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01-17-2015, 08:43 AM
somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
[ Sorry for taking a bit with this, it's a bit hard for me to "go back" to threads once something really life-altering has happened to the character xD so I needed a few days to, I 'unno, remember who he was before that happened... ]
And it's at times like this that he wonders, what the fuck do you do now?. When you think you can hardly get any lower (just wait, you poor, fucking sod), when you think it can't get harder, and when everything is just s h a t t e r i n g ... What do you do? How do you pull yourself together, find some way to slot the fragments back together, and fit? He had broken so many times over so many years that the tiny little pieces of Mauja never came from the same Mauja, so they didn't merge and meld anymore. There were edges and gaps, cuts and corners, sharp, pointed little glass edges sticking out, hairline cracks and impact fractures—and he wasn't sure the fragmented mess that was left would be enough to hold life in his body.
So what do you do? He had no answer, except to weep softly, as he had ever since he saw Ophelia again. Then, it had been sunlight drying them and sweat diluting them; now, it was a bitter wind freezing them, forming crystals on his lashes. Through the blurred curtain he peered at her. Loudmouth. The name seemed almost too cruel now, even though it was the only thing he knew her as, and it didn't matter, not really, because it was only a name.. But even when she stared open-mouthed at him, kinda slack-jawed as if something of major importance had just struck her, she seemed too.. kind for such a nickname. Because.. because she cared. Because she looked at him, and she didn't just see the icy tears flaking off his cheeks and make judgment in a dark, closed-off heart. She looked at him, and she saw something.
He didn't know what. He just knew that it was something. Maybe she just.. knew what it was like, and thus, knew that the last thing he—anyone, in his situation—needed was to be ridiculed, belittled, or somehow otherwise told he sucked now.
It felt unfair, that everyone compared him to the past. It felt unfair that he couldn't shake it off, even when he wanted to.
That he held on so tightly to it, just like the rest of the world. A world that had inherited his legacy of frost and darkness, a Plague upon them all. It was more like a half-remembered dream than something real and tangible out of his past.
His quiet admission seemed to have stunned her, because there were not a lot of words passing her lips. So much for Loudmouth, and he almost felt guilty about it now. It was just.. it was the only thing he knew to call her, though the more poetic depths of his soul spewed out shit like ljósleiftur and hlýja, things that had nothing to do with her, not really, just with what he saw in her electric eyes.
But it didn't matter that she found no words. Because, it wasn't about the words—it was about what she did, and in a way, what she didn't use those cursed words for. And what she did, was care, even though she had no reason. No obligation. No loyalty. But she just did, anyway. And that way she looked at him, blubbed out three words that meant absolutely nothing, was enough. It was more than enough. It was what he needed. Something that meant more than any artfully crafted sentence dropped from stiff, porcelain lips and cold, flat eyes.
More tears welled up, and he still didn't know why, or whence they came. But these tears weren't just there, he could feel them, how they fell from a wound in his soul bleeding light—her brief touch pressing against the hurt like kissing a bruise, so it still hurt but in a better way, and it was beautiful at the same time.
That there still existed a little light in this world.
“…Come on, it’s cold as hell.” It drew a small smile from him, dark lips curving up in a humorless kind of agreement. He wasn't sure he thought it was cold—sure, his cheeks were about to fall off with all the water leeching away his heat—but, he supposed he was used to it. He supposed it was cold, to others, and besides.. he didn't want to argue. What did it matter if he didn't think it was cold, when she did? His tail flicked against his hocks once, and when she turned to a flawless south he followed. It didn't matter where she took him either. Unless she walked him off the edge of the earth, he could live with not knowing.
With a little trust. She had soothed something in him, made a brief, brittle pact of peace with his heart, and, and.. and, while he longed to find Ophelia put things right.. it didn't really matter, if he took a little longer, did it? If he took some time to nurse his own wounds? Some time to just, rest, knowing that someone out in this lonely world cared?
That someone was happy to see him, even after a year or more of absence. That someone was there to tentatively nose his wounded soul.
"Ljós," he whispered to himself as he followed her, his mind unable to find the exact words it wanted to describe the situation, the feeling.
And it's at times like this that he wonders, what the fuck do you do now?. When you think you can hardly get any lower (just wait, you poor, fucking sod), when you think it can't get harder, and when everything is just s h a t t e r i n g ... What do you do? How do you pull yourself together, find some way to slot the fragments back together, and fit? He had broken so many times over so many years that the tiny little pieces of Mauja never came from the same Mauja, so they didn't merge and meld anymore. There were edges and gaps, cuts and corners, sharp, pointed little glass edges sticking out, hairline cracks and impact fractures—and he wasn't sure the fragmented mess that was left would be enough to hold life in his body.
So what do you do? He had no answer, except to weep softly, as he had ever since he saw Ophelia again. Then, it had been sunlight drying them and sweat diluting them; now, it was a bitter wind freezing them, forming crystals on his lashes. Through the blurred curtain he peered at her. Loudmouth. The name seemed almost too cruel now, even though it was the only thing he knew her as, and it didn't matter, not really, because it was only a name.. But even when she stared open-mouthed at him, kinda slack-jawed as if something of major importance had just struck her, she seemed too.. kind for such a nickname. Because.. because she cared. Because she looked at him, and she didn't just see the icy tears flaking off his cheeks and make judgment in a dark, closed-off heart. She looked at him, and she saw something.
He didn't know what. He just knew that it was something. Maybe she just.. knew what it was like, and thus, knew that the last thing he—anyone, in his situation—needed was to be ridiculed, belittled, or somehow otherwise told he sucked now.
It felt unfair, that everyone compared him to the past. It felt unfair that he couldn't shake it off, even when he wanted to.
That he held on so tightly to it, just like the rest of the world. A world that had inherited his legacy of frost and darkness, a Plague upon them all. It was more like a half-remembered dream than something real and tangible out of his past.
His quiet admission seemed to have stunned her, because there were not a lot of words passing her lips. So much for Loudmouth, and he almost felt guilty about it now. It was just.. it was the only thing he knew to call her, though the more poetic depths of his soul spewed out shit like ljósleiftur and hlýja, things that had nothing to do with her, not really, just with what he saw in her electric eyes.
But it didn't matter that she found no words. Because, it wasn't about the words—it was about what she did, and in a way, what she didn't use those cursed words for. And what she did, was care, even though she had no reason. No obligation. No loyalty. But she just did, anyway. And that way she looked at him, blubbed out three words that meant absolutely nothing, was enough. It was more than enough. It was what he needed. Something that meant more than any artfully crafted sentence dropped from stiff, porcelain lips and cold, flat eyes.
More tears welled up, and he still didn't know why, or whence they came. But these tears weren't just there, he could feel them, how they fell from a wound in his soul bleeding light—her brief touch pressing against the hurt like kissing a bruise, so it still hurt but in a better way, and it was beautiful at the same time.
That there still existed a little light in this world.
“…Come on, it’s cold as hell.” It drew a small smile from him, dark lips curving up in a humorless kind of agreement. He wasn't sure he thought it was cold—sure, his cheeks were about to fall off with all the water leeching away his heat—but, he supposed he was used to it. He supposed it was cold, to others, and besides.. he didn't want to argue. What did it matter if he didn't think it was cold, when she did? His tail flicked against his hocks once, and when she turned to a flawless south he followed. It didn't matter where she took him either. Unless she walked him off the edge of the earth, he could live with not knowing.
With a little trust. She had soothed something in him, made a brief, brittle pact of peace with his heart, and, and.. and, while he longed to find Ophelia put things right.. it didn't really matter, if he took a little longer, did it? If he took some time to nurse his own wounds? Some time to just, rest, knowing that someone out in this lonely world cared?
That someone was happy to see him, even after a year or more of absence. That someone was there to tentatively nose his wounded soul.
"Ljós," he whispered to himself as he followed her, his mind unable to find the exact words it wanted to describe the situation, the feeling.
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
