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A hollow, grating laugh met his ears as Mauja melted away from his caress. His ears tilted disquietly backwards at the vacant, dark sound while blue-lit eyes carefully watched the white man back away. But his movements were spastic, dangerously so next to the sheer, black drop-off. The Elephant shifted uneasily on his large hooves— disturbed not by Mauja’s drunken babble, but instead by his actions that sent rocks clattering to the roiling sea below. He could see (and nearly understand) the grief that robbed him of his lucidity and of his legs.
But he could not entirely grasp the psychosis that threatened to overtake his fractured friend. His own experience had left him in a similarly demented but dissimilarly raging state— and he had been among charred tree trunks, not sheer precipices. One might impale a shoulder on a blackened tree, but that was a far safer fate than tumbling down the forsaken shrines’ wall to the heaving sea below.
His eyes widened marginally as a quick glance to the edge followed the stones' deathly plummet. Though his gaze is swift to return to the nearly sitting and dethroned King. Carefully, slowly, a half-stride brought his massive bulk towards the trembling stallion. These movements placed his own hooves closer to the cliff as he sought to herd Mauja away from the drop. Thankfully, this black rock was made of sturdier stuff than the crumbling, white limestone of the World’s Edge.
“Mauja—” the low, futilely soothing word is cut off as the Frozen speaks once again, “He left.” What was this? “—he?” his perturbed question quickly followed his aborted placations. A son? “…In the middle of this fucked up story of children dying.” No, not a son, then. His gaze flashed to the broad, speckled haunches as he collapsed fully on them.
Another half-stride sought to close the distance put between them by the snow leopard and (perhaps more importantly) aims to usher him away from the fatal cliff. Pale, black-rimmed ears flicked forwards as Mauja finally gave him his gaze— a pale, burning stare from a miserable soul’s schism.
“Who left you, my friend?” His low voice was soft as he resisted the urge to physically push him towards more solid ground. Only a vague sense of empathy bloomed in him, as this was an agony of which he knew little. His massive heart had never had the experience of another willingly taking a piece from it. All those who had staked their claim in the troublesome, beating organ had left against their will— be it from death or ill-matched lovers.
A third stride, smaller than the others, tried to shuffle him meagerly closer to the sitting stallion. Gaze, glowing sapphire in the magma’s eerie light, watched him carefully and closely. He studied the forelimbs— tense in their trembling position. He studied the tangled, icy locks, twisting in the wind. He studied the shuddering shoulders and twitching barrel, all shaded unearthly blue on the Gods’ forsaken rock.
Deep within him, to be unraveled for another day in less death-defying circumstances, a knot of religion and belief looped and tied itself in his subconscious. Devine forces were absent in his life before Helovia. But here they were so very present and alive. So, in the face of King broken by the Gods’ battles, why were they nowhere to be seen?
But he could not entirely grasp the psychosis that threatened to overtake his fractured friend. His own experience had left him in a similarly demented but dissimilarly raging state— and he had been among charred tree trunks, not sheer precipices. One might impale a shoulder on a blackened tree, but that was a far safer fate than tumbling down the forsaken shrines’ wall to the heaving sea below.
His eyes widened marginally as a quick glance to the edge followed the stones' deathly plummet. Though his gaze is swift to return to the nearly sitting and dethroned King. Carefully, slowly, a half-stride brought his massive bulk towards the trembling stallion. These movements placed his own hooves closer to the cliff as he sought to herd Mauja away from the drop. Thankfully, this black rock was made of sturdier stuff than the crumbling, white limestone of the World’s Edge.
“Mauja—” the low, futilely soothing word is cut off as the Frozen speaks once again, “He left.” What was this? “—he?” his perturbed question quickly followed his aborted placations. A son? “…In the middle of this fucked up story of children dying.” No, not a son, then. His gaze flashed to the broad, speckled haunches as he collapsed fully on them.
Another half-stride sought to close the distance put between them by the snow leopard and (perhaps more importantly) aims to usher him away from the fatal cliff. Pale, black-rimmed ears flicked forwards as Mauja finally gave him his gaze— a pale, burning stare from a miserable soul’s schism.
“Who left you, my friend?” His low voice was soft as he resisted the urge to physically push him towards more solid ground. Only a vague sense of empathy bloomed in him, as this was an agony of which he knew little. His massive heart had never had the experience of another willingly taking a piece from it. All those who had staked their claim in the troublesome, beating organ had left against their will— be it from death or ill-matched lovers.
A third stride, smaller than the others, tried to shuffle him meagerly closer to the sitting stallion. Gaze, glowing sapphire in the magma’s eerie light, watched him carefully and closely. He studied the forelimbs— tense in their trembling position. He studied the tangled, icy locks, twisting in the wind. He studied the shuddering shoulders and twitching barrel, all shaded unearthly blue on the Gods’ forsaken rock.
Deep within him, to be unraveled for another day in less death-defying circumstances, a knot of religion and belief looped and tied itself in his subconscious. Devine forces were absent in his life before Helovia. But here they were so very present and alive. So, in the face of King broken by the Gods’ battles, why were they nowhere to be seen?
Please tag Tembovu.
