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08-10-2014, 01:45 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Is this the angels weeping for us?
He didn't know if there was any beauty in this—in the throbbing of his heart and mind, in the longing, and the fool's quest.. He was too cynical to be a romantic, to find it beautifully tragic. That only happened in stories, stories that made your heart ache. It didn't happen in real life.
Real life was full of idiots. Real life was the place where dreams turned to dust, and love was not returned. And there was no tragic beauty in that.
A touch, feather-light and oddly cold, broke him out of his thoughts. Just a moment, less than a second, something smooth (like ice) ghosting across the arch of his back... Nerves crawled, the question rising to the forefront of his mind again: who is this stranger, lying here with me? But again, the roaring whip of the wind forced his head down, forelock tangled up in front of his eyes. The needle-sharp cold rain stung his open eyes, and with a sigh like the mountains heaving and falling into the sea he laid his head down. The cold, wet rock cradled him—but it also poked and prodded, touched nerves, told him how hard and uncomfortable it was. And just like that, every numb part of his body remembered itself and every pebble trapped between him and the landbridge.
Slowly, his white mass shifted towards her, towards the solid ground, and his head rotated upon its crest, until his horn touched its tip to the ground. There, halfway over on his back and white forelegs tucked against his barrel of a chest, he cracked his blue eyes open again, and was offered the most bizarre upside down view of the storm-lashed world.
Because against the backdrop of dark rock, pulsating magma and black storm clouds was a creature not quite real nor quite a ghost; as tangible and cold as glass, but as supple and flexible as a creature of flesh and blood. Blinking, filled with a numbing sense of amazement and wonder, he gazed at her in silence.
Did they weep for mortals, for individuals with tired minds and aching hearts, or did they simply weep for the world and all it's cruelty? Or did they weep, because it seemed just a smidge too pathetic to laugh about? Did they look at the long, crooked road he'd staggered up to get to there, and shake their heads at the way his heart and lungs labored, for so little ground gained? Did they know his heart and mind so intimately they knew he'd just gone back to a point where he should've been a long time ago? Did they read his life in his blood, and sneer at the sheer stupidity of it all?
He didn't know if there was any beauty in this—in the throbbing of his heart and mind, in the longing, and the fool's quest.. He was too cynical to be a romantic, to find it beautifully tragic. That only happened in stories, stories that made your heart ache. It didn't happen in real life.
Real life was full of idiots. Real life was the place where dreams turned to dust, and love was not returned. And there was no tragic beauty in that.
A touch, feather-light and oddly cold, broke him out of his thoughts. Just a moment, less than a second, something smooth (like ice) ghosting across the arch of his back... Nerves crawled, the question rising to the forefront of his mind again: who is this stranger, lying here with me? But again, the roaring whip of the wind forced his head down, forelock tangled up in front of his eyes. The needle-sharp cold rain stung his open eyes, and with a sigh like the mountains heaving and falling into the sea he laid his head down. The cold, wet rock cradled him—but it also poked and prodded, touched nerves, told him how hard and uncomfortable it was. And just like that, every numb part of his body remembered itself and every pebble trapped between him and the landbridge.
Slowly, his white mass shifted towards her, towards the solid ground, and his head rotated upon its crest, until his horn touched its tip to the ground. There, halfway over on his back and white forelegs tucked against his barrel of a chest, he cracked his blue eyes open again, and was offered the most bizarre upside down view of the storm-lashed world.
Because against the backdrop of dark rock, pulsating magma and black storm clouds was a creature not quite real nor quite a ghost; as tangible and cold as glass, but as supple and flexible as a creature of flesh and blood. Blinking, filled with a numbing sense of amazement and wonder, he gazed at her in silence.
