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04-04-2016, 03:57 AM
somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
What had he done?
Run away, run away—
He had fallen straight back into his old habits. The thing he had always done: run.
From his past. From his mistakes. From his love. For his life.
Snö had inherited it. She had kept on running, too, even as she chided him for it. And he had sworn to himself, that night on the beach, that he was done with running—that he would face every fight the world threw him, that he would stop running for her sake.
But now she was dead, and he had already betrayed his promise, fleeing from the uncomprehending pain and hesitation in Tembovu's eyes and voice. From Myrrine's loving, gentle touch upon his shoulder, the thick bone of it guarding the terrified heart beneath.
He hadn't wanted them to fix him. He had wanted them to break him. He had—
His teeth gnashed together in the darkness. Not all loves were as shadow-wrapped and cruel as his. Not everyone were was fucking mad as he. What had he thought? That Tembovu would stab him to, for all everyone knew, death in front of the whole fucking herd?
(His heart was bitter, and cold.)
"M...Mauja! Are you around here? I would like to talk to you about something if you have the time."
No, I'm not, I don't have time, and you don't want to talk to me anyway—
He knew who it was. He knew that it was a voice coming from a muzzle hovering next to his shoulders, eyes speaking love and devotion but lacking understanding: too innocent, too plain (trust me, honey, it's a good thing) to understand the sheer, terrorizing depths of Mauja's flawed character. He breathed out through dark nostrils, white smoke clouding into the early night. Did she want an explanation?
He had none.
But he had the staff; he'd gone back for it later, dismissed its wicked, curving blade, and tucked it in beneath the leather straps of his satchel. He closed his eyes. Its weight was like a curse weighing against his spine.
Life was so fragile, death so permanent, and as he briefly considered attempting to kill her he wondered if he would be able to cry for her afterwards.
Snap out of it he chided himself, giving his pale head an irked shake; white mane and forelock stirred against his neck, quicksilver rivers. He breathed out again.
"I'm over here," he called from where he stood, a statue among the thick trees, eyes soulless in the grayed-out darkness of the night.
[ @Myrrine ]
Run away, run away—
He had fallen straight back into his old habits. The thing he had always done: run.
From his past. From his mistakes. From his love. For his life.
Snö had inherited it. She had kept on running, too, even as she chided him for it. And he had sworn to himself, that night on the beach, that he was done with running—that he would face every fight the world threw him, that he would stop running for her sake.
But now she was dead, and he had already betrayed his promise, fleeing from the uncomprehending pain and hesitation in Tembovu's eyes and voice. From Myrrine's loving, gentle touch upon his shoulder, the thick bone of it guarding the terrified heart beneath.
He hadn't wanted them to fix him. He had wanted them to break him. He had—
His teeth gnashed together in the darkness. Not all loves were as shadow-wrapped and cruel as his. Not everyone were was fucking mad as he. What had he thought? That Tembovu would stab him to, for all everyone knew, death in front of the whole fucking herd?
(His heart was bitter, and cold.)
"M...Mauja! Are you around here? I would like to talk to you about something if you have the time."
No, I'm not, I don't have time, and you don't want to talk to me anyway—
He knew who it was. He knew that it was a voice coming from a muzzle hovering next to his shoulders, eyes speaking love and devotion but lacking understanding: too innocent, too plain (trust me, honey, it's a good thing) to understand the sheer, terrorizing depths of Mauja's flawed character. He breathed out through dark nostrils, white smoke clouding into the early night. Did she want an explanation?
He had none.
But he had the staff; he'd gone back for it later, dismissed its wicked, curving blade, and tucked it in beneath the leather straps of his satchel. He closed his eyes. Its weight was like a curse weighing against his spine.
Life was so fragile, death so permanent, and as he briefly considered attempting to kill her he wondered if he would be able to cry for her afterwards.
Snap out of it he chided himself, giving his pale head an irked shake; white mane and forelock stirred against his neck, quicksilver rivers. He breathed out again.
"I'm over here," he called from where he stood, a statue among the thick trees, eyes soulless in the grayed-out darkness of the night.
[ @Myrrine ]
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
