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01-14-2015, 11:20 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The name of the void in his chest was Apathy, and with each passing breath it yawned wider and wider, consuming all his righteous anger and all his sharp-edged pain, until nothing but a dull, throbbing ache remained somewhere in the region of his heart.
But he wasn't there, not yet. It still hurt, keenly, a burning in the back of his mouth—a hitch in his breathing, and the stagger of his heart.
Something so fundamentally simple as a dead horse had taken his world, rattled it and shaken it, and where he had previously been adrift he was now completely lost. But what does it matter? the cold voice of his logic whispered, you never saw her anyway, but it did matter because.. if he had reached out, she would've been there. If he'd asked, silently, for her forgiveness again, he could've received it. And if he had wanted, as he had but never dared, they could've walked beneath the stars and spoken of all the things they ought to have. Who they had become. Who 'they' even were—they had shared much, and who they had been had had a chance at a future of dark love, but who they had become had grown apart in that regard.
Perhaps he had cared more than she, in his own way. Perhaps he always held on too tightly, except he never dared to let it show.
His ears flicked to Snö's angry defense of his honor, gaze sliding meaninglessly off the dun and to gaze behind him at a funeral pyre. He found himself with so many questions and doubts, but he'd never get any answers, any reassurance, from her now.
"Go ahead. Gaucho not do this."
Words held nothing but the air they were carried on, and air was as intangible as truth, so in the end, words were meaningless. He'd bent them often enough himself to know that. But he said nothing. Just stood mutely by as Ophelia said she would look into his mind, and for another second nothing changed—and then the words hit home. Look into his mind. Could she do that..? For a moment, the sorrow and directionless anger was devoured by horror: had she ever touched his thoughts..? And Gods if she did, he would seem the most creepy, obsessed, miserable old stalker she'd ever come across.
Seem. Was. Bah. Maybe he was. Maybe he needed a reality check. But in the next moment he realized that she probably couldn't. There was that wall of ice around his mind.
As untouchable as a glacier. Suddenly it seemed like isolation, and not a blessing.
The moment passed as something in the air shifted—he couldn't put his hoof on what it was, but it was something that stirred him from his blue thoughts. One black-rimmed ear flicked, eyes blinking, turning sideways and onto Ophelia.
The world stopped again. His heart stopped, every thought blown away by what he saw, and heard; her whitening eyes, her sloping posture, the ragged, tired breathing coming out of her lungs. "Ophelia..?" he whispered, terrified that he would lose another one today. Black muzzle reached out, quivering slightly in the tense air, until its soft tip rested against the point of her hip. What foul, vile, sorcery was this? He didn't even have time to be angry, just stared at her, stricken with panic, his tired mind unable to contain the flow of incoherent thoughts and fears.
And just as abruptly as it had come, it went away. Life returned to her eyes, a groan broke the rhythmic struggle of her breathing, and Mauja—guilty, guilty of touching her in an attempt to anchor her to this life—pulled back. He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to have noticed or not. Once, he wouldn't have been afraid. Once, he would've been able to sling his neck over her back and hold her, shield her from the world, and feel her pulse just against his skin as it thrummed through her chest.
It felt like a lifetime ago, and every ounce of shame Psyche's death had brought out could be applied to her as well. The easy companionship they had had was as dead as the Empress, and in his exhaustion the thought grew insurmountable. Broken and helpless he looked at her, not caring that Gaucho stared daggers at him as if looks could kill—he couldn't care. He couldn't even speak. He could just stare at her with a shattered expression of at least fifty shades of pain.
But he wasn't there, not yet. It still hurt, keenly, a burning in the back of his mouth—a hitch in his breathing, and the stagger of his heart.
Something so fundamentally simple as a dead horse had taken his world, rattled it and shaken it, and where he had previously been adrift he was now completely lost. But what does it matter? the cold voice of his logic whispered, you never saw her anyway, but it did matter because.. if he had reached out, she would've been there. If he'd asked, silently, for her forgiveness again, he could've received it. And if he had wanted, as he had but never dared, they could've walked beneath the stars and spoken of all the things they ought to have. Who they had become. Who 'they' even were—they had shared much, and who they had been had had a chance at a future of dark love, but who they had become had grown apart in that regard.
Perhaps he had cared more than she, in his own way. Perhaps he always held on too tightly, except he never dared to let it show.
His ears flicked to Snö's angry defense of his honor, gaze sliding meaninglessly off the dun and to gaze behind him at a funeral pyre. He found himself with so many questions and doubts, but he'd never get any answers, any reassurance, from her now.
"Go ahead. Gaucho not do this."
Words held nothing but the air they were carried on, and air was as intangible as truth, so in the end, words were meaningless. He'd bent them often enough himself to know that. But he said nothing. Just stood mutely by as Ophelia said she would look into his mind, and for another second nothing changed—and then the words hit home. Look into his mind. Could she do that..? For a moment, the sorrow and directionless anger was devoured by horror: had she ever touched his thoughts..? And Gods if she did, he would seem the most creepy, obsessed, miserable old stalker she'd ever come across.
Seem. Was. Bah. Maybe he was. Maybe he needed a reality check. But in the next moment he realized that she probably couldn't. There was that wall of ice around his mind.
As untouchable as a glacier. Suddenly it seemed like isolation, and not a blessing.
The moment passed as something in the air shifted—he couldn't put his hoof on what it was, but it was something that stirred him from his blue thoughts. One black-rimmed ear flicked, eyes blinking, turning sideways and onto Ophelia.
The world stopped again. His heart stopped, every thought blown away by what he saw, and heard; her whitening eyes, her sloping posture, the ragged, tired breathing coming out of her lungs. "Ophelia..?" he whispered, terrified that he would lose another one today. Black muzzle reached out, quivering slightly in the tense air, until its soft tip rested against the point of her hip. What foul, vile, sorcery was this? He didn't even have time to be angry, just stared at her, stricken with panic, his tired mind unable to contain the flow of incoherent thoughts and fears.
And just as abruptly as it had come, it went away. Life returned to her eyes, a groan broke the rhythmic struggle of her breathing, and Mauja—guilty, guilty of touching her in an attempt to anchor her to this life—pulled back. He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to have noticed or not. Once, he wouldn't have been afraid. Once, he would've been able to sling his neck over her back and hold her, shield her from the world, and feel her pulse just against his skin as it thrummed through her chest.
It felt like a lifetime ago, and every ounce of shame Psyche's death had brought out could be applied to her as well. The easy companionship they had had was as dead as the Empress, and in his exhaustion the thought grew insurmountable. Broken and helpless he looked at her, not caring that Gaucho stared daggers at him as if looks could kill—he couldn't care. He couldn't even speak. He could just stare at her with a shattered expression of at least fifty shades of pain.
