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05-06-2014, 06:04 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
"Companions think they're so clever sometimes."
Irma kindly informed him that, in this case, there was one major difference between her and Delinne's cat: the cat only thought it was clever, whereas Irma was clever. He snorted quietly. Irma was a stone-cold, heartless bastard with enough icy arrogance to fill an entire mountain full of it, and still have enough for an avalanche. But, he had to agree—there was a keenness to her, and she saw things clearly. Diego, on the other hand.. well, maybe it was an age thing. So far, he seemed to take after Irma where the arrogance was concerned: and where would that leave Mauja? Trapped between two haughty birds? Fortunately, for him, they seemed to like him.
Dezba. She'd gone off to hunt, probably, to stalk the burnished glow of the fading day, but what would she catch? Memories, or mice? Would she play with the wisps of energy, or track something tangible?
The attention turned back to him. And he suddenly wasn't sure if he could do this: stand here, and chat, like nothing had ever happened and gone wrong. It had become too normal, too much about him—he'd said too much already, too many intimate things, confessions he usually kept somewhere where not even he acknowledged them. And yet, and yet.. she was part of a past he longed to return to, she called him King and in some dim corner of his mind, he knew what that meant. It meant pride and glory, the scattered glitter of sunshine across a vast, snowy field; it meant followers and friends, those who trusted in him to guide them...
"Irma is the oldest," he said absently, his pale eyes somewhere else, not even seeing what she was doing, or looking at. His heart rate had increased uncomfortably, and he wanted to breathe faster, heavier, and run away. "Supposedly she was destined to be mine, but something went wrong, so I was sent back quite far in time to fetch her." He'd never told anyone that either, had he? Damn. Saying too much. "The other is Diego. We found him during the... plague." His voice had dropped into a mumble before drifting off entirely, and Mauja shifted in the sparse clearing. One hoof clipped against the fallen ice, and his head swung around, to peer into the distance—freedom.
He longed for it.
"I don't– I mean, I—" He'd opened his mouth without thinking, the beginning of sentences tumbling out before he swallowed them again. Irma came out of the woodwork, pale even in the light of day, and settled on his withers. He turned back to look at Delinne, an odd moment of a fervent intensity burning in his eyes. I should've let you leave me in the river. He should never have followed. He should've left things as they were. He should've known to shut up, to stay away, isolated; he wasn't sure he would ever understand what had driven him to harm her, and it heckled his mind even as her baffling, strange kindness to him now did.
But he couldn't forget her demented laughter either, or that somewhere, deep inside, she had—maybe still did—hated him. He couldn't forget the many ways she'd called him King over the years, or the fact that she was broken now: but he was broken too. He had nothing to give her, and no way to help her.
He was poised on the edge of flight, struck aflame by the sun rays.
Irma kindly informed him that, in this case, there was one major difference between her and Delinne's cat: the cat only thought it was clever, whereas Irma was clever. He snorted quietly. Irma was a stone-cold, heartless bastard with enough icy arrogance to fill an entire mountain full of it, and still have enough for an avalanche. But, he had to agree—there was a keenness to her, and she saw things clearly. Diego, on the other hand.. well, maybe it was an age thing. So far, he seemed to take after Irma where the arrogance was concerned: and where would that leave Mauja? Trapped between two haughty birds? Fortunately, for him, they seemed to like him.
Dezba. She'd gone off to hunt, probably, to stalk the burnished glow of the fading day, but what would she catch? Memories, or mice? Would she play with the wisps of energy, or track something tangible?
The attention turned back to him. And he suddenly wasn't sure if he could do this: stand here, and chat, like nothing had ever happened and gone wrong. It had become too normal, too much about him—he'd said too much already, too many intimate things, confessions he usually kept somewhere where not even he acknowledged them. And yet, and yet.. she was part of a past he longed to return to, she called him King and in some dim corner of his mind, he knew what that meant. It meant pride and glory, the scattered glitter of sunshine across a vast, snowy field; it meant followers and friends, those who trusted in him to guide them...
"Irma is the oldest," he said absently, his pale eyes somewhere else, not even seeing what she was doing, or looking at. His heart rate had increased uncomfortably, and he wanted to breathe faster, heavier, and run away. "Supposedly she was destined to be mine, but something went wrong, so I was sent back quite far in time to fetch her." He'd never told anyone that either, had he? Damn. Saying too much. "The other is Diego. We found him during the... plague." His voice had dropped into a mumble before drifting off entirely, and Mauja shifted in the sparse clearing. One hoof clipped against the fallen ice, and his head swung around, to peer into the distance—freedom.
He longed for it.
"I don't– I mean, I—" He'd opened his mouth without thinking, the beginning of sentences tumbling out before he swallowed them again. Irma came out of the woodwork, pale even in the light of day, and settled on his withers. He turned back to look at Delinne, an odd moment of a fervent intensity burning in his eyes. I should've let you leave me in the river. He should never have followed. He should've left things as they were. He should've known to shut up, to stay away, isolated; he wasn't sure he would ever understand what had driven him to harm her, and it heckled his mind even as her baffling, strange kindness to him now did.
But he couldn't forget her demented laughter either, or that somewhere, deep inside, she had—maybe still did—hated him. He couldn't forget the many ways she'd called him King over the years, or the fact that she was broken now: but he was broken too. He had nothing to give her, and no way to help her.
He was poised on the edge of flight, struck aflame by the sun rays.
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
