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07-12-2016, 01:16 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Memory overlapped with reality.
He had been this weak before.
He had woken when he should not have, washed clean of his own blood and the sins staining him (all those spots? yeah—). The water had dissolved the filth of his shame and soaked it into his skin, and the wounds had healed; the skin had knit, forming fine ridges of scars. Where there was one, there were more, sometimes as many as five in parallel unison, hot and sore with the guilt threatening to burst out from within.
They were less visible, now, faded with age and reclaimed by flawless, white fur, but the guilt and the shame remained like a heavy weight in his bones.
And now, it was his chest, hot and sore with guilt and shame and wet with salt water and broken blood vessels. Now it was his chest caging secrets, kissed with another scar-to-be, and—
These secrets—
He had told his brother. He had told the Council. And he had been forgiven.
But who was there to tell, here? Who was there to forgive him? Dark, navy eyes, tired and worn but satin smooth like the night sky robbed of stars, hovered above him, set in a pale, drawn face lined in black, and ending in a soft, soft black muzzle. Those dark lips did not part in acknowledgment, did not part in forgiveness, but stayed silent after uttering their strange curse; they hovered above his feverish skin, tracing painful paths to the epicenter of his agony. He endured, because he had no other choice.
The soft, gentle press of a nose against his aching body was nearly more than he could take. Each heart beat thundered much more loudly in his ears, in his body, a thrum spreading from his chest to his legs until he began to wonder if the world had started to tremble, too—
“Do not ask that again of me, Mauja,” the voice rumbled above him, those precious eyes back in his sight once more—and the painful throb in his body backed off again, teased back into numbness. Forgive me, he wanted to say again, to demand an answer, to end this limbo once and for all—but nothing made it past his lips. Just air. It took all of his strength just to stay awake, to cling to the bleak, painful existence he had sentenced himself to.
How selfish, what he had done; was his own misery not enough? Did he have to drag someone else down with him into his blood-smeared, dark hell? Where there were corridors upon corridors, all dark and empty, all stained with blood both old and new, and scars, ice, and no matter how long you ran, how far you ran, it was just the same, always the same, until you could run no longer because your breath had run out—
What right did he have to ask Tembovu to come there with him? None, none, none at all, and the only thing he wanted to hear was that he forgave him, that—that—that somehow it would be alright.
That it was a mistake, that it was selfish and cruel and wrong,
but that he forgave him.
But those words were not what fell from Tembovu's lips, a slow question, a question that could mean anything—anything... It could—it could just mean that he was a nuisance.
But I can never do this to you again.
I could never do this to—us—again.
Was it fear, was it shame, that kept him hovering over his shoulder? Was it—oh, Mauja knew what it was like, to have someone see you and a dead body and put two and two together but not get four, and yet come slinging accusations in your face. (You know nothing of my murders, he had said to her, hurting, hurting, hurting.) It could be anything. It didn't have to be—he didn't have to care.
That old, old fear was blossoming again, like an ugly flower sitting in his chest and spreading poison. It was the reason he chose distance. It was the reason he didn't dare to love. And now, it stared him in the face, and all because Tembovu had not said those three cursed words.
But after what he had done—what he had done for Mauja (or had that all been a ruse? a chance to get rid of him once and for all, to see if the Moon God had but lied to him?).. what he had asked for was trust, and without giving it himself, when nothing but the silence asked it of him, could he ever get it in return?
"Hold me in my darkest hours," and his voice was a soft, fragile thing in the air between them. "And remind me of ..the light."
[ @Tembovu ]
He had been this weak before.
He had woken when he should not have, washed clean of his own blood and the sins staining him (all those spots? yeah—). The water had dissolved the filth of his shame and soaked it into his skin, and the wounds had healed; the skin had knit, forming fine ridges of scars. Where there was one, there were more, sometimes as many as five in parallel unison, hot and sore with the guilt threatening to burst out from within.
They were less visible, now, faded with age and reclaimed by flawless, white fur, but the guilt and the shame remained like a heavy weight in his bones.
And now, it was his chest, hot and sore with guilt and shame and wet with salt water and broken blood vessels. Now it was his chest caging secrets, kissed with another scar-to-be, and—
These secrets—
He had told his brother. He had told the Council. And he had been forgiven.
But who was there to tell, here? Who was there to forgive him? Dark, navy eyes, tired and worn but satin smooth like the night sky robbed of stars, hovered above him, set in a pale, drawn face lined in black, and ending in a soft, soft black muzzle. Those dark lips did not part in acknowledgment, did not part in forgiveness, but stayed silent after uttering their strange curse; they hovered above his feverish skin, tracing painful paths to the epicenter of his agony. He endured, because he had no other choice.
The soft, gentle press of a nose against his aching body was nearly more than he could take. Each heart beat thundered much more loudly in his ears, in his body, a thrum spreading from his chest to his legs until he began to wonder if the world had started to tremble, too—
“Do not ask that again of me, Mauja,” the voice rumbled above him, those precious eyes back in his sight once more—and the painful throb in his body backed off again, teased back into numbness. Forgive me, he wanted to say again, to demand an answer, to end this limbo once and for all—but nothing made it past his lips. Just air. It took all of his strength just to stay awake, to cling to the bleak, painful existence he had sentenced himself to.
How selfish, what he had done; was his own misery not enough? Did he have to drag someone else down with him into his blood-smeared, dark hell? Where there were corridors upon corridors, all dark and empty, all stained with blood both old and new, and scars, ice, and no matter how long you ran, how far you ran, it was just the same, always the same, until you could run no longer because your breath had run out—
What right did he have to ask Tembovu to come there with him? None, none, none at all, and the only thing he wanted to hear was that he forgave him, that—that—that somehow it would be alright.
That it was a mistake, that it was selfish and cruel and wrong,
but that he forgave him.
But those words were not what fell from Tembovu's lips, a slow question, a question that could mean anything—anything... It could—it could just mean that he was a nuisance.
But I can never do this to you again.
I could never do this to—us—again.
Was it fear, was it shame, that kept him hovering over his shoulder? Was it—oh, Mauja knew what it was like, to have someone see you and a dead body and put two and two together but not get four, and yet come slinging accusations in your face. (You know nothing of my murders, he had said to her, hurting, hurting, hurting.) It could be anything. It didn't have to be—he didn't have to care.
That old, old fear was blossoming again, like an ugly flower sitting in his chest and spreading poison. It was the reason he chose distance. It was the reason he didn't dare to love. And now, it stared him in the face, and all because Tembovu had not said those three cursed words.
But after what he had done—what he had done for Mauja (or had that all been a ruse? a chance to get rid of him once and for all, to see if the Moon God had but lied to him?).. what he had asked for was trust, and without giving it himself, when nothing but the silence asked it of him, could he ever get it in return?
"Hold me in my darkest hours," and his voice was a soft, fragile thing in the air between them. "And remind me of ..the light."
[ @Tembovu ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
