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05-01-2014, 02:59 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
[ I'm terribly sorry, @[Rayo]. Please drop-kick me. ]
He'd spent too much time skirting around issues, watching her from the corner of his eye, caught up in fire and flame—too caught in it to ever truly try and see her. She'd attracted him with her darkness and fiery passion, frightened him with her bitter vehemence and ambitions, and finally, he'd tried to deceive both she and himself.
And through all of that, he had never quite looked at her. Trapped in his own paranoia, the twisting, winding pathways of his frigid, frightened mind, the only thing she had been was ally or threat. It had been like dancing with a tiger, when maybe she'd never been a threat all along, except in the deranged, distrustful parts of his mind. And still he could barely see her in the half-dim darkness, trying to trace the movements of her body as she fell down beside him—two gods cast down from heaven, to below earth.
Because they had been great, and what were they now?
And he didn't know if he wanted to. What was his cause? His passion for the crusade had run out into the dust, the only thing he had left was memory. With no cause he could have no followers, and with something he did not believe in, no true charisma—and why would he attempt to cleanse the world, when he didn't want to anymore?
When it came down to it: what he hated about himself was his bitter selfishness, the way all his thoughts revolved around himself. How he could not see her, because she was too tangled up in someone he didn't want to be anymore.
"I've made a right mess of things since you've been gone," she said, gaze to the darkened ceiling. Strange green and sapphire flicked along their rims, transforming her from a hawk to something else. "I made a right mess of things before I left," he said into the silence, a wry smile curving his dark lips.
Silence your thoughts.
And he reached into the darkness, to turn himself inside out, forced himself to look at her, but what could he ever see but shadows? Just a minute ago she had folded herself down to earth, but the memory of it was hazy, and now was not much better—and that hurt, too. It hurt because in some way, forcing himself to try and look at he was like admitting many things.. like how he'd never truly shown his appreciation, or his fear, or his envy, or.. what did they even have, but shambles of a shattered past? Pieces of cracked mirrors, slivers of heartache? He'd lied to her for so long, just as he'd lied to himself, and still she came to him now—laid beside him, wanted to be close to him.
She spoke again, admitting a truth Mauja had been wondering about a long time. It was almost like having the constant question answered, and Sarazheha's voice echoing like a murmur in the back of his mind: honesty.
Was not that the point of life? The way to find some kind of happiness? To be honest with others, and more importantly, yourself?
For years he had struggled with the lies he told himself, for years he had tried to go back to being something he'd grown out of, and he'd always had it at the tip of his tongue, but never quite admitted to himself just how much he had changed—not at heart, but in mind. Because to warp reality had become increasingly harder and harder.
In a way, it was like letting go; like exhaling one, final time, and sinking down into the depths. He sighed; he let go.
And she echoed his thoughts in a feral voice that lacked all the danger it had once held. There were no threats, no suave promises of pain so elegantly hidden between the words. "I changed a long time ago," he said after a moment, raising his own pale eyes to the cave roof. "I just.. tried to pretend I hadn't." I lied. To everyone. To you. His ears fell back to hang loosely against his mane, and Irma made some soft noise, beak clicking; the hatchling had fallen asleep in the long, tangled strands of his hair.
"I'm sorry. For everything."
But what the hell does that even mean?
And what are words but words, if you never show that you mean it?
He'd spent too much time skirting around issues, watching her from the corner of his eye, caught up in fire and flame—too caught in it to ever truly try and see her. She'd attracted him with her darkness and fiery passion, frightened him with her bitter vehemence and ambitions, and finally, he'd tried to deceive both she and himself.
And through all of that, he had never quite looked at her. Trapped in his own paranoia, the twisting, winding pathways of his frigid, frightened mind, the only thing she had been was ally or threat. It had been like dancing with a tiger, when maybe she'd never been a threat all along, except in the deranged, distrustful parts of his mind. And still he could barely see her in the half-dim darkness, trying to trace the movements of her body as she fell down beside him—two gods cast down from heaven, to below earth.
Because they had been great, and what were they now?
Bitter, like always—at least he. As they lay there, and he knew that he still could not take her in and commit her physical image to perfect memory, he cursed the part of him which had tasted the highest peaks of powers. Because it remembered, and it loathed the gritty air down here, but in the end, it wasn't strong enough to climb back up again.
And he didn't know if he wanted to. What was his cause? His passion for the crusade had run out into the dust, the only thing he had left was memory. With no cause he could have no followers, and with something he did not believe in, no true charisma—and why would he attempt to cleanse the world, when he didn't want to anymore?
When it came down to it: what he hated about himself was his bitter selfishness, the way all his thoughts revolved around himself. How he could not see her, because she was too tangled up in someone he didn't want to be anymore.
"I've made a right mess of things since you've been gone," she said, gaze to the darkened ceiling. Strange green and sapphire flicked along their rims, transforming her from a hawk to something else. "I made a right mess of things before I left," he said into the silence, a wry smile curving his dark lips.
Silence your thoughts.
And he reached into the darkness, to turn himself inside out, forced himself to look at her, but what could he ever see but shadows? Just a minute ago she had folded herself down to earth, but the memory of it was hazy, and now was not much better—and that hurt, too. It hurt because in some way, forcing himself to try and look at he was like admitting many things.. like how he'd never truly shown his appreciation, or his fear, or his envy, or.. what did they even have, but shambles of a shattered past? Pieces of cracked mirrors, slivers of heartache? He'd lied to her for so long, just as he'd lied to himself, and still she came to him now—laid beside him, wanted to be close to him.
She spoke again, admitting a truth Mauja had been wondering about a long time. It was almost like having the constant question answered, and Sarazheha's voice echoing like a murmur in the back of his mind: honesty.
Was not that the point of life? The way to find some kind of happiness? To be honest with others, and more importantly, yourself?
For years he had struggled with the lies he told himself, for years he had tried to go back to being something he'd grown out of, and he'd always had it at the tip of his tongue, but never quite admitted to himself just how much he had changed—not at heart, but in mind. Because to warp reality had become increasingly harder and harder.
In a way, it was like letting go; like exhaling one, final time, and sinking down into the depths. He sighed; he let go.
And she echoed his thoughts in a feral voice that lacked all the danger it had once held. There were no threats, no suave promises of pain so elegantly hidden between the words. "I changed a long time ago," he said after a moment, raising his own pale eyes to the cave roof. "I just.. tried to pretend I hadn't." I lied. To everyone. To you. His ears fell back to hang loosely against his mane, and Irma made some soft noise, beak clicking; the hatchling had fallen asleep in the long, tangled strands of his hair.
"I'm sorry. For everything."
But what the hell does that even mean?
And what are words but words, if you never show that you mean it?
Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
