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02-22-2014, 04:58 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
Misguided. Or just high on some notion of glory, of doing what was right, the shepherd who led the flock astray: the wolf at the front of the pack, running straight to hell with his head held high and eyes closed. Had he abused them, and their faith? Had he preyed on their unfamiliarity with strangers to strengthen their bonds? Had he known what he was doing? And why? Failed and traveling further and further from home, young and insecure—lying at the bloodied pit floor, staring at the sky, and wanting to rise again.
Was it so strange, that he'd become what he'd become? That he'd turned to the one familiar thing: horns mean you can fight. Here, at the end of that storyline arc, he could see it all so clear, laid out before his feet plainer than a spot of sunlight. Wrote the final words for the chapter with blood ink, turned the page; empty. Too empty, and his heart ached for d'Artagnan, to be there, to berate him for his weakness or just shrug, bump his shoulder and say that as long as he didn't go kissing Mirage's feet it was alright—anything but plunging him into desolation and despair.
This, this was why he'd tried so hard to keep the world at arm's length.
He blinked, white lashes flicking down towards his cheek. Her gaze, the blue of the sky, snapped him out of his morose thoughts. There was neither rhyme nor reason to her eye-manners, flicking them this way and that, holding gazes as if not quite wanting to, and never really when it truly mattered. Just at odd times. His head tilted slowly to the side, his own eyes unreadable; simply spinning slowly the way they always did, sunlight glittering upon the snow but telling nothing of its depth. "Are you getting nervous, Nyx?" he asked, voice full of faux-darkness. If she listened close enough she could hear past the thunderstorm, hear the rays of playful sunlight behind the towering blackness. "This is the second time you're nearly begging for me to tell you to leave." And his gaze spun with the same darkness, neck stretching a little taller with that edge, as if to say, I can be dangerous—when in truth, he was just a lamb dressed up as a lion.
Was it so strange, that he'd become what he'd become? That he'd turned to the one familiar thing: horns mean you can fight. Here, at the end of that storyline arc, he could see it all so clear, laid out before his feet plainer than a spot of sunlight. Wrote the final words for the chapter with blood ink, turned the page; empty. Too empty, and his heart ached for d'Artagnan, to be there, to berate him for his weakness or just shrug, bump his shoulder and say that as long as he didn't go kissing Mirage's feet it was alright—anything but plunging him into desolation and despair.
This, this was why he'd tried so hard to keep the world at arm's length.
But was it strength or weakness that had made him let them in?
He blinked, white lashes flicking down towards his cheek. Her gaze, the blue of the sky, snapped him out of his morose thoughts. There was neither rhyme nor reason to her eye-manners, flicking them this way and that, holding gazes as if not quite wanting to, and never really when it truly mattered. Just at odd times. His head tilted slowly to the side, his own eyes unreadable; simply spinning slowly the way they always did, sunlight glittering upon the snow but telling nothing of its depth. "Are you getting nervous, Nyx?" he asked, voice full of faux-darkness. If she listened close enough she could hear past the thunderstorm, hear the rays of playful sunlight behind the towering blackness. "This is the second time you're nearly begging for me to tell you to leave." And his gaze spun with the same darkness, neck stretching a little taller with that edge, as if to say, I can be dangerous—when in truth, he was just a lamb dressed up as a lion.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
