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06-04-2014, 05:53 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ love that table image, btw. :3 ]
Once, this fanged lullaby had been a constant in his life. The push and pull of the ocean, its whisper as it met rocks; and in storms, its roar as it crashed against the unyielding land. Once, the scent of brine and gull had been as commonplace as that of pine, their discordant chorus echoing up with the capricious winds. So many times had he stood at the edge, peering out into the distance, hooves upon the brink of nothing and heart straining towards some vague, distant future, as splendid and bloody as the sunsets playing before his eyes.
A long time ago, now. Years. He felt older, infinitely old; so old that his heart and soul were heavy, tired, dragging like his tail through the sand. Empty, robbed of those dreams and their brilliant colors.
He wasn't sure why. A few times he'd tried to ask himself, what happened?, but he never had any answer. Whatever store of energy he had had, had run out, and to even dream of tomorrow seemed both futile and vain.
He felt like he had no future. No beginning, no end. Just a constant gray spanning from horizon to horizon; always had, and always would. Memories of joy and life seemed distant, crumbling at his touch, like things he had made up—an empire of dreams that came apart when it met the desolation of reality.
The ocean rushed up, touched him, and pulled back, taunting in its ceaseless cycle. His legs were slick with saltwater, tail a sandy tangle, eyes bearing dully down upon whatever came in their way. How long he'd been walking along the shoreline he couldn't tell, because he couldn't recall when he'd begun, but he thought it was a long time.
It didn't really matter, though. All he did was walk, aimlessly crisscrossing Helovia in the hopes that the futile possibilities would align and his path merge with Ophelia's; it felt like it was all he could do to keep walking. Maybe, in a year or two or four hundred, they'd outrun probability and meet.
He closed his eyes, pretended for a moment that the stranger loping along the sea was white instead of black, wondered what would happen when his journey reached its end. But there was only the darkness of the inside of his lids, and without sighing, as he always did otherwise, he opened his eyes again.
It all seemed terribly pointless.
Once, this fanged lullaby had been a constant in his life. The push and pull of the ocean, its whisper as it met rocks; and in storms, its roar as it crashed against the unyielding land. Once, the scent of brine and gull had been as commonplace as that of pine, their discordant chorus echoing up with the capricious winds. So many times had he stood at the edge, peering out into the distance, hooves upon the brink of nothing and heart straining towards some vague, distant future, as splendid and bloody as the sunsets playing before his eyes.
A long time ago, now. Years. He felt older, infinitely old; so old that his heart and soul were heavy, tired, dragging like his tail through the sand. Empty, robbed of those dreams and their brilliant colors.
He wasn't sure why. A few times he'd tried to ask himself, what happened?, but he never had any answer. Whatever store of energy he had had, had run out, and to even dream of tomorrow seemed both futile and vain.
He felt like he had no future. No beginning, no end. Just a constant gray spanning from horizon to horizon; always had, and always would. Memories of joy and life seemed distant, crumbling at his touch, like things he had made up—an empire of dreams that came apart when it met the desolation of reality.
The ocean rushed up, touched him, and pulled back, taunting in its ceaseless cycle. His legs were slick with saltwater, tail a sandy tangle, eyes bearing dully down upon whatever came in their way. How long he'd been walking along the shoreline he couldn't tell, because he couldn't recall when he'd begun, but he thought it was a long time.
It didn't really matter, though. All he did was walk, aimlessly crisscrossing Helovia in the hopes that the futile possibilities would align and his path merge with Ophelia's; it felt like it was all he could do to keep walking. Maybe, in a year or two or four hundred, they'd outrun probability and meet.
He closed his eyes, pretended for a moment that the stranger loping along the sea was white instead of black, wondered what would happen when his journey reached its end. But there was only the darkness of the inside of his lids, and without sighing, as he always did otherwise, he opened his eyes again.
It all seemed terribly pointless.
