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06-20-2014, 05:11 AM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
[ Dun worry. <3 ]
"Please say something...?"
But he didn't. Not then. He let her rave in silence, until later, when his voice erupted like.. like.. certainly not a sledgehammer to the face anymore, but as full of cold, clear light as his eyes. Then, and only then, did he speak, but her reaction blunted some of his joy. Took the edge off it. Her head shot up, into the sky, as if to avoid the barrage of his encouraging words—and his feeling of sudden euphoria and bliss faded. Seconds ago he could've cried with happiness that something good had finally made it through her thick skull, but it faded. Because she kept resisting. She kept resisting the truth because the truth was harder to bear than the dreams. It's never easy to be forced to face yourself. Mauja promptly turned his head from whatever mirror anyone might present him with.
And maybe, he wasn't all as bitter and bad as he thought—maybe he was a fairly good guy who would be happy, if he just got this trial out of the way. If he just found Ophelia. If he just stopped looking at the one mirror that painted him a monster with a black, cynical heart and poison in his veins. If everything just aligned and he could let go, sigh, take a look at the world and himself without corrupting it.
Because he did it to himself.
Aurelia the aureate, the golden, the prey, she backed away.
A single, hesitant step. The silence felt like a dead, leaden weight between them, the air still and stifling, suffocating. Was she retreating from him? From his words, his hope, his faith (in what?)? Was she poised on the edge of flight, like he would've been? Mauja watched her silently, feeling the slow throb of his heart. The blood seemed to sigh through his veins; the hope he'd felt, that she would understand and embrace the knowledge instead of look as if she contemplated shunning it, it had faded, disappeared. Dispersed, like smoke blown away by the wind.
"What's going on in your mind?" he asked before he knew it, voice gentle, eyes bright, and kind. Curious; genuinely curious. He'd done this to her before—poked and prodded for her thoughts and reasons, back in the forest that time, and now he poked and prodded again. Because.. much as he wanted to hammer his own version of the truth into her head (though he would not accept her blatantly stating he hated her; that made her the liar, not him), truth is subjective. There is no absolute truth. Only perspective.
And in the end...
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
Fuck life.
"Please say something...?"
But he didn't. Not then. He let her rave in silence, until later, when his voice erupted like.. like.. certainly not a sledgehammer to the face anymore, but as full of cold, clear light as his eyes. Then, and only then, did he speak, but her reaction blunted some of his joy. Took the edge off it. Her head shot up, into the sky, as if to avoid the barrage of his encouraging words—and his feeling of sudden euphoria and bliss faded. Seconds ago he could've cried with happiness that something good had finally made it through her thick skull, but it faded. Because she kept resisting. She kept resisting the truth because the truth was harder to bear than the dreams. It's never easy to be forced to face yourself. Mauja promptly turned his head from whatever mirror anyone might present him with.
And maybe, he wasn't all as bitter and bad as he thought—maybe he was a fairly good guy who would be happy, if he just got this trial out of the way. If he just found Ophelia. If he just stopped looking at the one mirror that painted him a monster with a black, cynical heart and poison in his veins. If everything just aligned and he could let go, sigh, take a look at the world and himself without corrupting it.
Because he did it to himself.
Just like she did it to herself.
Aurelia the aureate, the golden, the prey, she backed away.
A single, hesitant step. The silence felt like a dead, leaden weight between them, the air still and stifling, suffocating. Was she retreating from him? From his words, his hope, his faith (in what?)? Was she poised on the edge of flight, like he would've been? Mauja watched her silently, feeling the slow throb of his heart. The blood seemed to sigh through his veins; the hope he'd felt, that she would understand and embrace the knowledge instead of look as if she contemplated shunning it, it had faded, disappeared. Dispersed, like smoke blown away by the wind.
"What's going on in your mind?" he asked before he knew it, voice gentle, eyes bright, and kind. Curious; genuinely curious. He'd done this to her before—poked and prodded for her thoughts and reasons, back in the forest that time, and now he poked and prodded again. Because.. much as he wanted to hammer his own version of the truth into her head (though he would not accept her blatantly stating he hated her; that made her the liar, not him), truth is subjective. There is no absolute truth. Only perspective.
And in the end...
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
Fuck life.
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
