.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
02-02-2015, 03:45 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
It's a dream that's going cold...
The world was a quiet and dark place behind his eyelids, much like the state of half-sleep he sometimes found himself in before returning fully to consciousness—almost like lying in a pool of water, suspended by some power greater than his own, simply floating in the stillness and listening to nothing but the silence of his thoughts. He had disappeared, fled not in body but in mind, delved deep into the ice and its fractured halls, swept far down into places older and deeper than this pain. The landscape he fled to was reminiscent of the Heimasborg, the first home he had ever known. It was safe, secure, strong and steadfast, even thought it was a monument of his bloody past. It seemed ironic that he took refuge in the halls where memories haunted him.
And he hated himself for having run once again, for having abandoned Kahlua out in the sunlight, and for not being able to hold on to his anger. She had come in his moment of weakness and driven swords into his chest, shown him what he was to her, how thin her trust of the ice was—and for a moment he had bitten her back but then he had simply raised his hands and given in, unable to push her from him even when she only brought him more pain.
He wasn't sure solitude would be painless either, though. And.. and in this thick, warm darkness blanketing his tired mind, she brought something else as well.
Comfort.
Warm air blew against a cooling cheek, tickled water-heavy lashes and stirred the long, silken locks of his hair, but she could not breathe life into the body of ice. Mauja remained motionless, something in his heart stumbling, falling, and finally shattering against a hard, distant floor.
He didn't want to curb the feelings with logic and rationality anymore. He didn't want to tell himself he was being dramatic, or that it was just change, or that things might change again, or.. anything, really. It hurt, like letting go, but for a single agonizing moment it was a pure pain, a cleansing flood rushing through stale veins. His stillness broke with a choked gasp, more tears breaking free to slide silently down his cheeks as her head pressed down his neck. She gave the only remedy she had, because he said nothing, put neither names nor faces on his demons.
He didn't believe in peace. He didn't believe in justice. Inaction made him restless. They had no future because he didn't believe he could change that much for her.
And he would never want to drag her down into the darkness with him.
The familiar reaction was a stir somewhere down in the dusty corners of his heart, Medusa raising her head and asking quietly if she ought to turn him to stone again—and turn her away, because if he accepted her warmth now, would it hurt her later when she saw him dressed for battle in his armor again? Spattered with blood?
He was born restless.
Suddenly he flung his head around, horn pointing to the sky, until his cheek and jaw collided painfully with her back. Fervent need and closed eyes made for bad aim, but the moment he touched her, found her in that collision of strong bones and jutting surfaces, he grew soft again, slid his head over the curve of her spine. He had no words for it, nothing quite explaining what he felt as he tried to hook his head over her back and hold her as close as she would let him.
He knew only that for once, he had stopped staring indecisively at all the half-closed doors around him, and simply thrown himself through one of them.
The world was a quiet and dark place behind his eyelids, much like the state of half-sleep he sometimes found himself in before returning fully to consciousness—almost like lying in a pool of water, suspended by some power greater than his own, simply floating in the stillness and listening to nothing but the silence of his thoughts. He had disappeared, fled not in body but in mind, delved deep into the ice and its fractured halls, swept far down into places older and deeper than this pain. The landscape he fled to was reminiscent of the Heimasborg, the first home he had ever known. It was safe, secure, strong and steadfast, even thought it was a monument of his bloody past. It seemed ironic that he took refuge in the halls where memories haunted him.
And he hated himself for having run once again, for having abandoned Kahlua out in the sunlight, and for not being able to hold on to his anger. She had come in his moment of weakness and driven swords into his chest, shown him what he was to her, how thin her trust of the ice was—and for a moment he had bitten her back but then he had simply raised his hands and given in, unable to push her from him even when she only brought him more pain.
He wasn't sure solitude would be painless either, though. And.. and in this thick, warm darkness blanketing his tired mind, she brought something else as well.
Comfort.
Warm air blew against a cooling cheek, tickled water-heavy lashes and stirred the long, silken locks of his hair, but she could not breathe life into the body of ice. Mauja remained motionless, something in his heart stumbling, falling, and finally shattering against a hard, distant floor.
He didn't want to curb the feelings with logic and rationality anymore. He didn't want to tell himself he was being dramatic, or that it was just change, or that things might change again, or.. anything, really. It hurt, like letting go, but for a single agonizing moment it was a pure pain, a cleansing flood rushing through stale veins. His stillness broke with a choked gasp, more tears breaking free to slide silently down his cheeks as her head pressed down his neck. She gave the only remedy she had, because he said nothing, put neither names nor faces on his demons.
He didn't believe in peace. He didn't believe in justice. Inaction made him restless. They had no future because he didn't believe he could change that much for her.
And he would never want to drag her down into the darkness with him.
The familiar reaction was a stir somewhere down in the dusty corners of his heart, Medusa raising her head and asking quietly if she ought to turn him to stone again—and turn her away, because if he accepted her warmth now, would it hurt her later when she saw him dressed for battle in his armor again? Spattered with blood?
He was born restless.
Suddenly he flung his head around, horn pointing to the sky, until his cheek and jaw collided painfully with her back. Fervent need and closed eyes made for bad aim, but the moment he touched her, found her in that collision of strong bones and jutting surfaces, he grew soft again, slid his head over the curve of her spine. He had no words for it, nothing quite explaining what he felt as he tried to hook his head over her back and hold her as close as she would let him.
He knew only that for once, he had stopped staring indecisively at all the half-closed doors around him, and simply thrown himself through one of them.
