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08-03-2014, 02:21 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
No, there's no angels here—only the Fallen, rainwater tracing their fragile contours with slick, icy hands. It tinkled, a sound like silver bells in his ears, a flash of pure beauty hiding beneath the grim roar of the ocean.. it struck something that was neither rock nor flesh, echoing in the vast space of the night, swallowed by the sea. Swallowed, by the black-rimmed ears tangled in a long, wet mane, slipping through the winding corridors and into his mind. A sound like bells. He couldn't see her anymore, the creature cloaked in the thinnest veils of lavender, the mimicry of an angel. She was out of sight, but nearby, her odd, foreign smell—a small that was as much a lack of smell as an actual scent—drifted through the brine. She was still there, but she was just as little of an angel as he was.
He didn't want to give in to despair, to accept the futility of his search, his hunt—didn't want to just lay down like this, with nothing but the heaving sea and the torrent to keep him company. He was cold, cold to the bone, the downpour stealing his tears for their own; what was he even doing out here?
Following the foolish, hopeful tug of his heart, like a last, desperate attempt. He swallowed. Despite the rain, his mouth was dry. "Ophelia," he whispered into the gale, and the wind snatched the name up, dutifully obliterating it. Took all her light and smeared it into the darkness, ground it into the seething waves until nothing remained but his tongue's memory of having formed her name. Where was she? Was she alright? Did she ever stop to think about him, and wonder where he'd ended up? Did she wonder if he thought about her? Did she look for him? Hope that he looked for her?
Mauja's eyes blinked furiously, both against the storm and his tears. What kind of idiot even allows himself to think that? To dream? Dreams were delicate things, shattering easy, and their shards were sharp; he was just inviting heartache, thinking all these things, wondering about her. She was not as cold as he—surely it was nothing more than friendliness in her, comfort at having someone who watched out for her, cared.. he swallowed again.
Who was it that laid here with him, anyway, on this wind-lashed piece of rock? Who was it that had been at the godforsaken shrines, and fallen so close to him? His crowned head strained into the sky, battled against the furious wind. The glow of the magma ran along her skin so perfectly, but he saw little else before the storm forced him to lower his head again. He knew of his own pain, his own desperation, and that he could not find the strength to pick himself off this hard, wet floor: but what possessed her to fall, here of all places? What drove her down, and then held her there, trapped in the cupped palm of the tempest?
His upturned eye rolled skyward, white lashes barring his vision. He wanted to say something, to ask her who she was, why she was here, why she'd fallen down like him—wanted to speak of pain and of anguish, hope and faith and folly, of the smoldering, hurtful worry in his gut.. He wanted to say something, anything, but only silence passed out of him with each breath.
He didn't want to give in to despair, to accept the futility of his search, his hunt—didn't want to just lay down like this, with nothing but the heaving sea and the torrent to keep him company. He was cold, cold to the bone, the downpour stealing his tears for their own; what was he even doing out here?
Following the foolish, hopeful tug of his heart, like a last, desperate attempt. He swallowed. Despite the rain, his mouth was dry. "Ophelia," he whispered into the gale, and the wind snatched the name up, dutifully obliterating it. Took all her light and smeared it into the darkness, ground it into the seething waves until nothing remained but his tongue's memory of having formed her name. Where was she? Was she alright? Did she ever stop to think about him, and wonder where he'd ended up? Did she wonder if he thought about her? Did she look for him? Hope that he looked for her?
Mauja's eyes blinked furiously, both against the storm and his tears. What kind of idiot even allows himself to think that? To dream? Dreams were delicate things, shattering easy, and their shards were sharp; he was just inviting heartache, thinking all these things, wondering about her. She was not as cold as he—surely it was nothing more than friendliness in her, comfort at having someone who watched out for her, cared.. he swallowed again.
Who was it that laid here with him, anyway, on this wind-lashed piece of rock? Who was it that had been at the godforsaken shrines, and fallen so close to him? His crowned head strained into the sky, battled against the furious wind. The glow of the magma ran along her skin so perfectly, but he saw little else before the storm forced him to lower his head again. He knew of his own pain, his own desperation, and that he could not find the strength to pick himself off this hard, wet floor: but what possessed her to fall, here of all places? What drove her down, and then held her there, trapped in the cupped palm of the tempest?
His upturned eye rolled skyward, white lashes barring his vision. He wanted to say something, to ask her who she was, why she was here, why she'd fallen down like him—wanted to speak of pain and of anguish, hope and faith and folly, of the smoldering, hurtful worry in his gut.. He wanted to say something, anything, but only silence passed out of him with each breath.
