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03-29-2016, 05:32 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Myrrine was there.
Innocence embodied—
Or was she? She could be just another lie thrown in his face by the cruel world, another stab in his heart like Kahlua—
There were many things he hadn't thought of the happy, easygoing Queen, and yet he had seen her eyes grow dark as stormclouds when she yelled murder at him and came for him: ready to jail him. So easily had she forgiven his sins, and so easily had she hung them about his neck again, and in a manner so at odds with her childish nature she had borne the child of another man.
He was watching Myrrine from the corner of a wild eye, acutely aware of how little he knew of her—how little he knew of anyone. The fundamentals of life, of how to act, of what it was safe to assume about others, had escaped him his entire life, and now they burned in his mind. Kahlua had slept with someone. Tembovu flirted with mares. And Myrrine? Myrrine spread her wings for older, unknown men.
What the fuck do you know about anything?
And so, the final betrayal to all things good in the world, Mauja chose to believe that she could not save him.
That no one could.
Because they were all tainted by this world, impure, sharing a secret he had never been let in on—
But his self-righteous, passive anger bled out like blood in the sand once Tembovu's horn began to lower.
And it began to bloom.
Fierce and wild and beautiful, flowers sprouted in the destruction and havoc of his life; they began to unfurl, each movement a searing blast through his skull, a ragged breath coming out of dark nostrils. This—
(—was love.)
His eyes began to overflow with tears, an expression so at odds with the fierce joy and light burning behind their blurry facade; and his heart ached, proud and wild and terrified all at once, as the sharp tip of that cruelly curved horn touched his white chest. (You'll only find darkness trapped in there.)
But the thrust never came.
The pain never came. Tembovu, the valiant Elephant King, halted, paused, seemed to glance at Myrrine (—her plush muzzle pressed against his shoulder, breathing hot air on his scarred skin). But what did it matter that she was there? Truly? The whole fucking herd was gathered to witness his devotion—
“Of all things to ask of me, why this?”
Without thinking, Mauja's bunched hindquarters pushed him forward, an inch, no more, stubbornly trying to maintain contact with the black horn. His mind raced—
(His heart broke.)
Would his strength fail here, at the threshold of such unconditional affection? Would his courage stick its head in the sand, afraid of committing what looked like treason before the whole herd? (Worry not, I will exonerate you—) Did he think it unseemly to risk spattering the innocent young with hot blood? Mauja's teeth ground together, his expression suddenly distraught, but still unfocused, like he was only halfway there—his thoughts as flawed as his logic.
Tembovu had lost to death. Yet Tembovu knew that he would not die, so why—why did he hesitate? Would it still feel like murder? Was he afraid of the herd's judgment? Did he think Mauja would regret it? Did he mistrust the Moon?
It was cruel and selfish to ask this of the King, but... Mauja had lived his whole life for others. He had always paused, silenced his own desires, and acted upon what others wanted, what others expected, when had he ever taken something for himself? When had he ever done something because he had wanted to? He wanted to be selfish, now, to feel Tembovu's loyalty and trust like a spear in his chest, to—to feel the hot tide of blood rushing out of severed arteries, and feel the darkness descend on his mind.
He didn't want to be sensible. He didn't want to give in to the quiet, affectionate touch of Myrrine, or the (pained?) doubt of Tembovu's voice; he didn't want to just calm and settle down, to swallow logic like a brief and bitter remedy and be sensible just because it would cause a fucking scene.
He wasn't alright. He wasn't okay. And for the first time in his life, he had wanted the world to know that.
But the beauty of the moment was ruined.
His trust was ruined.
He could fling himself at the horn, but it would be but a shadow of glory, nothing but a reminder of what he had lost, right here, right now. He could take off, leap off of the Edge, but bodies crowded the space between him and the glorious free-fall.
He could beg, but he didn't want to argue; he had—
(He had wanted trust.)
And he had almost gotten it. Almost.
With a silent look of utmost hurt and betrayal, Mauja turned upon his ghostly haunches and fled the scene, leaving a single drop of red upon the tip of Tembovu's horn.
Innocence embodied—
Or was she? She could be just another lie thrown in his face by the cruel world, another stab in his heart like Kahlua—
There were many things he hadn't thought of the happy, easygoing Queen, and yet he had seen her eyes grow dark as stormclouds when she yelled murder at him and came for him: ready to jail him. So easily had she forgiven his sins, and so easily had she hung them about his neck again, and in a manner so at odds with her childish nature she had borne the child of another man.
He was watching Myrrine from the corner of a wild eye, acutely aware of how little he knew of her—how little he knew of anyone. The fundamentals of life, of how to act, of what it was safe to assume about others, had escaped him his entire life, and now they burned in his mind. Kahlua had slept with someone. Tembovu flirted with mares. And Myrrine? Myrrine spread her wings for older, unknown men.
What the fuck do you know about anything?
And so, the final betrayal to all things good in the world, Mauja chose to believe that she could not save him.
That no one could.
Because they were all tainted by this world, impure, sharing a secret he had never been let in on—
But his self-righteous, passive anger bled out like blood in the sand once Tembovu's horn began to lower.
And it began to bloom.
Fierce and wild and beautiful, flowers sprouted in the destruction and havoc of his life; they began to unfurl, each movement a searing blast through his skull, a ragged breath coming out of dark nostrils. This—
(—was love.)
His eyes began to overflow with tears, an expression so at odds with the fierce joy and light burning behind their blurry facade; and his heart ached, proud and wild and terrified all at once, as the sharp tip of that cruelly curved horn touched his white chest. (You'll only find darkness trapped in there.)
But the thrust never came.
The pain never came. Tembovu, the valiant Elephant King, halted, paused, seemed to glance at Myrrine (—her plush muzzle pressed against his shoulder, breathing hot air on his scarred skin). But what did it matter that she was there? Truly? The whole fucking herd was gathered to witness his devotion—
“Of all things to ask of me, why this?”
Without thinking, Mauja's bunched hindquarters pushed him forward, an inch, no more, stubbornly trying to maintain contact with the black horn. His mind raced—
(His heart broke.)
Would his strength fail here, at the threshold of such unconditional affection? Would his courage stick its head in the sand, afraid of committing what looked like treason before the whole herd? (Worry not, I will exonerate you—) Did he think it unseemly to risk spattering the innocent young with hot blood? Mauja's teeth ground together, his expression suddenly distraught, but still unfocused, like he was only halfway there—his thoughts as flawed as his logic.
Tembovu had lost to death. Yet Tembovu knew that he would not die, so why—why did he hesitate? Would it still feel like murder? Was he afraid of the herd's judgment? Did he think Mauja would regret it? Did he mistrust the Moon?
It was cruel and selfish to ask this of the King, but... Mauja had lived his whole life for others. He had always paused, silenced his own desires, and acted upon what others wanted, what others expected, when had he ever taken something for himself? When had he ever done something because he had wanted to? He wanted to be selfish, now, to feel Tembovu's loyalty and trust like a spear in his chest, to—to feel the hot tide of blood rushing out of severed arteries, and feel the darkness descend on his mind.
He didn't want to be sensible. He didn't want to give in to the quiet, affectionate touch of Myrrine, or the (pained?) doubt of Tembovu's voice; he didn't want to just calm and settle down, to swallow logic like a brief and bitter remedy and be sensible just because it would cause a fucking scene.
He wasn't alright. He wasn't okay. And for the first time in his life, he had wanted the world to know that.
But the beauty of the moment was ruined.
His trust was ruined.
He could fling himself at the horn, but it would be but a shadow of glory, nothing but a reminder of what he had lost, right here, right now. He could take off, leap off of the Edge, but bodies crowded the space between him and the glorious free-fall.
He could beg, but he didn't want to argue; he had—
(He had wanted trust.)
And he had almost gotten it. Almost.
With a silent look of utmost hurt and betrayal, Mauja turned upon his ghostly haunches and fled the scene, leaving a single drop of red upon the tip of Tembovu's horn.
Mauja
the white queen
