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01-11-2016, 05:35 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Waking up every time alone—
(Not like you ever woke up beside anyone, anyway.)
It was more the concept of being alone (—you're never alone), the fact that a future was lost to him: the echoing, resounding finality of loss. Facing the world when your heart was a hurt beast beating in a cage of ice, and when you all too keenly remembered the pain that bound it, was what alone promised to be. In the howling darkness of his soul, in its crags and bitter, razor-sharp ice winds, it was the pain, and fear, of loss which drove him into hiding so deep that even he forgot where he was.
But here, now, beside this bastion of strength and light, the darkness was less daunting, the fangs less sharp, and the future maybe just a little better—brighter. Because even if he fell again, even if everyone fell again, there would be Tembovu, nestled in his heart long before the world had come to an end.
But what if Tembovu was the one who fell?
Who would pick him up, dust him off, set him back on his feet with a hug and let him know that life went on? If Tembovu was his courage, if Tembovu was his assurance that he could go on, find the altered future, how.. the logical reassurance embedded in his memory would never be enough; what he needed was this, the steady touch, pressing his cheek into a warm shoulder and listening to the rhythmic, low roar of a pulse.
But it was pain he feared—it had always been pain he feared, loathed, avoided. It was what had driven him to straining for physical perfection, it was what drove him deep into the ice and the dark, and what kept him down with heavy weights to prevent him from ever risking it again. It was the voice whispering in the back of his head, that loving and caring was just opening yourself up for it, so he shouldn't do it.
Yet Tembovu told him, in all ways that he could, silent and verbal, that life without compassion and friendship was not life, and Mauja knew that—but pain is pain and fear is fear, and like a burnt beast he felt himself fighting the chains pulling him closer to the forge.
“I, too, have lost, Mauja. I have buried the burned bodies of my love—my life— and my son— my future,” a quiet confession there in the blue-lit, stormy darkness, words only for them, their ears and their hearts, as the cruel wind snatched them up and shred them. Fire is a life-killer he thought dully, feeling the sparrows spark within his chest; and a single, tiny spark flicked in the air for just half a second before fading. There just wasn't enough in him to sustain anything, and besides, who the hell needed fire? The burned bodies . . . And in his mind, he saw the blue eyes of Tembovu grow dark, his face closed off, lips taut, body unyielding as Mauja danced around him. No wonder being burned had brought such an agonized darkness out in him.
So perhaps loss was just like any other wound: scabbing over, but never quite scarring, just waiting to ripped open and bleed anew.
"The fear of losing again," he added quietly, his voice thick through the calmed tears. His spirit had quieted with the touch, the presence, the soothing motion of Tembovu's plush muzzle stroking along his snowy spine—and the moment the dark nose rose he missed it, and blinked a few times. The world had come into better focus, the storm clouds beyond his friend's sandy head no longer just a dark blur but individuals. Still, he did not have eyes for them, watching instead (his King's?) quiet face. "Reasons," he repeated dully, something in him threatening to break again at the sound of his own name—at the sound of the pain he caused with his own. Uncertainly, he shifted his weight, once. He suspected that the right answer to the question was not to hide his own sorrow, but the last thing he wanted was to drag Tembovu down with him.
"I wonder why I came here," he said, glancing at the desolate shrines. His voice was still thick, but gentle and soft, quiet. "But—perhaps it was not so foolish after all... I don't know, fumbling at straws, a faith long dead, yet here we are. Either you are a god, or they sent you, or it is just coincidence anyway." A hesitant smile ghosted across his face, fleeing almost as quick as it had come; his head ached and his heart ached and his soul ached, a surreal throb in his whole body. There were questions, and thoughts, and answers, but all for another time—he was not sure he could hear Tembovu's tale now and make anything useful of it.
He wasn't sure he could make anything useful out of anything, so he glanced at the shrines again, and at the ocean, and then back to Tembovu. They ought to call him "the Miracle-Worker" or something. "We should go home," he ventured tentatively, as if unsure he could have any ideas, much less any good ideas, and at the same time craving the feeling of being protected so badly—to be taken by his small, trembling hand and led home by this safe, safe man.
(Not like you ever woke up beside anyone, anyway.)
It was more the concept of being alone (—you're never alone), the fact that a future was lost to him: the echoing, resounding finality of loss. Facing the world when your heart was a hurt beast beating in a cage of ice, and when you all too keenly remembered the pain that bound it, was what alone promised to be. In the howling darkness of his soul, in its crags and bitter, razor-sharp ice winds, it was the pain, and fear, of loss which drove him into hiding so deep that even he forgot where he was.
But here, now, beside this bastion of strength and light, the darkness was less daunting, the fangs less sharp, and the future maybe just a little better—brighter. Because even if he fell again, even if everyone fell again, there would be Tembovu, nestled in his heart long before the world had come to an end.
But what if Tembovu was the one who fell?
Who would pick him up, dust him off, set him back on his feet with a hug and let him know that life went on? If Tembovu was his courage, if Tembovu was his assurance that he could go on, find the altered future, how.. the logical reassurance embedded in his memory would never be enough; what he needed was this, the steady touch, pressing his cheek into a warm shoulder and listening to the rhythmic, low roar of a pulse.
But it was pain he feared—it had always been pain he feared, loathed, avoided. It was what had driven him to straining for physical perfection, it was what drove him deep into the ice and the dark, and what kept him down with heavy weights to prevent him from ever risking it again. It was the voice whispering in the back of his head, that loving and caring was just opening yourself up for it, so he shouldn't do it.
Yet Tembovu told him, in all ways that he could, silent and verbal, that life without compassion and friendship was not life, and Mauja knew that—but pain is pain and fear is fear, and like a burnt beast he felt himself fighting the chains pulling him closer to the forge.
“I, too, have lost, Mauja. I have buried the burned bodies of my love—my life— and my son— my future,” a quiet confession there in the blue-lit, stormy darkness, words only for them, their ears and their hearts, as the cruel wind snatched them up and shred them. Fire is a life-killer he thought dully, feeling the sparrows spark within his chest; and a single, tiny spark flicked in the air for just half a second before fading. There just wasn't enough in him to sustain anything, and besides, who the hell needed fire? The burned bodies . . . And in his mind, he saw the blue eyes of Tembovu grow dark, his face closed off, lips taut, body unyielding as Mauja danced around him. No wonder being burned had brought such an agonized darkness out in him.
So perhaps loss was just like any other wound: scabbing over, but never quite scarring, just waiting to ripped open and bleed anew.
"The fear of losing again," he added quietly, his voice thick through the calmed tears. His spirit had quieted with the touch, the presence, the soothing motion of Tembovu's plush muzzle stroking along his snowy spine—and the moment the dark nose rose he missed it, and blinked a few times. The world had come into better focus, the storm clouds beyond his friend's sandy head no longer just a dark blur but individuals. Still, he did not have eyes for them, watching instead (his King's?) quiet face. "Reasons," he repeated dully, something in him threatening to break again at the sound of his own name—at the sound of the pain he caused with his own. Uncertainly, he shifted his weight, once. He suspected that the right answer to the question was not to hide his own sorrow, but the last thing he wanted was to drag Tembovu down with him.
"I wonder why I came here," he said, glancing at the desolate shrines. His voice was still thick, but gentle and soft, quiet. "But—perhaps it was not so foolish after all... I don't know, fumbling at straws, a faith long dead, yet here we are. Either you are a god, or they sent you, or it is just coincidence anyway." A hesitant smile ghosted across his face, fleeing almost as quick as it had come; his head ached and his heart ached and his soul ached, a surreal throb in his whole body. There were questions, and thoughts, and answers, but all for another time—he was not sure he could hear Tembovu's tale now and make anything useful of it.
He wasn't sure he could make anything useful out of anything, so he glanced at the shrines again, and at the ocean, and then back to Tembovu. They ought to call him "the Miracle-Worker" or something. "We should go home," he ventured tentatively, as if unsure he could have any ideas, much less any good ideas, and at the same time craving the feeling of being protected so badly—to be taken by his small, trembling hand and led home by this safe, safe man.
