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03-07-2015, 05:06 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
What is he?
Lover, father, friend and foe, protector and guardian, sentinel, ice revenant, frost-wraith and snowbeast, the one who shrieks in the northern wind—he is everything, and yet, he is none of those things. Because he is Mauja, a torn soul, a thousand shades of blue, described by a million different traits but restricted, bound, by none. He has capacity for great love, but also for great cruelty. He is both the lord and the one who listens—the one who leads, and the one who follows. So it doesn't matter what they ask; who are you? What are you? Because he is not a single thing. There is no one thing he can pick out as defining him more than any other. The only thing he is, is himself, as vast as the glaciers but hiding a Wolf-Rayet heart beneath.
Somehow, he's gone from being lost and confused to being the one who puts the pieces back together.
She wasn't old enough to have been struck into a myriad of fragments yet. She wasn't old enough to be a cracked artwork the likes of he, a glass statue struck time and again, old and weathered and worn—some features smoothed out, jagged edges where bits had fallen out slowly filed down again by rain and sand blown about. She was still young. She was still relatively whole.
But isn't it in breaking that we become unique? Isn't it in how we handle pain that we grow? If all was joy—if all was perfect—if everything was whole and happy and you had never known the soul-wrenching pain that devoured everything and stranded you in the most absolute of darknesses .. how would you know what you had? Mauja had seen complacent princes (and princesses), spoiled and bored with their safe, royal lives. He had seen some of them turn to torment for sport.
He had seen some of them brought low and made human again.
He had seen them learn to cry out of fear and pain.
And somewhere along the road he had realized that you needed pain as much as you needed joy, because without one the other could not wholly exist.
It's just when your soul has grown tired that you fear the pain. And that's when you lose sight of life.
His sun had been clouded over long ago.
But that's not what this is about.
There was a limit to how many broken pieces his soft, velvet nose could shunt back into place. There was a limit in how much of the pain of others he could carry on his shoulders, no matter how briefly. And that was why he was, in a way, grateful that she was so young, that her pains numbered so few, that her bruises were new yet and, hopefully, slowly healing—that she wasn't so full of jagged edges he would cut himself on by accident.
But gods he didn't need her inflaming his mind with thoughts again. It sprang up like a fire, something hot and harsh and biting, snapping at his face with flame-fangs and a long, forked tongue whipping out to strike him between the eyes. She was pressing into his chest, a memory that tasted of Glacia and how she had broken her own walls down, a moment that tasted too much of what he had thought of before—of all the things he could do to her.
Though maybe it isn't about what you think, either—maybe it's about what you do with it.. with what you know, what your thoughts are. Which impulses you act upon, and which ones you don't.
He'd certainly been hugging a lot of little girls lately.
Ew. He wanted to spit the thought out and fill his mouth with sand to wash it clean. What was wrong with his head sometimes?
"I was playing one day," the story went on, his head having fallen down her neck to her withers, the strength of his neck holding her, but lightly, not wanting to trap her in an embrace he was strong enough to hold but she maybe wasn't strong enough to break out of. The sound of her crying had gone softer, her voice a little thicker, and just like how he knew that pain was vital, he knew that it hurt—that every loss marked you in a way, altering you. It was the way of the world. You never went to sleep the same man that you woke up as.
She spoke of squirrels and pools of water, before finally moving back, slipping out of his grasp like liquid—and he let her go, remembering a dream in which he had lain in water, crawling out of it only to find.. her.
And they had raced the world's ending; she, as lithe and graceful as a doe, and he, the destruction raining stars and tearing the heavens open in her wake.
Promises shared in the darkness of a cave, red roses blooming and gilt light spilling out of the cracks in his body.
The End.
He knew what he knew, but it did not mean it had to hurt any less.
"So ... I suppose that is my tale." He nodded, slowly, mutely again, something distant drawn across his blue eyes—his mind was rambling, for a moment struck by the thought that he, too, needed to find a brilliant pool of water and fall into and climb out of it with wings—
But he startled the thought away, watched it disappear like a flock of birds taking sudden flight. It was not what he was here to think of, that other, unasked question lying on the tip of his tongue, wanting out, whispering in his heart the words he dared not speak—what is it like, to fly?—but he swallowed it, merely shaking his head. He had no more question for her, because the one he had was one he dared not ask. So he buried it, next to all the other little secrets he carried within him.
And then—and only then—did it creep up on him, what he had agreed to, the bargain he had struck with her.. her secrets, for a secret of his.
He was Mauja—he was the one who said nothing of himself, the one who gave nothing more away than little smiles and guarded glances, the one who offered nothing of his thoughts and secrets.
The only time he had spoken of himself had been to a sleeping youngster, in a language she did not know.
His heart is racing in his chest, now, trying to outpace the inevitable. Her gaze was roaming, and was that hunger in it, or just his own fear reflecting in the darkness? And how long was it that she looked, making it feel like an eternity, the cracks growing wider under her scrutiny—spit out already, spit it out, and he wasn't afraid of her—he was afraid of where she wanted him to go. He was afraid of his own introspection.
He was afraid of the pain.
"Why do you hide yourself behind such an emotionless expression?"
He wasn't surprised. Or, in a way he was, because ever since he had learned to mask what he felt with nothing but calm, quiet curiosity, no one had bothered to ask him why he bore his emotions with such precise control. But at the same time, there by the gently glowing sea, he wasn't surprised it was the one thing she caught on to, and held on to. Perhaps that was his greatest mystery to her, she who wore her heart on her sleeve and smiled so brightly.
But what do you say to answer such a question? Habit? But it wasn't—it was slipping anyway, wasn't it? He'd been weeping like a madman for months, unable to stop it, unable to control it, and he had known rage like he never had before, confusion, loss, had worn some of it so openly that surely he wouldn't have recognized himself if he'd been able to review the scene...
"Armor," he finally said, quietly, the first thing he had said in a while. His voice was low, and his gaze slipped out to the dark, distant horizon.
And then he said no more.
[ his horn actually doesn't glow, which is about the only thing that struck me ^^ aaand the dream I talked about is from this thread; the lanterns won't go out at night @[Myrrine] also what the fuck why do these posts end up so derpily huge?! ]
Lover, father, friend and foe, protector and guardian, sentinel, ice revenant, frost-wraith and snowbeast, the one who shrieks in the northern wind—he is everything, and yet, he is none of those things. Because he is Mauja, a torn soul, a thousand shades of blue, described by a million different traits but restricted, bound, by none. He has capacity for great love, but also for great cruelty. He is both the lord and the one who listens—the one who leads, and the one who follows. So it doesn't matter what they ask; who are you? What are you? Because he is not a single thing. There is no one thing he can pick out as defining him more than any other. The only thing he is, is himself, as vast as the glaciers but hiding a Wolf-Rayet heart beneath.
Somehow, he's gone from being lost and confused to being the one who puts the pieces back together.
She wasn't old enough to have been struck into a myriad of fragments yet. She wasn't old enough to be a cracked artwork the likes of he, a glass statue struck time and again, old and weathered and worn—some features smoothed out, jagged edges where bits had fallen out slowly filed down again by rain and sand blown about. She was still young. She was still relatively whole.
But isn't it in breaking that we become unique? Isn't it in how we handle pain that we grow? If all was joy—if all was perfect—if everything was whole and happy and you had never known the soul-wrenching pain that devoured everything and stranded you in the most absolute of darknesses .. how would you know what you had? Mauja had seen complacent princes (and princesses), spoiled and bored with their safe, royal lives. He had seen some of them turn to torment for sport.
He had seen some of them brought low and made human again.
He had seen them learn to cry out of fear and pain.
And somewhere along the road he had realized that you needed pain as much as you needed joy, because without one the other could not wholly exist.
It's just when your soul has grown tired that you fear the pain. And that's when you lose sight of life.
His sun had been clouded over long ago.
But that's not what this is about.
There was a limit to how many broken pieces his soft, velvet nose could shunt back into place. There was a limit in how much of the pain of others he could carry on his shoulders, no matter how briefly. And that was why he was, in a way, grateful that she was so young, that her pains numbered so few, that her bruises were new yet and, hopefully, slowly healing—that she wasn't so full of jagged edges he would cut himself on by accident.
But gods he didn't need her inflaming his mind with thoughts again. It sprang up like a fire, something hot and harsh and biting, snapping at his face with flame-fangs and a long, forked tongue whipping out to strike him between the eyes. She was pressing into his chest, a memory that tasted of Glacia and how she had broken her own walls down, a moment that tasted too much of what he had thought of before—of all the things he could do to her.
Though maybe it isn't about what you think, either—maybe it's about what you do with it.. with what you know, what your thoughts are. Which impulses you act upon, and which ones you don't.
He'd certainly been hugging a lot of little girls lately.
Ew. He wanted to spit the thought out and fill his mouth with sand to wash it clean. What was wrong with his head sometimes?
"I was playing one day," the story went on, his head having fallen down her neck to her withers, the strength of his neck holding her, but lightly, not wanting to trap her in an embrace he was strong enough to hold but she maybe wasn't strong enough to break out of. The sound of her crying had gone softer, her voice a little thicker, and just like how he knew that pain was vital, he knew that it hurt—that every loss marked you in a way, altering you. It was the way of the world. You never went to sleep the same man that you woke up as.
She spoke of squirrels and pools of water, before finally moving back, slipping out of his grasp like liquid—and he let her go, remembering a dream in which he had lain in water, crawling out of it only to find.. her.
And they had raced the world's ending; she, as lithe and graceful as a doe, and he, the destruction raining stars and tearing the heavens open in her wake.
Promises shared in the darkness of a cave, red roses blooming and gilt light spilling out of the cracks in his body.
The End.
He knew what he knew, but it did not mean it had to hurt any less.
"So ... I suppose that is my tale." He nodded, slowly, mutely again, something distant drawn across his blue eyes—his mind was rambling, for a moment struck by the thought that he, too, needed to find a brilliant pool of water and fall into and climb out of it with wings—
But he startled the thought away, watched it disappear like a flock of birds taking sudden flight. It was not what he was here to think of, that other, unasked question lying on the tip of his tongue, wanting out, whispering in his heart the words he dared not speak—what is it like, to fly?—but he swallowed it, merely shaking his head. He had no more question for her, because the one he had was one he dared not ask. So he buried it, next to all the other little secrets he carried within him.
And then—and only then—did it creep up on him, what he had agreed to, the bargain he had struck with her.. her secrets, for a secret of his.
He was Mauja—he was the one who said nothing of himself, the one who gave nothing more away than little smiles and guarded glances, the one who offered nothing of his thoughts and secrets.
The only time he had spoken of himself had been to a sleeping youngster, in a language she did not know.
His heart is racing in his chest, now, trying to outpace the inevitable. Her gaze was roaming, and was that hunger in it, or just his own fear reflecting in the darkness? And how long was it that she looked, making it feel like an eternity, the cracks growing wider under her scrutiny—spit out already, spit it out, and he wasn't afraid of her—he was afraid of where she wanted him to go. He was afraid of his own introspection.
He was afraid of the pain.
"Why do you hide yourself behind such an emotionless expression?"
He wasn't surprised. Or, in a way he was, because ever since he had learned to mask what he felt with nothing but calm, quiet curiosity, no one had bothered to ask him why he bore his emotions with such precise control. But at the same time, there by the gently glowing sea, he wasn't surprised it was the one thing she caught on to, and held on to. Perhaps that was his greatest mystery to her, she who wore her heart on her sleeve and smiled so brightly.
But what do you say to answer such a question? Habit? But it wasn't—it was slipping anyway, wasn't it? He'd been weeping like a madman for months, unable to stop it, unable to control it, and he had known rage like he never had before, confusion, loss, had worn some of it so openly that surely he wouldn't have recognized himself if he'd been able to review the scene...
"Armor," he finally said, quietly, the first thing he had said in a while. His voice was low, and his gaze slipped out to the dark, distant horizon.
And then he said no more.
[ his horn actually doesn't glow, which is about the only thing that struck me ^^ aaand the dream I talked about is from this thread; the lanterns won't go out at night @[Myrrine] also what the fuck why do these posts end up so derpily huge?! ]
