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en natt så kall och månen den var klar
He could feel the peace fade, the moment when she became aware, the moment when even the gull slowly began to fade from his mind. With his throat still choked up on emotion he kept advancing, ever so slowly, a wisp of cloud blown in by the night wind and painted by the moonlight; closer, and closer, as if cautiously approaching a wounded beast.
Because wasn't that what she was? The way she'd reacted each time he came near, as if his very presence hurt her? There was neither rhyme nor reason to the pair of them, both as illogical and volatile as their feelings, always running (curse that bitch, Illynx, for nailing the truth so deeply into his mind he couldn't pretend to forget it again), and always away from each other.
And sometimes, back. Like how he and Psyche always ricocheted and bounced back, somehow colliding again. In the same way, Snö kept tumbling back into his life, and he was never prepared to catch her. He just let her fall, bruising her time and again, and never knew how to patch it up either. She was too old for him to gently rub her aches with his nose, wasn't she?
Damn; had he ever even done that? Shown her some kindness and not just his empty-headed stupidity?
He'd faltered, he'd faltered when he'd listened to that gull (it had shut up now, probably because there were owls awing in the darkness). He just stood there and stared at her blurred outline, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill over. Her head turned. She looked at him. Said nothing (and to be fair, neither did he). And looked back out to sea.
He drew a deep breath. No matter how her behavior kept hurting him, the way she always ran and blamed him for the pain, he.. she.. he drew another deep, unsteady breath. Wasn't it his fucking duty as her father to go through fire and flame for her, to hold her tight when she was breaking, no matter how much he was bleeding, too?
There were two sides of the coin.
She was his daughter.
It meant that he had to be her father.
He couldn't have one, without the other. He had no right to her love and adoration without giving all of himself for her.
"Snö," he called out, in a choked-up voice. His hooves were moving again, eating up the distance, bringing him closer even though his soul kept leaning back, away. All he wanted to do was break whatever honor and pride he had left, and run away. Away from the pain and the fear, the fear of hurting her more and leaving this with no daughter at all—away from everything that could go wrong.
But he didn't. He kept walking, until he drew up next to her on the shoreline.
Because wasn't that what she was? The way she'd reacted each time he came near, as if his very presence hurt her? There was neither rhyme nor reason to the pair of them, both as illogical and volatile as their feelings, always running (curse that bitch, Illynx, for nailing the truth so deeply into his mind he couldn't pretend to forget it again), and always away from each other.
And sometimes, back. Like how he and Psyche always ricocheted and bounced back, somehow colliding again. In the same way, Snö kept tumbling back into his life, and he was never prepared to catch her. He just let her fall, bruising her time and again, and never knew how to patch it up either. She was too old for him to gently rub her aches with his nose, wasn't she?
Damn; had he ever even done that? Shown her some kindness and not just his empty-headed stupidity?
He'd faltered, he'd faltered when he'd listened to that gull (it had shut up now, probably because there were owls awing in the darkness). He just stood there and stared at her blurred outline, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill over. Her head turned. She looked at him. Said nothing (and to be fair, neither did he). And looked back out to sea.
He drew a deep breath. No matter how her behavior kept hurting him, the way she always ran and blamed him for the pain, he.. she.. he drew another deep, unsteady breath. Wasn't it his fucking duty as her father to go through fire and flame for her, to hold her tight when she was breaking, no matter how much he was bleeding, too?
There were two sides of the coin.
She was his daughter.
It meant that he had to be her father.
He couldn't have one, without the other. He had no right to her love and adoration without giving all of himself for her.
"Snö," he called out, in a choked-up voice. His hooves were moving again, eating up the distance, bringing him closer even though his soul kept leaning back, away. All he wanted to do was break whatever honor and pride he had left, and run away. Away from the pain and the fear, the fear of hurting her more and leaving this with no daughter at all—away from everything that could go wrong.
But he didn't. He kept walking, until he drew up next to her on the shoreline.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
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
