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05-30-2016, 05:18 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
He didn't even know what he had walked in on—
(They're subtle, they're good, they hide their secrets behind their eyes, they curb their emotions so their scents won't give them away; he can't smell them, he can't see them, he can only feel the vague break in the world as the setting shifts.)
But he couldn't pinpoint it, barely registered it, his mind drowning in a wash of blue eyes and red markings and a midnight, velvety coat, and something at the back of his mind is saying brown, one eye should be brown,
—but one of Sacre's eyes would never be brown. d'Artagnan might've shaped the stallion, might've given part of himself to form his delicate, angular frame, and perhaps their blood would taste the same, but he was not d'Artagnan.
He would never be d'Artagnan.
He was part of a different story, a different life, a different generation; Mauja's drowned, harried gaze shifted to Skullface, knowing her to belong to the same. They were the future (and you're just immortal), they—had their own lives, untainted by the sins of their ancestors, and he—a ghost—should not come chain them with obligation born from just that, sins.
What was he doing here? What was he doing haunting them? Sacre—a muscle twitched in Mauja's jaw as the young man smiled at him, saying his name, as if he wasn't ruining something (his life) at all. As if he wasn't too displeased to see him, a haggard, broken man, and somewhere his frost-bitten heart was trying to make promises to the Nightshade, to care for his still-living children, to make sure they'd be alive—
(—for when you return—)
He's not coming back.
Black-rimmed ears fell back into the knotted mess of his mane, and he glanced aside, even as Skullface finally gave up her name. "Uh," he sort of blurted out, assuming that 'destroying the future' wouldn't be a particularly appreciated thing to say. Just dumping the weight of my sorrow in your lap, just drowning you in the same flood which drowned me, just holding on... His eyes flickered briefly to Nymeria, then back to Sacre, and his heart stuttered silently in his chest. There were words, somewhere, he was sure of that, but he just couldn't find them.
"You?" he said after a moment, his light voice worn, his too-lean shoulders moving in a shrug. "I mean, you—"
He cut himself off; gone was the composed King-Queen-whatever, gone was the icy shadow from the north, gone was everything but a sort of rundownmanperson, eyes skipping in a way which gave away that he had a hard time focusing.
It just hurt too much.
"I miss d'Artagnan," he finally ended up saying, a lost, sort of distracted look settling across the blue of his eyes as he ended up staring at a tree. (Poor tree.) "So I thought I'd offer you a place in the World's Edge." Where it all began.
[ fuckin' shoot me... @Sacre @Nymeria ]
(They're subtle, they're good, they hide their secrets behind their eyes, they curb their emotions so their scents won't give them away; he can't smell them, he can't see them, he can only feel the vague break in the world as the setting shifts.)
But he couldn't pinpoint it, barely registered it, his mind drowning in a wash of blue eyes and red markings and a midnight, velvety coat, and something at the back of his mind is saying brown, one eye should be brown,
—but one of Sacre's eyes would never be brown. d'Artagnan might've shaped the stallion, might've given part of himself to form his delicate, angular frame, and perhaps their blood would taste the same, but he was not d'Artagnan.
He would never be d'Artagnan.
He was part of a different story, a different life, a different generation; Mauja's drowned, harried gaze shifted to Skullface, knowing her to belong to the same. They were the future (and you're just immortal), they—had their own lives, untainted by the sins of their ancestors, and he—a ghost—should not come chain them with obligation born from just that, sins.
What was he doing here? What was he doing haunting them? Sacre—a muscle twitched in Mauja's jaw as the young man smiled at him, saying his name, as if he wasn't ruining something (his life) at all. As if he wasn't too displeased to see him, a haggard, broken man, and somewhere his frost-bitten heart was trying to make promises to the Nightshade, to care for his still-living children, to make sure they'd be alive—
(—for when you return—)
He's not coming back.
Black-rimmed ears fell back into the knotted mess of his mane, and he glanced aside, even as Skullface finally gave up her name. "Uh," he sort of blurted out, assuming that 'destroying the future' wouldn't be a particularly appreciated thing to say. Just dumping the weight of my sorrow in your lap, just drowning you in the same flood which drowned me, just holding on... His eyes flickered briefly to Nymeria, then back to Sacre, and his heart stuttered silently in his chest. There were words, somewhere, he was sure of that, but he just couldn't find them.
"You?" he said after a moment, his light voice worn, his too-lean shoulders moving in a shrug. "I mean, you—"
He cut himself off; gone was the composed King-Queen-whatever, gone was the icy shadow from the north, gone was everything but a sort of rundown
It just hurt too much.
"I miss d'Artagnan," he finally ended up saying, a lost, sort of distracted look settling across the blue of his eyes as he ended up staring at a tree. (Poor tree.) "So I thought I'd offer you a place in the World's Edge." Where it all began.
[ fuckin' shoot me... @Sacre @Nymeria ]
Mauja
the white queen
