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03-07-2015, 03:55 AM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
.. and my heart would forget it's made of glass ...
It had never actively struck him how close they were—how close they always ended up being. He never thought about it, because it felt natural, to press against her, and hold her, white neck draped over her back. In a way.. it felt more right than anything else he had known for a very, very long time. His life had derailed many years ago, and ever since he'd been adrift in a storm, tossed this way or that as much by the whims of the world as by the whims of his own self—but even that grows tiresome, and at some point, you get tired of those vast, open, dark seas, and of the wind whirling you about.
But next to Kahlua, he was grounded. Next to her, the wind didn't keen in his ears, and he didn't feel quite so lost (in some ways; in others, he felt more lost than ever). Somehow, she kept him safe from the storms blowing within him, but as he stood there with his head resting against her flank, feeling the tick of her heartbeat through their bodies, he wondered if all the sharp fragments blowing about inside of him ever cut her, too.
Hurting her was about the last thing he wanted, but it was how it went, didn't it? That sometimes you got hurt—and the more you cared, the harder it hit.
He knew that. He knew all of that very well.
But it didn't matter anymore. He had forgiven her. He would probably keep on forgiving her, the icy walls thrown up in defense of his tattered heart melted each time she came close—each time they wound up like this, tangled up in each other. The warmth of her soul outdid the heat of her skin by miles.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispered across his back, a flurry of warmth tracing its finger across his spine along with the words. Weakly, his heart protested, because he wanted to thank her, for the stone, for cracking the tears out of his hardened skull, for.. for existing. For everything she had, knowingly or not, done for him. For everything she did to him. It was huge and it was terrifying but for that moment, with her there, it felt possible—hopeful—like he could overcome it... Where it would lead him, he had no idea. “Have you ever said no to a god?”
To a.. god?
He let his eyes slip closed, and his mind wander. Many years ago, the Sun had descended from the sky in this very forest, to carelessly burn it and those who called it home—one of Mauja's first meetings with the fires of Helovia, and the beginning of the end, irrational sparks of anger being struck at the Qian intrusion.. high and mighty words that did little to soothe the burnt and raw skin of his people, or the fear of flames burning hot in their souls. Mauja's anger and condemnation of the fiery God. The dim, distant pain of the Moon's perceived betrayal, the confessions rolling off d'Artagnan's tongue. And those five raven feathers burning in the fires of Helovia's Heart, when the final nail had been struck deep into the coffin—Spark, rubbing salt into half-closed wounds and tugging them open again.
Earth, Sól, Moon-bitch and Asni. Had he ever said no to them?
Never outright. They had never asked him for anything, after all.
"Not exactly," he said after that moment—how long had it been, five seconds? ten?—tilting his head upon her back until he could peer up at the open sky. Only a sliver of blood-red remained by the horizon, otherwise the night had come rolling in with its blanket of cold, distant stars. They twinkled and shimmered, reminding him of all the things he wished he could forget. "But they've never asked anything of me, anyway. We.. don't always get along very well," it was a murmur and a small smile playing on his face, the corners of his mouth curling up. The understatement of the year—the truth was that he hated a few of them, viciously, that he had told, in his own way, at least two of them to fuck off, and on multiple occasions.. sort of.. ish. Absently, he rubbed his jaw against the curve of her ribs. "Why?"
It had never actively struck him how close they were—how close they always ended up being. He never thought about it, because it felt natural, to press against her, and hold her, white neck draped over her back. In a way.. it felt more right than anything else he had known for a very, very long time. His life had derailed many years ago, and ever since he'd been adrift in a storm, tossed this way or that as much by the whims of the world as by the whims of his own self—but even that grows tiresome, and at some point, you get tired of those vast, open, dark seas, and of the wind whirling you about.
But next to Kahlua, he was grounded. Next to her, the wind didn't keen in his ears, and he didn't feel quite so lost (in some ways; in others, he felt more lost than ever). Somehow, she kept him safe from the storms blowing within him, but as he stood there with his head resting against her flank, feeling the tick of her heartbeat through their bodies, he wondered if all the sharp fragments blowing about inside of him ever cut her, too.
Hurting her was about the last thing he wanted, but it was how it went, didn't it? That sometimes you got hurt—and the more you cared, the harder it hit.
He knew that. He knew all of that very well.
But it didn't matter anymore. He had forgiven her. He would probably keep on forgiving her, the icy walls thrown up in defense of his tattered heart melted each time she came close—each time they wound up like this, tangled up in each other. The warmth of her soul outdid the heat of her skin by miles.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispered across his back, a flurry of warmth tracing its finger across his spine along with the words. Weakly, his heart protested, because he wanted to thank her, for the stone, for cracking the tears out of his hardened skull, for.. for existing. For everything she had, knowingly or not, done for him. For everything she did to him. It was huge and it was terrifying but for that moment, with her there, it felt possible—hopeful—like he could overcome it... Where it would lead him, he had no idea. “Have you ever said no to a god?”
To a.. god?
He let his eyes slip closed, and his mind wander. Many years ago, the Sun had descended from the sky in this very forest, to carelessly burn it and those who called it home—one of Mauja's first meetings with the fires of Helovia, and the beginning of the end, irrational sparks of anger being struck at the Qian intrusion.. high and mighty words that did little to soothe the burnt and raw skin of his people, or the fear of flames burning hot in their souls. Mauja's anger and condemnation of the fiery God. The dim, distant pain of the Moon's perceived betrayal, the confessions rolling off d'Artagnan's tongue. And those five raven feathers burning in the fires of Helovia's Heart, when the final nail had been struck deep into the coffin—Spark, rubbing salt into half-closed wounds and tugging them open again.
Earth, Sól, Moon-bitch and Asni. Had he ever said no to them?
Never outright. They had never asked him for anything, after all.
"Not exactly," he said after that moment—how long had it been, five seconds? ten?—tilting his head upon her back until he could peer up at the open sky. Only a sliver of blood-red remained by the horizon, otherwise the night had come rolling in with its blanket of cold, distant stars. They twinkled and shimmered, reminding him of all the things he wished he could forget. "But they've never asked anything of me, anyway. We.. don't always get along very well," it was a murmur and a small smile playing on his face, the corners of his mouth curling up. The understatement of the year—the truth was that he hated a few of them, viciously, that he had told, in his own way, at least two of them to fuck off, and on multiple occasions.. sort of.. ish. Absently, he rubbed his jaw against the curve of her ribs. "Why?"
du lät exakt som ismael.
