but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

His arteries were thrumming, fueled by the thunder of his heart as his mind danced some complex dance with elements of smoke and shadow; they wove together only to come apart as rationality clashed with chaos.

For that was what he was: chaos encased in cold, cold ice.

And sometimes, the chaos started to chip away at the glacier surrounding his soul, little hairline cracks and fractures spreading as dark tendrils leaked out—like dragon-heads, snapping together with slavering jaws as the ice sought to drive it back within.

Chaos whispered leap, leap, leap, high on the idea of such a rash act.
Ice roared NO!, followed by the quiet, judgmental that's so stupid, are you that stupid, Mauja? Are -you-, Frozen Light and Frostheart and Ice King and all things cold, that stupid?

Would you let your emotions rule -you-?

But chaos was all these fledgling emotions bundled up in a fragile, newly hatched bird bundle, and when it shrieked, who knew what it wanted? Because he didn't know himself—

And that was why he carried a slightly irregular, black fresh scar at the point of his chest, where love had mingled with pain and both been overridden by loyalty until he had been too afraid, in too much pain, to allow himself to keep hiding behind the guise of confusion.

Chaos made his eyes wilder than they should've been; widened, a faint rim of white cradling the darker rim of his iris. Chaos made him say things that were unkind in their intent, even as it had him begging to leap from the cliff's edge; ice kept him where he was, but couldn't still his tongue, not entirely. His dark nostrils widened, dragging in lungful after lungful of warm late spring air, trying to keep it down long enough to soothe his shrieking nerves. He couldn't put his hoof on what it was, not really, though it was as uncomfortable as a snake beneath his own skin—this blindness towards the self. Because wasn't that the first thing he had thought? Martyr, helper, fool—

If she was a fool, she was not a fool for loving, but for not opening her eyes, and her mind, wide enough to see herself.

He couldn't even soothe her right now, couldn't explain that it wasn't her fault, that it was okay, that it was just the memories bubbling up like black tar and his skin feeling like fiery ants tapdanced on him—

All he could do, he guessed, was stand there, and listen. Not jump off the edge, because wouldn't that give her about an additional fifty wrong conclusions? Not to mention she'd probably not trust him when he said he'd be fine, and jump in after him anyway, and she couldn't fly, and—ugh. So the least he could do was not risk her life in the process of flirting with his own savage bent for adrenaline.

Black-rimmed ears were focused in her direction, his gaze, somehow too intense, resting on hers. Green. Usually warm green, always expressive, for throughout the course of this meeting he had realized that she showed more of her feelings in them than she did with the rest of her face (—her mouth), and now, they were sad. His gut tightened in guilt. It was his fault, wasn't it? For pressing, and as her feeble attempts at explaining to him what she couldn't even explain to herself registered in his mind he realized that while he should shut up and let her live her life as she pleased, he knew that he wouldn't be able to shake this off. It'd haunt him, it'd take up his time, his mind would twist and turn until he'd either run himself ragged on it, or he caved in and found her again and yelled 'why?!' at her again. Besides, he knew what it was like to be blind to yourself—and to remain blind. To know that there was something there, in the back of your mind, niggling at you and asking you to open your eyes but at the same time you kept telling yourself they weren't closed, that you saw clearly, that what you did was right.

"But there is something for you in it," he said, more quietly than he thought he was capable of; his haunches were still tensed up and the wildness hadn't quite gone out of him, but his pulse had quieted. "And you just said it yourself. 'I can carry that burden for anyone that needs me to.'"

But what if you're wrong? his mind kept screeching at him, telling him that it was none of his fucking business, he didn't even know Alysanne, did he? So who was he to stand here and pretend he was smart and insightful and had a single damn clue to what she wanted and needed, whether she knew it or not?

(It was just his backwards way of showing care.)

"It will let you suffer in someone else's stead," he went on, sadly, the turmoil of his dark core settling again as his eyes relaxed. He fell silent, then, before he turned his head, and his gaze returned to the darkening waves of the sea. He was afraid the sympathy he felt would come out as pity (it was dangerously close to it), and that it would show in his face.

[ @Alysanne ]

Mauja

the white queen