.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
04-05-2015, 05:49 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The air seemed heavier, weighing in around them, around him, pressing in from every direction. It was colder and thicker in his lungs, closing in around heart and mind, pregnant with the angel's irritation and the intruder's hurt—standing next to her he could practically feel the doors closing around her thoughts, and the small, twinkling flame of her mischief going out in the face of these cold beings she had found. He shifted, a creature carved from ice and marble, one pale blue eye settling on her spotted body, confidence caving in beneath ribs and flesh. Had he helped do this? She had come with, he guessed, good intentions, maybe a little lonely on this foggy night, stumbling along blindly like the rest of them, groping for the fireflies in the dark because they were the only points of light.
And she'd found an ice revenant and a sleeping angel, none of them mortal enough for her humor—but was it her fault that she had found a stranger and accidentally punched him straight in his weak spot? Was it her fault that her words had been about the only thing Mauja actually feared about himself? The one thing that whenever it happened, just happened, even against his better judgment (because let's be fair, it's pretty much always been)?
Was it her fault?
No.
She didn't know him; couldn't have known, still didn't but maybe she had a hunch, pulling back into herself as if they'd bitten her face. He felt a flash of guilt needling its way through his heart, and his head tilted, slow and steady, until both of his eyes had locked onto her through a curtain-veil of silken white hairs. She had come in, full of confidence and life, and with a single, heavy sentence he had helped to reduce her to this, black-and-white embers gone out long ago. If he breathed on them, could the fire spark back into life?
Or did they have to wait for the sun with all its heat to warm her heart again?
Why the fuck do I even care?
(Because you're Mauja, the Light of Dawn, the faux-angel whose only wings are of pure light; the shadow across the face of the sun.)
"Is everything okay?" she finally asked of them, her shy voice more in tune with the night now, a white cloud breathed into the serenity, but it's ruined for him anyway, the dream shattered in a shower of glass fragments, and the mare lying among the roots of an oak is no angel. She smelled of life, of dust and dirt and the sea's salt, of blood and flesh and feathers. Mauja's crowned head strained against the weight of the night sky, as if he could somehow escape up into it, through the fog and leaves and into the stars, abandoning this meeting and how it had gone all wrong from the get-go. Night-time rambles never ended up the way they ought, tripping over roots and hearts and scraping knees and souls. Slowly, because what use were more words now?, did he shake his large head, white hair waving with the solemn motion. No. Everything was not okay. He was tired and terrified and there was a definite vein of irritation threading through the air—and with a single sentence he had helped push the spotted mare into the dirt.
I'm sorry.
But he wasn't strong enough to spit the words out.
[ @[Maren] @[Rei] ]
And she'd found an ice revenant and a sleeping angel, none of them mortal enough for her humor—but was it her fault that she had found a stranger and accidentally punched him straight in his weak spot? Was it her fault that her words had been about the only thing Mauja actually feared about himself? The one thing that whenever it happened, just happened, even against his better judgment (because let's be fair, it's pretty much always been)?
Was it her fault?
No.
She didn't know him; couldn't have known, still didn't but maybe she had a hunch, pulling back into herself as if they'd bitten her face. He felt a flash of guilt needling its way through his heart, and his head tilted, slow and steady, until both of his eyes had locked onto her through a curtain-veil of silken white hairs. She had come in, full of confidence and life, and with a single, heavy sentence he had helped to reduce her to this, black-and-white embers gone out long ago. If he breathed on them, could the fire spark back into life?
Or did they have to wait for the sun with all its heat to warm her heart again?
Why the fuck do I even care?
(Because you're Mauja, the Light of Dawn, the faux-angel whose only wings are of pure light; the shadow across the face of the sun.)
"Is everything okay?" she finally asked of them, her shy voice more in tune with the night now, a white cloud breathed into the serenity, but it's ruined for him anyway, the dream shattered in a shower of glass fragments, and the mare lying among the roots of an oak is no angel. She smelled of life, of dust and dirt and the sea's salt, of blood and flesh and feathers. Mauja's crowned head strained against the weight of the night sky, as if he could somehow escape up into it, through the fog and leaves and into the stars, abandoning this meeting and how it had gone all wrong from the get-go. Night-time rambles never ended up the way they ought, tripping over roots and hearts and scraping knees and souls. Slowly, because what use were more words now?, did he shake his large head, white hair waving with the solemn motion. No. Everything was not okay. He was tired and terrified and there was a definite vein of irritation threading through the air—and with a single sentence he had helped push the spotted mare into the dirt.
I'm sorry.
But he wasn't strong enough to spit the words out.
[ @[Maren] @[Rei] ]
