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11-07-2015, 10:37 AM
somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
To make the being alone
Easy, easy . . .
He should feel something—regret, remorse, at the way he treated those gathered around him. He should feel anything, a desire to help, to.. fix things...
But the only thing he felt was contempt: he was a broken man who had thrown his crown to the ground, and none of them had the guts to take it from him. They all kept shying away from it like it was cursed, or trying to put it back onto his head, but it wouldn't fit anymore.
It probably never had fit, either. Why else did it keep falling off his head like this? The Edge haunted him in his sleep, haunted him in his years a northman and a wanderer, and when he came back it—it just didn't work anymore.
He had no place in this world anymore.
His tethers were coming loose.
Was it worth it? Trying to form new bonds? To start over, when everything kept tearing him up, and apart? Snö laid dead in his embrace; nothing could ever replace her. To take more in to love, was to invite loss.
Loving took a kind of courage he didn't have.
For the first time since he had come to Helovia, Mauja felt a deep, profound desire to die.
"I will make sure the Edge has a lead to take care of it," Tembovu finally said, figuratively bending to pick up the discarded crown. Heck, it probably was cursed, dipped in poison or some such shit. "Good," the fallen one said, his voice a blend of too many things to make sense of: satisfaction, relief, confusion, .. that contempt ... and his gaze flitted among them once; Ulrik, busy doing whatever the fuck he did, Ophelia, white once more, Roskuld, faced with an owl sitting stubbornly right in front of her, Tembovu, backing away to the gentle presence of Naerys, who was folding herself down next to him and spreading her wing.
It blocked out the sun, but it didn't block out the bloody sand sticking to his side—
"I’m not sticking to you with all that shit also stuck there," d'Artagnan said in his head.
—and he felt the overwhelming need to rush into the water and scrub the fucking shit off himself, to scour every crevice of his body free of sand, to get rid of all of it, as if it somehow could bring him back.
Instead, he laid on a bed of passionflowers and groaned, closed his eyes, and pressed his head hard against the ground.
Because what else was there to do?
[ Terribly sorry for the wait, guys. Ophelia and Naerys were mentioned this way with permission from their players. Hail to the King, baby! @Roskuld @Ophelia @Tembovu @Naerys ]
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
