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05-21-2015, 09:19 AM
.. and in the darkness, our blackest thoughts awaken.
On silent wings the owls cut through the air, feathers whispering a subtle, predator hymn. Their eyes were washed-out and gray in the foggy night, their movements muted—and those too weak of sense would not live to see the morning's light.
It was the way of the world. It was as it should be, wing-tips almost touching in jest and love (that deep, platonic kind), because yes, they were creatures of different pasts and different ages, but their hearts beat next to one another, just like they did with his.
He came in their wake, cradled by the mist, slow and regal and thoughtful, burdened; wasn't he always? Haunted by the past and present, and afraid of the future? He was trapped in limbo, in a world he both adored and loathed and feared, and no matter where he sought refuge he could never lay his head down to sleep.
His eyes just kept spinning, snapping open, looking this way, that way, and if he ran to the past he faced all of his mistakes; if he lived in the present he lived with everything he constantly allowed to go wrong; and if he dreamed of the future.. it daunted him and scared him and it stole the hope out of his cooling heart, and besides,
he didn't even know what to dream for.
So he fled the Edge on that night, left it behind in the curling, concealing fog, and tried to leave his heart and worries beyond too.
But that never works as intended. They came along for the ride anyway, heart pounding uselessly in a tight chest as his mind spun, freewheeling in the dark. And he didn't just think of everyone, he thought of everything too, ranging from Ophelia and Roskuld and Kahlua to.. alliances, Torleik, the Basin, family, Gaucho, the past, Lena, d'Artagnan, dandelions and fucking sand.
Everything kept flashing before his eyes, so he stopped looking where he went.
Moths are drawn to flame.
There was a subtle change in the sounds his owls made—a shear between feather and air, the sensation of a swerve tugging weakly at his heart. And then.. equilibrium, as they floated, circled, all sharp edges and stark eyes in the light of a halo.
Mauja's gaze dropped to its shadow—the mare with the wings upon her crown, and washed-out-to-wine red stripes cutting across her body (like old wounds; what did they tear out of you?). The one.. who was not alright. The one who had steered a boat across the Throat's strait. The one who had watched in silence.
The one with a reservation in her eyes he could only label judgment.
But of what?
"Hey," he breathed, a sound so soft it barely stirred the night air at all.
[ finallyyyy @[Maren] ]
On silent wings the owls cut through the air, feathers whispering a subtle, predator hymn. Their eyes were washed-out and gray in the foggy night, their movements muted—and those too weak of sense would not live to see the morning's light.
It was the way of the world. It was as it should be, wing-tips almost touching in jest and love (that deep, platonic kind), because yes, they were creatures of different pasts and different ages, but their hearts beat next to one another, just like they did with his.
He came in their wake, cradled by the mist, slow and regal and thoughtful, burdened; wasn't he always? Haunted by the past and present, and afraid of the future? He was trapped in limbo, in a world he both adored and loathed and feared, and no matter where he sought refuge he could never lay his head down to sleep.
His eyes just kept spinning, snapping open, looking this way, that way, and if he ran to the past he faced all of his mistakes; if he lived in the present he lived with everything he constantly allowed to go wrong; and if he dreamed of the future.. it daunted him and scared him and it stole the hope out of his cooling heart, and besides,
he didn't even know what to dream for.
So he fled the Edge on that night, left it behind in the curling, concealing fog, and tried to leave his heart and worries beyond too.
But that never works as intended. They came along for the ride anyway, heart pounding uselessly in a tight chest as his mind spun, freewheeling in the dark. And he didn't just think of everyone, he thought of everything too, ranging from Ophelia and Roskuld and Kahlua to.. alliances, Torleik, the Basin, family, Gaucho, the past, Lena, d'Artagnan, dandelions and fucking sand.
Everything kept flashing before his eyes, so he stopped looking where he went.
Moths are drawn to flame.
There was a subtle change in the sounds his owls made—a shear between feather and air, the sensation of a swerve tugging weakly at his heart. And then.. equilibrium, as they floated, circled, all sharp edges and stark eyes in the light of a halo.
Mauja's gaze dropped to its shadow—the mare with the wings upon her crown, and washed-out-to-wine red stripes cutting across her body (like old wounds; what did they tear out of you?). The one.. who was not alright. The one who had steered a boat across the Throat's strait. The one who had watched in silence.
The one with a reservation in her eyes he could only label judgment.
But of what?
"Hey," he breathed, a sound so soft it barely stirred the night air at all.
[ finallyyyy @[Maren] ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
