.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
like breaking diamonds with your hands
He hadn't exactly avoided the beach—he just hadn't found the time, nor the energy, to go there. He had spent the past season running from himself, and the season before that in the cold, heavy grasp of his own mind. He had struggled with apathy, he had struggled with listlessness, with hopelessness and defeat; and then, he had struggled with the sharp breaks in his mind, and the pit of darkness which had suddenly opened beneath him as he had demanded to be killed—
As his long legs carried him along the ocean's mouth his brain re-painted the picture of that disastrous herd meeting; the shadows ran black and red with envy as the wild-eyed, white wraith stood before his King. His heart demanded love while his mouth demanded violence.
But all he had got was a single, red drop stolen from his veins, to spiral slowly down a thick, black horn as he was refused.
His plea for violence—but not the love nestled in it. Tembovu just hadn't understood in that moment. He hadn't—well, who ever could? Who could ever comprehend the stark raving mad depths of his icy soul? Who could ever understand the torment he wrought upon himself, when not even he did? When he was so confused that comfort and death-dealing violence got tangled up? When he asked for death instead of an embrace, when he said I love you instead of explaining anything?
He shook his great white head, long, silken mane flying about his sweat-soaked neck. A bright noon sun beat down upon him, occasionally drowned out, or at least tempered, by puffs of white cloud, but not even together with the ocean breeze was it enough to keep him entirely cool. Still, it was a discomfort he could suffer, at least today, for as he ambled along he realized he had needed this, and badly. Something about moving, something about just walking and thinking, got his brain going in a way standing still never could. Things fell into patterns, came into clarity, and sometimes, he understood himself, what he had done, and why.
The sun lit the ridge of his nose as he turned to glance behind him, at the tall, white cliffs. Was there ever any understanding for what had transpired there? Of that—that day, when the midday sun had witnessed his immortality put to the test? His jaws clenched for a moment. The scars were healing, a black, hairless patch of finely knit new skin at the point of his chest, but—but what about them? Him and Tembovu? Would they ever heal..?
How could the Elephant King trust him, when he didn't even have enough sense to say no, stop, I don't want this?
When he couldn't even look out for himself?
I don't exist—he was starting to admit that he existed, but that he was worthless instead. At least, to himself. That was the only rational, logical explanation—that he, Mauja, Frosthjarta and Frostljós, did not matter, not in the great scheme of things. Not when compared to everyone else. He was the lowliest creature in existence, the shoulders upon which all else stood, nothing but a slave draped in fine, regal clothing—time and again, he destroyed himself for others, whether they asked it of him or not.
The owls veered overhead, casting fleeting shadows in the stark sunlight. Mauja paused mid-stride, glanced briefly at his own; it was bare, as he walked without both staff and bags today. Despite the distortion from the angle of the sun he saw the proud arch of his neck, and grimaced. Sometimes, he wished he had been a small, runty thing instead. Perhaps he wouldn't have become what he was, then, if he hadn't been somewhat imposing to look at.
But that wasn't the real reason he had stopped, and staring at his shadow had just been a convenient excuse to delay. Frosted hooves skimmed hot, silver sand until they met lap of ocean water. The bone-white sands had darkened to slate; he left dark prints in it, the jagged edges quickly smoothed out by the relentless motion of the water.
She lay there, like another piece of driftwood. The surf rushed up to kiss her body, to lift the white tendrils of her tail and push them towards shore, and then back out again. Striped flanks rose and fell with the steady rhythm of breathing—at least she was alive.
There was so much left unsaid. There were so many words upon his tongue, and so many thoughts within his mind (so much fear within his heart). He still didn't know her name—she was just a tiger-striped mare with star-sharp eyes, something pristine, something holy, something cold and sharp and deadly and wicked and soft and beautiful and warm—
"Are you alright?" he asked, gently, his voice just a breath next to the ocean.
[ @Maren ]
As his long legs carried him along the ocean's mouth his brain re-painted the picture of that disastrous herd meeting; the shadows ran black and red with envy as the wild-eyed, white wraith stood before his King. His heart demanded love while his mouth demanded violence.
But all he had got was a single, red drop stolen from his veins, to spiral slowly down a thick, black horn as he was refused.
His plea for violence—but not the love nestled in it. Tembovu just hadn't understood in that moment. He hadn't—well, who ever could? Who could ever comprehend the stark raving mad depths of his icy soul? Who could ever understand the torment he wrought upon himself, when not even he did? When he was so confused that comfort and death-dealing violence got tangled up? When he asked for death instead of an embrace, when he said I love you instead of explaining anything?
He shook his great white head, long, silken mane flying about his sweat-soaked neck. A bright noon sun beat down upon him, occasionally drowned out, or at least tempered, by puffs of white cloud, but not even together with the ocean breeze was it enough to keep him entirely cool. Still, it was a discomfort he could suffer, at least today, for as he ambled along he realized he had needed this, and badly. Something about moving, something about just walking and thinking, got his brain going in a way standing still never could. Things fell into patterns, came into clarity, and sometimes, he understood himself, what he had done, and why.
The sun lit the ridge of his nose as he turned to glance behind him, at the tall, white cliffs. Was there ever any understanding for what had transpired there? Of that—that day, when the midday sun had witnessed his immortality put to the test? His jaws clenched for a moment. The scars were healing, a black, hairless patch of finely knit new skin at the point of his chest, but—but what about them? Him and Tembovu? Would they ever heal..?
How could the Elephant King trust him, when he didn't even have enough sense to say no, stop, I don't want this?
When he couldn't even look out for himself?
I don't exist—he was starting to admit that he existed, but that he was worthless instead. At least, to himself. That was the only rational, logical explanation—that he, Mauja, Frosthjarta and Frostljós, did not matter, not in the great scheme of things. Not when compared to everyone else. He was the lowliest creature in existence, the shoulders upon which all else stood, nothing but a slave draped in fine, regal clothing—time and again, he destroyed himself for others, whether they asked it of him or not.
The owls veered overhead, casting fleeting shadows in the stark sunlight. Mauja paused mid-stride, glanced briefly at his own; it was bare, as he walked without both staff and bags today. Despite the distortion from the angle of the sun he saw the proud arch of his neck, and grimaced. Sometimes, he wished he had been a small, runty thing instead. Perhaps he wouldn't have become what he was, then, if he hadn't been somewhat imposing to look at.
But that wasn't the real reason he had stopped, and staring at his shadow had just been a convenient excuse to delay. Frosted hooves skimmed hot, silver sand until they met lap of ocean water. The bone-white sands had darkened to slate; he left dark prints in it, the jagged edges quickly smoothed out by the relentless motion of the water.
She lay there, like another piece of driftwood. The surf rushed up to kiss her body, to lift the white tendrils of her tail and push them towards shore, and then back out again. Striped flanks rose and fell with the steady rhythm of breathing—at least she was alive.
There was so much left unsaid. There were so many words upon his tongue, and so many thoughts within his mind (so much fear within his heart). He still didn't know her name—she was just a tiger-striped mare with star-sharp eyes, something pristine, something holy, something cold and sharp and deadly and wicked and soft and beautiful and warm—
"Are you alright?" he asked, gently, his voice just a breath next to the ocean.
[ @Maren ]
