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01-11-2016, 06:28 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
For a moment, he expected her to come—his senses strained, ears flickering forward as he teetered there on the border, leaning forward, digging his toes into the thin, pristine snow. . .
But there was nothing. Just the emptiness of the Basin, just the cold starlight, the northern lights, the empty, dead sentinels and their long years of dust—
Their ruin, their slow and silent metallic decay lent their alien faces something foreboding, something even darker, a subtle twist that made them even more foreign. Debris lay covered by the snow, like more secrets dead and buried here in the frozen wasteland upon the doorstep of a hidden paradise. Mauja's face slowly fell, ears shifting backwards in uncertainty; there was no one else here. He was alone, Irma circling the empty sky and Diego off somewhere, digging (—digging? what had he found now?) in the snow and the loose, black rocks beneath.
It was just Mauja and the dying sentinels, and somehow, it felt oddly fitting. For a moment he was tempted to step within their reach, to see if their eyes would flicker to life and their bodies groan as badly-oiled joints grind against one another in their quest to seek out this interloper—but it would just be foolish, a foolish risk, for the more he stared at the once so familiar machines the more he pitied them. They had been the pride of the Basin, tall, foreboding metal Gods calling the supreme blood home and guarding them, long before the Throat had become an island. They had served without question (never mind they had been programmed that way) and what had they received in return? Had anyone ever offered them a word of kindness, or a spot of maintenance?
Idiot, he told himself, momentarily flattening his ears. They're not sentient. They don't need kind words.
But everyone needed kind words, even machines, so Mauja crumpled beneath his own folly and said "Thank you for your long years of service and unfaltering loyalty," and it was likely he would've given them an entire speech had not a figment of his past spawned in their shadow then and there. He had to be dreaming, or the machines were upgraded and could summon those asked for, or he had developed some new, interesting magical ability, but—but to hell with all that. It was Lena, dainty, graceful, kind-hearted Lena, who had survived years with the Plague and still bloomed in the shifting lights.
Wherever did she find the strength to remain as such? Was her heart filled up with so much compassion and love and joy that she was incapable of grief and blues? Or was she so frigid nothing affected her? No—while it would certainly be a twist none of them had seen coming it felt too foreign, too absurd. He couldn't—wouldn't—believe that of her.
"Lena!" he cried happily, a slight delay in his reaction because he had, truly, not expected to see her—and part of him had wanted to stall, because how could he make up for these years of no communication, of his cruel, unintentional disregard for her presence at the selections for a new Edge lead? But here she was, and he would lie if he said he wasn't glad for it, bounding carelessly through the snow towards her until they were close enough to touch. "I chased falling stars and I found you," he answered, something light in his voice, something mischievous, happy, even playful as he reached out, hoping to touch her soft muzzle with his.
Oh, there were a thousand things he wanted to say—ought to say, as they crowded his tongue and fought to get out first—things like, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that you were fallen, just that you were a star, and more things, about the Edge, about Snö, about Deimos... But he didn't have the time to say any of it, for another presence materialized on the edges of his consciousness. In the blink of an eye his attention had shifted, keen eyes staring through the cold air and finding someone he vaguely recognized. It was someone from the Threshold, his name was something short, like Nyx, but not quite. Nex, Nux, Nox, something. He hadn't left much of himself in Mauja's mind—just another face in Helovia, unknown but not entirely unpleasant.
"Is there something you seek?" I found what I sought. But he went on immediately, not giving the snowghost any time to answer. "Wonderful to see you again Lena, you look radiant and lovely like always." And Mauja, ever calm and ever patient, bristled for a moment, the the lines of his facing drawing hard and taut, jaws clenching, eyes growing dark—radiant and lovely... Oh, he was not going to argue the facts, because Lena was both radiant and lovely.
A moment later the seas calmed, his eyes grew light and gentle, open and inquisitive, and his face smooth like the undisturbed snow spread all around them. "Tell me," he began, nothing but curiosity in his mild voice, "do you also greet your male friends with the phrase, 'you look radiant and lovely like always', or any variant thereof?"
[ Sorry for the wait, I got sick. <3 @Lena @Mortuus Nox ]
But there was nothing. Just the emptiness of the Basin, just the cold starlight, the northern lights, the empty, dead sentinels and their long years of dust—
Their ruin, their slow and silent metallic decay lent their alien faces something foreboding, something even darker, a subtle twist that made them even more foreign. Debris lay covered by the snow, like more secrets dead and buried here in the frozen wasteland upon the doorstep of a hidden paradise. Mauja's face slowly fell, ears shifting backwards in uncertainty; there was no one else here. He was alone, Irma circling the empty sky and Diego off somewhere, digging (—digging? what had he found now?) in the snow and the loose, black rocks beneath.
It was just Mauja and the dying sentinels, and somehow, it felt oddly fitting. For a moment he was tempted to step within their reach, to see if their eyes would flicker to life and their bodies groan as badly-oiled joints grind against one another in their quest to seek out this interloper—but it would just be foolish, a foolish risk, for the more he stared at the once so familiar machines the more he pitied them. They had been the pride of the Basin, tall, foreboding metal Gods calling the supreme blood home and guarding them, long before the Throat had become an island. They had served without question (never mind they had been programmed that way) and what had they received in return? Had anyone ever offered them a word of kindness, or a spot of maintenance?
Idiot, he told himself, momentarily flattening his ears. They're not sentient. They don't need kind words.
But everyone needed kind words, even machines, so Mauja crumpled beneath his own folly and said "Thank you for your long years of service and unfaltering loyalty," and it was likely he would've given them an entire speech had not a figment of his past spawned in their shadow then and there. He had to be dreaming, or the machines were upgraded and could summon those asked for, or he had developed some new, interesting magical ability, but—but to hell with all that. It was Lena, dainty, graceful, kind-hearted Lena, who had survived years with the Plague and still bloomed in the shifting lights.
Wherever did she find the strength to remain as such? Was her heart filled up with so much compassion and love and joy that she was incapable of grief and blues? Or was she so frigid nothing affected her? No—while it would certainly be a twist none of them had seen coming it felt too foreign, too absurd. He couldn't—wouldn't—believe that of her.
"Lena!" he cried happily, a slight delay in his reaction because he had, truly, not expected to see her—and part of him had wanted to stall, because how could he make up for these years of no communication, of his cruel, unintentional disregard for her presence at the selections for a new Edge lead? But here she was, and he would lie if he said he wasn't glad for it, bounding carelessly through the snow towards her until they were close enough to touch. "I chased falling stars and I found you," he answered, something light in his voice, something mischievous, happy, even playful as he reached out, hoping to touch her soft muzzle with his.
Oh, there were a thousand things he wanted to say—ought to say, as they crowded his tongue and fought to get out first—things like, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that you were fallen, just that you were a star, and more things, about the Edge, about Snö, about Deimos... But he didn't have the time to say any of it, for another presence materialized on the edges of his consciousness. In the blink of an eye his attention had shifted, keen eyes staring through the cold air and finding someone he vaguely recognized. It was someone from the Threshold, his name was something short, like Nyx, but not quite. Nex, Nux, Nox, something. He hadn't left much of himself in Mauja's mind—just another face in Helovia, unknown but not entirely unpleasant.
"Is there something you seek?" I found what I sought. But he went on immediately, not giving the snowghost any time to answer. "Wonderful to see you again Lena, you look radiant and lovely like always." And Mauja, ever calm and ever patient, bristled for a moment, the the lines of his facing drawing hard and taut, jaws clenching, eyes growing dark—radiant and lovely... Oh, he was not going to argue the facts, because Lena was both radiant and lovely.
A moment later the seas calmed, his eyes grew light and gentle, open and inquisitive, and his face smooth like the undisturbed snow spread all around them. "Tell me," he began, nothing but curiosity in his mild voice, "do you also greet your male friends with the phrase, 'you look radiant and lovely like always', or any variant thereof?"
[ Sorry for the wait, I got sick. <3 @Lena @Mortuus Nox ]
Mauja
the white queen
