into the world, while his dying heart was left here, left to rot in the rains. Because wasn't that what it came down to in the end? That either he killed himself, and buried his soul so deeply it'd never be able to crawl back up to the surface, or he turned around to tell everyone he'd tried to save what fools they were..? What a fool he had been..?
"I'll take that as a yes." His pulse was roaring, the sensation of life nauseating. Shouldn't he just flash her the borderline mad smile, say something about the excellent taste qualities of equine blood, and rejoice that he could keep up his charade a little longer? But hearing it, his heart echoed it, spelled it out in burning letters at the forefront of his mind—damnation, and he felt sick. How many opportunities in Helovia had he had to harm them, the hornless, and hadn't? And on the other side of things were deaths, Therror, Delinne's spectral copy...
And then there was Torasin.
"Why? He barely saw her anymore. The very thing he'd sought to freeze down was rising in his chest, in his throat, threatening to explode; his pulse was thundering through his veins. He wanted to throw his head back and yell you are wrong, because he knew just how far he'd fallen from those icy heights.
Racism, that blind, bitter arrogance, the surge of adrenaline and glory, the passionate, illogical conviction which seeped through your veins—it only worked as long as you were blinded by its fervor, infected by the excitement, the crusade. His way had been long and crooked; he hadn't been breast-fed it. Somehow he'd come to all the wrong conclusions by himself and closed his eyes and thrived on the one argument which could defend it: passion. And bit by bit he'd painted the villain on their hides, demeaned them, to justify their lower status on society. It had always been a matter of time, of how much he could achieve before his blue eyes cracked open to the world.
Mauja was a cold creature of logic: and racism, by its very nature, was nothing he could logically justify. Not anymore. Not when every drop of self-confidence and arrogance had been frozen and shattered like glass. Asni brought him to his knees and he was still reeling, still kneeling, heart pounding and eyes blurred with the tears of pain.
And he couldn't keep killing himself over it. Like he'd tried, to keep going, for the greater good; hadn't he been raised to value the unit higher than the self? To not be afraid to give his own life up for the benefit of the masses?
"I'm not one to judge, but I find myself curious as to why you think a horn makes one superior."
His pale eyes were somewhere else. His mind was somewhere else. Either he betrayed himself, or he betrayed his friends, the Plague, the Basin: Psyche, Snö, Deimos, d'Artagnan, Descaro, Ulrik... But would he step into the light, then? Would it bring him closer to the others—Faelene, Midas, Arah, Ophelia..?
But he knew, that everything he did, he should do for himself. Hadn't he spent enough of his life living for others?
"I don't," he finally forced out in a strangled whisper, and moved for the first time in what felt like ages. He turned his head away, stared into the distance, but if you had asked him, he couldn't have told you what he saw. "It's a blind, illogical thing.. all passion and arrogance." He clenched his jaws together, tried to swallow the sour taste of betrayal, but it was there, washed around in his mouth by a paper-dry tongue. And in that moment, he hated himself, for never being strong enough to truly stand up for himself.
You can only hide behind silence for so long, until the pounding of pulses and the rhythm of breaths drown it out; when the mind catches up, it's too late. And it's too late now. Quiet breaths escaped from a dark, still muzzle, eyes glazed over and locking away every little bit of anguish left inside: he could see the moment when she realized he wasn't going to answer. When logic, intelligence, won out over silence. The only way to keep holding his tongue would be to leave. Or make her leave. Fly into a frenzy of ice and pointed tips and hound her from the peninsula of the gods and out into the world, while his dying heart was left here, left to rot in the rains. Because wasn't that what it came down to in the end? That either he killed himself, and buried his soul so deeply it'd never be able to crawl back up to the surface, or he turned around to tell everyone he'd tried to save what fools they were..? What a fool he had been..?
"I'll take that as a yes." His pulse was roaring, the sensation of life nauseating. Shouldn't he just flash her the borderline mad smile, say something about the excellent taste qualities of equine blood, and rejoice that he could keep up his charade a little longer? But hearing it, his heart echoed it, spelled it out in burning letters at the forefront of his mind—damnation, and he felt sick. How many opportunities in Helovia had he had to harm them, the hornless, and hadn't? And on the other side of things were deaths, Therror, Delinne's spectral copy...
And then there was Torasin.
"Why? He barely saw her anymore. The very thing he'd sought to freeze down was rising in his chest, in his throat, threatening to explode; his pulse was thundering through his veins. He wanted to throw his head back and yell you are wrong, because he knew just how far he'd fallen from those icy heights.
Racism, that blind, bitter arrogance, the surge of adrenaline and glory, the passionate, illogical conviction which seeped through your veins—it only worked as long as you were blinded by its fervor, infected by the excitement, the crusade. His way had been long and crooked; he hadn't been breast-fed it. Somehow he'd come to all the wrong conclusions by himself and closed his eyes and thrived on the one argument which could defend it: passion. And bit by bit he'd painted the villain on their hides, demeaned them, to justify their lower status on society. It had always been a matter of time, of how much he could achieve before his blue eyes cracked open to the world.
Mauja was a cold creature of logic: and racism, by its very nature, was nothing he could logically justify. Not anymore. Not when every drop of self-confidence and arrogance had been frozen and shattered like glass. Asni brought him to his knees and he was still reeling, still kneeling, heart pounding and eyes blurred with the tears of pain.
And he couldn't keep killing himself over it. Like he'd tried, to keep going, for the greater good; hadn't he been raised to value the unit higher than the self? To not be afraid to give his own life up for the benefit of the masses?
But even he had his limits. In the end, we all have a desire to live, and to enjoy living.
"I'm not one to judge, but I find myself curious as to why you think a horn makes one superior."
His pale eyes were somewhere else. His mind was somewhere else. Either he betrayed himself, or he betrayed his friends, the Plague, the Basin: Psyche, Snö, Deimos, d'Artagnan, Descaro, Ulrik... But would he step into the light, then? Would it bring him closer to the others—Faelene, Midas, Arah, Ophelia..?
But he knew, that everything he did, he should do for himself. Hadn't he spent enough of his life living for others?
"I don't," he finally forced out in a strangled whisper, and moved for the first time in what felt like ages. He turned his head away, stared into the distance, but if you had asked him, he couldn't have told you what he saw. "It's a blind, illogical thing.. all passion and arrogance." He clenched his jaws together, tried to swallow the sour taste of betrayal, but it was there, washed around in his mouth by a paper-dry tongue. And in that moment, he hated himself, for never being strong enough to truly stand up for himself.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
