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02-07-2016, 02:03 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
[ I don't mind people coming to the sidelines etc, but I'd prefer to keep the mist-barrier so they will not be disturbed <3 I'm treating Mauja as not entirely healed (more like 75%-85% healed), due to the fact that his burns were very severe. ]
(There's scars in his mind—)
—they are lines of fire, knife-fine slits in the dark fabric of his thoughts, leaking light and weeping flame.
Each time he closed his eyes he felt haunted, as if there was something there, just around the corner; something with a hot, harsh breath, ready to close its sharp-fanged mouth around his bones and set his marrow aflame. His thoughts, which had always spun in cold darkness and shades of blue, were infected with an insidious orange glow, and the same beast with a rotten breath of near-fire made a hot and acrid wind blow. In his dreams, the world burned—trees, fields, animals, sometimes even the air itself... In his dreams, he burned, and sleep, that which had always been his sanctuary, had become a torment. Mauja was not used to having nightmares.
His ice had been shattered, and there was no peace to be found; awake, he drifted, aching and dispirited, through the mist-bound realm, and when asleep, he tossed and turned to the tune of the flames. Gray sweat darkened his flanks, and a certain kind of darkness clung to the depths of his pale eyes—a burden of some kind, one spelled out in the mess of his left side, but one he pulled close, close to his heart.
(So one wonders how heavy that heart is, if the eyes are so haunted.)
No matter what he did, he hurt—a bone-deep, slowly pulsating ache, eating away at his patience, at his mind, at his dreams, at his hopes, at his very fucking desire to live. He fell asleep in pain; he woke in pain. The tender skin, black and bared, glared at the world from his left flank, such a stark contrast to the white coat he normally bore—but that had been charred away, and what few blisters remained failed to convey just how damaged he had been (—when they had found him, those healers, when they had found out what untempered, raw emotion could do to those who were not cautious enough).
And in spite of how he suffered, in spite of how he wished to stop eating, stop sleeping, stop breathing he could not find it in his heart to blame Tembovu. After all—he had once done exactly the same thing. The only difference was that Mauja had lived, while Torasin had died.
He had been dozing, for dozing was about the only worthwhile way to spend his days while he recovered. Eating was a painful necessity requiring movement, requiring stretching of that fragile, dry skin, and as a result—combined, of course, with the onset of winter and the fact that he froze a lot more with a large portion of his hair melted off—Mauja looked considerably thinner than usual.
"Mauja.."
The starlight whispered in his ears, the night wind touched his cold body with oddly tender hands, and in the dark his pale eyes cracked slowly open. The absence of snow left the world darker than it should've been, but he had to admit it was nice to not have to browse for something edible through a layer of snow. Still, he missed it—it would've been nice with something familiar.
At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him. Vaguely, he thought he had heard his own name, but the silence of the night-forest was deep and profound, like things tended to be in winter sleep. Nothing stirred; there were no sounds of hoof-beats, of wings or of breathing, voices, anything. It was just him and the silence, and the owls sleeping in a nearby tree, calm and content, and he envied them their peace. Black-rimmed ears flickered for a few moments, but there was nothing more—just silence, heavy with things he wished to forget.
"Mauja..." This time, there was no mistaking it: it was a voice, light and ethereal, calling for him, slipping through his ears into his mind, running with his blood through his muscles, seeping through every part of him and urging him until he moved. The deep, throbbing ache sprung into life as he moved from his spot, frozen hooves falling among fragile flowers of ice. They made a crisp, light sound beneath his weight, and with the otherworldly voice spinning in his memory—Mauja, Mauja, Mauja...—he followed the trail of blossoms, trying not to think much at all.
Because, even though he told himself it did not have to be that way, who could it be who called him with such power, if not the Moon? She had warned him, after all, but time had passed and he had thought she had forgotten—or, more likely, simply decided that he was far too pathetic for her and lost interest.
The last thing he wanted to feel, after burning again, was her dark powers circling around his mind and dragging every fear and every doubt up to the surface.
But pain dulled his fear, and the barrier of fog pulled back to admit the Ice King; tired, worn, half-healed. His once-long mane hung in uneven clumps, and his dark lips curved into a small, bitter smile. Surely, now that she saw who she had called forth, she would change her mind about whatever it was she wished to speak of.
"Moon," he greeted her quietly, his voice a little rough with disuse. Despite their many clashes, and despite his wariness of her, he had to admit that she looked lovely tonight—it was something about the way she held herself, the way she seemed relaxed in the silver wash of moonlight. For a moment, he almost wondered if she was pregnant, but as far as he knew Mesec hadn't died, so .. probably not ... Wary and aching, Mauja came to a halt, watching her in silence, waiting for what she would do—probably make some scathing remark about his inability to keep himself out of trouble.
(There's scars in his mind—)
—they are lines of fire, knife-fine slits in the dark fabric of his thoughts, leaking light and weeping flame.
Each time he closed his eyes he felt haunted, as if there was something there, just around the corner; something with a hot, harsh breath, ready to close its sharp-fanged mouth around his bones and set his marrow aflame. His thoughts, which had always spun in cold darkness and shades of blue, were infected with an insidious orange glow, and the same beast with a rotten breath of near-fire made a hot and acrid wind blow. In his dreams, the world burned—trees, fields, animals, sometimes even the air itself... In his dreams, he burned, and sleep, that which had always been his sanctuary, had become a torment. Mauja was not used to having nightmares.
His ice had been shattered, and there was no peace to be found; awake, he drifted, aching and dispirited, through the mist-bound realm, and when asleep, he tossed and turned to the tune of the flames. Gray sweat darkened his flanks, and a certain kind of darkness clung to the depths of his pale eyes—a burden of some kind, one spelled out in the mess of his left side, but one he pulled close, close to his heart.
(So one wonders how heavy that heart is, if the eyes are so haunted.)
No matter what he did, he hurt—a bone-deep, slowly pulsating ache, eating away at his patience, at his mind, at his dreams, at his hopes, at his very fucking desire to live. He fell asleep in pain; he woke in pain. The tender skin, black and bared, glared at the world from his left flank, such a stark contrast to the white coat he normally bore—but that had been charred away, and what few blisters remained failed to convey just how damaged he had been (—when they had found him, those healers, when they had found out what untempered, raw emotion could do to those who were not cautious enough).
And in spite of how he suffered, in spite of how he wished to stop eating, stop sleeping, stop breathing he could not find it in his heart to blame Tembovu. After all—he had once done exactly the same thing. The only difference was that Mauja had lived, while Torasin had died.
He had been dozing, for dozing was about the only worthwhile way to spend his days while he recovered. Eating was a painful necessity requiring movement, requiring stretching of that fragile, dry skin, and as a result—combined, of course, with the onset of winter and the fact that he froze a lot more with a large portion of his hair melted off—Mauja looked considerably thinner than usual.
"Mauja.."
The starlight whispered in his ears, the night wind touched his cold body with oddly tender hands, and in the dark his pale eyes cracked slowly open. The absence of snow left the world darker than it should've been, but he had to admit it was nice to not have to browse for something edible through a layer of snow. Still, he missed it—it would've been nice with something familiar.
At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him. Vaguely, he thought he had heard his own name, but the silence of the night-forest was deep and profound, like things tended to be in winter sleep. Nothing stirred; there were no sounds of hoof-beats, of wings or of breathing, voices, anything. It was just him and the silence, and the owls sleeping in a nearby tree, calm and content, and he envied them their peace. Black-rimmed ears flickered for a few moments, but there was nothing more—just silence, heavy with things he wished to forget.
"Mauja..." This time, there was no mistaking it: it was a voice, light and ethereal, calling for him, slipping through his ears into his mind, running with his blood through his muscles, seeping through every part of him and urging him until he moved. The deep, throbbing ache sprung into life as he moved from his spot, frozen hooves falling among fragile flowers of ice. They made a crisp, light sound beneath his weight, and with the otherworldly voice spinning in his memory—Mauja, Mauja, Mauja...—he followed the trail of blossoms, trying not to think much at all.
Because, even though he told himself it did not have to be that way, who could it be who called him with such power, if not the Moon? She had warned him, after all, but time had passed and he had thought she had forgotten—or, more likely, simply decided that he was far too pathetic for her and lost interest.
The last thing he wanted to feel, after burning again, was her dark powers circling around his mind and dragging every fear and every doubt up to the surface.
But pain dulled his fear, and the barrier of fog pulled back to admit the Ice King; tired, worn, half-healed. His once-long mane hung in uneven clumps, and his dark lips curved into a small, bitter smile. Surely, now that she saw who she had called forth, she would change her mind about whatever it was she wished to speak of.
"Moon," he greeted her quietly, his voice a little rough with disuse. Despite their many clashes, and despite his wariness of her, he had to admit that she looked lovely tonight—it was something about the way she held herself, the way she seemed relaxed in the silver wash of moonlight. For a moment, he almost wondered if she was pregnant, but as far as he knew Mesec hadn't died, so .. probably not ... Wary and aching, Mauja came to a halt, watching her in silence, waiting for what she would do—probably make some scathing remark about his inability to keep himself out of trouble.
Mauja
the white queen
