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03-04-2015, 04:53 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ sorry for the wait <3 ]
And who is he to say she had validation issues, anyway? It was just a haphazard guess flung into the vortex between them, a plausible conclusion spawned from an over-active mind, analysis made between the lines—the lines of something that might've been nothing, except there was darkness in her. For a brief moment all the sorrow in the world took up residence in her young eyes, clouding and darkening, and he felt something in his heart.
It was that voice again, singing its dark song, the one Elding had taught him—
Death, death, death...
The song that was nothing but pain; the memory of it, the fear of it, the certainty of it. Pain would always follow, would always find. It was inevitable, and the way of the world, like an old friend coming to greet you with its sharp little knives. They slid so easily through skin, through bones, needles slipping through veins as they hunted hearts.
He knew what it felt like, when your eyes became like that, heart haunted by those memories. He knew it and the little stab going through his own was part memory, part sympathy. She was even younger than he had been when he first learned just how much it hurt to lose.
Would it set her on the same path that he had walked? The one of calloused hearts and locked-up emotions, of drowning in seas of guilt, and eventually being washed up on a bone-white, desolate shore, and finding yourself a husk—hollow, and uncaring? Would she have to walk the same road of fear, the inability to let someone in, and the long years of attempting to undo the soul-knots time had pulled tighter and tighter?
Would she, too, lack the courage to love?
Kah—
And nothing he said would bring—
Fuck, he wanted to spit it into the sand, to yell, to rush the spotted little girl and hold her close and breathe on her until her heart was warm and all the pain was gone, until she fucking forgot the sadness that had, for the merest moment, swallowed her world.
And it had been so brief, just a flash of it, and if he hadn't been looking at her he wouldn't have known, and if he hadn't known.. Would it have mattered? What would he have done? What could he do, anyway? He knew the truth of things; whatever she had lost, whoever she had lost, were lost, and nothing could bring them back. Life took and when it spat you out again it was in this godforsaken land, and he wondered who were the strongest: those who stayed, or those who left?
He felt weak, out of breath, but he hadn't done anything except remember a few things, old memories, newer memories, snatches of conversation and thought, emotion coursing through his veins and crippling him. It was a certain kind of poison, sweet and hot and numbing all at once, fear and hope and everything—trepidation. He knew something—one thing—in that moment, and he wondered for how long would remember.. when he would forget.. if he would forget...
"I will tell you, but I would like to have you answer a question for me as well, if that's alright."
He couldn't manage a single word in response, throat locked up as tightly as his heart (it was trembling in his chest, kept safe by ribs and shields of ice). Just nodded mutely, barely even registering her.. statement? Question? He'd have to answer something. So what? In that moment he had the answers to every question the stars could've asked of him, but for the love of everything he couldn't—didn't dare—to formulate the thought. Just breathed, evenly, deeply, peering at the girl with crystalline eyes, revealing nothing but attentive curiosity.
Nothing of the storm raging beneath his pristine skin.
She moved, then, at first thoughtlessly, reaching out a black muzzle towards a spotted shoulder—his head canted to one side, all those things still making his heart race in his throat (he was glad it had buried those other thoughts), but something gave her pause. He felt her hot breath against his skin, against some scar left by a long-forgotten enemy (they probably didn't deserve what he'd done to them, life-thief)—blood racing, world spinning, and for a moment he had the impulse to throw himself at her, just to close the gap and feel something tangible, solid, real.
But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at her from behind the white veil of his forelock, breathing, breathing, breathing, pulse yelling death and love with a single voice. And then she was pulling back, as if something about his body had frightened her, as if the shield around his mind could be felt, or the ice in his veins an aura, something to make her pause, and finally, not dare.
It took effort to rein his thoughts in, to catch hold of his mind again—it had slipped away, out of control, out of reach, having forsaken its musings on princesses and kings and the theories of validation for something that revolved entirely around him.. and that messed-up thing suspended in his chest.
I think they call it a heart.
She was speaking. He had asked, so he had to listen, to fight down the nauseating fear, push himself out of his own mind.. find that space, those vast, empty caverns of crystal and ice and focus. His eyes closed for the briefest of moments, black-rimmed ears flickering, ".. taught me how to play and have fun, and although it was just us, she made every day something wonderful...", and something in him was finally letting go of that weakening, sickening sensation. Breathing became easier, without him having to pretend that it was. "I was playing one day-"
And then she was crying, a soft sound as if her tears were scalding hot with shame. It came so abruptly it took him a moment to register, to realize, to understand. She had been abandoned at birth, taken in by a deaf-mute nag, and then—lost her, to something, to the world or to death or.. his mind looped back a few steps. Validation. Could a wound from the first day of her life have left such a deep scar? Could it be that he was, in a way, right?
She had turned her head away, tucked her head, and a slight frown creased his 'brows. It was not easy to cry, less so in front of others, but he knew what it had done to Elding—purged her wound. Were these dignified tears a precursor to that? Did she turn away because she did not want him to see, because she wanted them ignored, or because she wasn't sure she could entrust him with them? After all, she knew nothing of him, and if she did, would she even dare stand so close? He might've washed himself clean of blood but he would never forget its scent, its heat upon his snowy skin...
Silently he reached out, soft muzzle aiming to brush over her neck, to offer what comfort he could—which was not much. He was Mauja, frostheart and ice king, sitting all alone upon his frozen throne in a cold, empty fortress as the sun rose outside and fell on high walls and barred windows.
But old wood grows winded and cracked, and maybe, just maybe, there's a thin sliver of sunlight falling through those warped passages and touching the stone floor of his soul.
And so, maybe, he's Mauja—
—the Light of Dawn—
—and he gives what he can, which isn't much, but it's giving all the same.
[ @[Myrrine] ]
And who is he to say she had validation issues, anyway? It was just a haphazard guess flung into the vortex between them, a plausible conclusion spawned from an over-active mind, analysis made between the lines—the lines of something that might've been nothing, except there was darkness in her. For a brief moment all the sorrow in the world took up residence in her young eyes, clouding and darkening, and he felt something in his heart.
It was that voice again, singing its dark song, the one Elding had taught him—
Death, death, death...
The song that was nothing but pain; the memory of it, the fear of it, the certainty of it. Pain would always follow, would always find. It was inevitable, and the way of the world, like an old friend coming to greet you with its sharp little knives. They slid so easily through skin, through bones, needles slipping through veins as they hunted hearts.
He knew what it felt like, when your eyes became like that, heart haunted by those memories. He knew it and the little stab going through his own was part memory, part sympathy. She was even younger than he had been when he first learned just how much it hurt to lose.
Would it set her on the same path that he had walked? The one of calloused hearts and locked-up emotions, of drowning in seas of guilt, and eventually being washed up on a bone-white, desolate shore, and finding yourself a husk—hollow, and uncaring? Would she have to walk the same road of fear, the inability to let someone in, and the long years of attempting to undo the soul-knots time had pulled tighter and tighter?
Would she, too, lack the courage to love?
Kah—
And nothing he said would bring—
Fuck, he wanted to spit it into the sand, to yell, to rush the spotted little girl and hold her close and breathe on her until her heart was warm and all the pain was gone, until she fucking forgot the sadness that had, for the merest moment, swallowed her world.
And it had been so brief, just a flash of it, and if he hadn't been looking at her he wouldn't have known, and if he hadn't known.. Would it have mattered? What would he have done? What could he do, anyway? He knew the truth of things; whatever she had lost, whoever she had lost, were lost, and nothing could bring them back. Life took and when it spat you out again it was in this godforsaken land, and he wondered who were the strongest: those who stayed, or those who left?
He felt weak, out of breath, but he hadn't done anything except remember a few things, old memories, newer memories, snatches of conversation and thought, emotion coursing through his veins and crippling him. It was a certain kind of poison, sweet and hot and numbing all at once, fear and hope and everything—trepidation. He knew something—one thing—in that moment, and he wondered for how long would remember.. when he would forget.. if he would forget...
"I will tell you, but I would like to have you answer a question for me as well, if that's alright."
He couldn't manage a single word in response, throat locked up as tightly as his heart (it was trembling in his chest, kept safe by ribs and shields of ice). Just nodded mutely, barely even registering her.. statement? Question? He'd have to answer something. So what? In that moment he had the answers to every question the stars could've asked of him, but for the love of everything he couldn't—didn't dare—to formulate the thought. Just breathed, evenly, deeply, peering at the girl with crystalline eyes, revealing nothing but attentive curiosity.
Nothing of the storm raging beneath his pristine skin.
She moved, then, at first thoughtlessly, reaching out a black muzzle towards a spotted shoulder—his head canted to one side, all those things still making his heart race in his throat (he was glad it had buried those other thoughts), but something gave her pause. He felt her hot breath against his skin, against some scar left by a long-forgotten enemy (they probably didn't deserve what he'd done to them, life-thief)—blood racing, world spinning, and for a moment he had the impulse to throw himself at her, just to close the gap and feel something tangible, solid, real.
But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at her from behind the white veil of his forelock, breathing, breathing, breathing, pulse yelling death and love with a single voice. And then she was pulling back, as if something about his body had frightened her, as if the shield around his mind could be felt, or the ice in his veins an aura, something to make her pause, and finally, not dare.
It took effort to rein his thoughts in, to catch hold of his mind again—it had slipped away, out of control, out of reach, having forsaken its musings on princesses and kings and the theories of validation for something that revolved entirely around him.. and that messed-up thing suspended in his chest.
I think they call it a heart.
She was speaking. He had asked, so he had to listen, to fight down the nauseating fear, push himself out of his own mind.. find that space, those vast, empty caverns of crystal and ice and focus. His eyes closed for the briefest of moments, black-rimmed ears flickering, ".. taught me how to play and have fun, and although it was just us, she made every day something wonderful...", and something in him was finally letting go of that weakening, sickening sensation. Breathing became easier, without him having to pretend that it was. "I was playing one day-"
And then she was crying, a soft sound as if her tears were scalding hot with shame. It came so abruptly it took him a moment to register, to realize, to understand. She had been abandoned at birth, taken in by a deaf-mute nag, and then—lost her, to something, to the world or to death or.. his mind looped back a few steps. Validation. Could a wound from the first day of her life have left such a deep scar? Could it be that he was, in a way, right?
She had turned her head away, tucked her head, and a slight frown creased his 'brows. It was not easy to cry, less so in front of others, but he knew what it had done to Elding—purged her wound. Were these dignified tears a precursor to that? Did she turn away because she did not want him to see, because she wanted them ignored, or because she wasn't sure she could entrust him with them? After all, she knew nothing of him, and if she did, would she even dare stand so close? He might've washed himself clean of blood but he would never forget its scent, its heat upon his snowy skin...
Silently he reached out, soft muzzle aiming to brush over her neck, to offer what comfort he could—which was not much. He was Mauja, frostheart and ice king, sitting all alone upon his frozen throne in a cold, empty fortress as the sun rose outside and fell on high walls and barred windows.
But old wood grows winded and cracked, and maybe, just maybe, there's a thin sliver of sunlight falling through those warped passages and touching the stone floor of his soul.
And so, maybe, he's Mauja—
—the Light of Dawn—
—and he gives what he can, which isn't much, but it's giving all the same.
[ @[Myrrine] ]
