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05-31-2014, 12:24 PM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
[ Finally. Sorry, @[Snö], for the wait <3 ]
His snow-cold trail had crossed Helovia's Threshold many times—too many, some might say. And the trails of his offspring had crossed it numerous times, too, always weaving in and out of existence, part of the spider's web of lives that covered Helovia. A finely woven mesh, a blanket across the world, and somewhere in the center of it all the Gods prowled, and the winds of Death snuffed out this life or that.
Trapped. Neatly, elegantly trapped by whatever otherworldly pull that kept them there, in this godforsaken corner of the world, where lives had a tendency to simply crash into the ocean like cliff-faces sheared off by a storm; a violent crack of thunder and lash of lightning, and something lay in shambles, tattered and broken. Sometimes, it was the very fabric of the world tearing open and spilling blackness into their land, blight and plague.
And it spread, through the roots into the leaves, from memory into bone; gone were the putrid corpses and the sharp-toothed darkness, but it remained in souls and hollow hearts, echoing dully along the corridors of remembrance, a boiling ache in the marrow. For all that he knew, and for all that the world cared, he might very well carry that illness in his heart—corrupting what he touched not with rot, but with pain.
Because everything he touched, fell apart.
Another of his shattered statues, a creature wounded and blighted by his careless touch in its life, stood upon the desolate, moon-washed shoreline. He had known her instantly; there was no way he couldn't, not even with the faint red roaning paled to gray in the moonlight. There was no way he could not recognize his haughty daughter, despite the way she was not poised like an angry, warrior queen.
He would know her, even if she was only bones laid out before him.
If he had loose ends to tie up, she surely was one of them—and he could not balk from her, and leave her like this if his life ended in a swift flight off the World's Edge, or with his own ice tearing up his veins; he couldn't walk away from this, no matter how much his mind wanted him to turn and run because there was no way he could see himself through this with his sanity intact.
She was his daughter.
Those four, simple words held more meaning than he could ever convey to anyone. Frosted hooves turned over soft sand, the whisper of his passage faint in the night—full of the sound of the ocean's steady turning, and the cry of some lonely gull who couldn't sleep. Maybe he was hungry; maybe his belly was as empty of fish as Mauja's heart was of joy; and Mauja pitied that gull, with such a sudden, intense focus that it made his gut ache in sympathy and his eyes water.
He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand why he suddenly stood on a desolate stretch of land and imagined this lonely, hunting gull and his entire life—maybe he had young to feed, valiantly hunting the shallows to make sure they would survive, and maybe his partner was gone, and.. Mauja blinked, head and heart swimming, world blurring with the strange intensity of the emotion. He drew in a shaking breath, and if the whole episode wasn't baffling enough as it was—he felt Irma ghost on silent wings, to hunt for that damn, lonely, crying gull.
He'd meant to call out to his child, to try and repair things, to try and make something right, but as he stood there thinking about the hard life of a gull of all things his voice failed him, and he watched her in silence.
His snow-cold trail had crossed Helovia's Threshold many times—too many, some might say. And the trails of his offspring had crossed it numerous times, too, always weaving in and out of existence, part of the spider's web of lives that covered Helovia. A finely woven mesh, a blanket across the world, and somewhere in the center of it all the Gods prowled, and the winds of Death snuffed out this life or that.
Trapped. Neatly, elegantly trapped by whatever otherworldly pull that kept them there, in this godforsaken corner of the world, where lives had a tendency to simply crash into the ocean like cliff-faces sheared off by a storm; a violent crack of thunder and lash of lightning, and something lay in shambles, tattered and broken. Sometimes, it was the very fabric of the world tearing open and spilling blackness into their land, blight and plague.
And it spread, through the roots into the leaves, from memory into bone; gone were the putrid corpses and the sharp-toothed darkness, but it remained in souls and hollow hearts, echoing dully along the corridors of remembrance, a boiling ache in the marrow. For all that he knew, and for all that the world cared, he might very well carry that illness in his heart—corrupting what he touched not with rot, but with pain.
Because everything he touched, fell apart.
Just like how putrescent carcasses sheared apart at a simple touch.
Another of his shattered statues, a creature wounded and blighted by his careless touch in its life, stood upon the desolate, moon-washed shoreline. He had known her instantly; there was no way he couldn't, not even with the faint red roaning paled to gray in the moonlight. There was no way he could not recognize his haughty daughter, despite the way she was not poised like an angry, warrior queen.
He would know her, even if she was only bones laid out before him.
If he had loose ends to tie up, she surely was one of them—and he could not balk from her, and leave her like this if his life ended in a swift flight off the World's Edge, or with his own ice tearing up his veins; he couldn't walk away from this, no matter how much his mind wanted him to turn and run because there was no way he could see himself through this with his sanity intact.
She was his daughter.
Those four, simple words held more meaning than he could ever convey to anyone. Frosted hooves turned over soft sand, the whisper of his passage faint in the night—full of the sound of the ocean's steady turning, and the cry of some lonely gull who couldn't sleep. Maybe he was hungry; maybe his belly was as empty of fish as Mauja's heart was of joy; and Mauja pitied that gull, with such a sudden, intense focus that it made his gut ache in sympathy and his eyes water.
He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand why he suddenly stood on a desolate stretch of land and imagined this lonely, hunting gull and his entire life—maybe he had young to feed, valiantly hunting the shallows to make sure they would survive, and maybe his partner was gone, and.. Mauja blinked, head and heart swimming, world blurring with the strange intensity of the emotion. He drew in a shaking breath, and if the whole episode wasn't baffling enough as it was—he felt Irma ghost on silent wings, to hunt for that damn, lonely, crying gull.
He'd meant to call out to his child, to try and repair things, to try and make something right, but as he stood there thinking about the hard life of a gull of all things his voice failed him, and he watched her in silence.
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
