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12-08-2016, 05:39 AM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Frostheart.
He had hated the title, but suddenly he found himself missing it—because what was he, if not the Frostheart? Who was he, if not the Frostheart? It didn't matter how he had changed, how he had become nicer (even though that was questionable; just look at what he had said to poor Tilney), because he still was what he was, and always had been: a creature of the frozen north, with ice in his heart, in his veins. Where the hell had "frozen light" come from?
But maybe he didn't deserve the name Frostheart anymore; maybe it was a stranger's name, as Alysanne whispered it into the snowfall. It didn't sound like someone she knew.
He kept his eyes closed, and she began to tell the tale of Isopia and the Bags.
This is so stupid he thought to himself. So, so stupid. Part of him—a small, cold part—was angry that someone had probably insulted Alysanne, and part of him wanted to just scream in frustration. Helovia had no law but that of violence, regardless of what everyone said and preached and claimed was morally right. If you couldn't beat the shit out of people, no one would care, and no one would enforce your pretty words.
“He won.” "Good," Mauja said before he knew it, a note of bitter rage snaking through his voice as his eyes snapped open. "I don't know what's wrong with Helovia, but it's like the land is sick. Just, all this crap—" He waved with his nose at the bags, and the unconscious Diego stuffed into it. "—everyone has, and I find myself in possession of, too. People taking it left and right, and I didn't put a stop to it either—it's even possible this is my fault, depending on when it happened.
"Don't we even call it 'theft'? Stealing? Like how we used to take prisoner, to shift the odds in our favor before a battle, or keep the sentries up all night, on edge—" His head had been pulled up higher, and had he had any kind of hackles, they would've been raised. He was practically bristling. "There's no law in this land. There's nothing but violence. I can't pass judgment on this without us deciding whether or not it is inherently wrong to take from others." And then it was the thing of cause—was it right to take the sword from an enemy? Was it right to take from those who didn't lack? He looked away again, at the forest. Did he need the bags strapped around his narrow chest?
No. But they were the only thing he had left of d'Artagnan, and some childish part of him kept insisting that he'd better damn still have them when the Red came back.
He's not coming back, Mauja.
"I should just burn this fucking place down," he whispered, hoarsely.
He had hated the title, but suddenly he found himself missing it—because what was he, if not the Frostheart? Who was he, if not the Frostheart? It didn't matter how he had changed, how he had become nicer (even though that was questionable; just look at what he had said to poor Tilney), because he still was what he was, and always had been: a creature of the frozen north, with ice in his heart, in his veins. Where the hell had "frozen light" come from?
But maybe he didn't deserve the name Frostheart anymore; maybe it was a stranger's name, as Alysanne whispered it into the snowfall. It didn't sound like someone she knew.
He kept his eyes closed, and she began to tell the tale of Isopia and the Bags.
This is so stupid he thought to himself. So, so stupid. Part of him—a small, cold part—was angry that someone had probably insulted Alysanne, and part of him wanted to just scream in frustration. Helovia had no law but that of violence, regardless of what everyone said and preached and claimed was morally right. If you couldn't beat the shit out of people, no one would care, and no one would enforce your pretty words.
“He won.” "Good," Mauja said before he knew it, a note of bitter rage snaking through his voice as his eyes snapped open. "I don't know what's wrong with Helovia, but it's like the land is sick. Just, all this crap—" He waved with his nose at the bags, and the unconscious Diego stuffed into it. "—everyone has, and I find myself in possession of, too. People taking it left and right, and I didn't put a stop to it either—it's even possible this is my fault, depending on when it happened.
"Don't we even call it 'theft'? Stealing? Like how we used to take prisoner, to shift the odds in our favor before a battle, or keep the sentries up all night, on edge—" His head had been pulled up higher, and had he had any kind of hackles, they would've been raised. He was practically bristling. "There's no law in this land. There's nothing but violence. I can't pass judgment on this without us deciding whether or not it is inherently wrong to take from others." And then it was the thing of cause—was it right to take the sword from an enemy? Was it right to take from those who didn't lack? He looked away again, at the forest. Did he need the bags strapped around his narrow chest?
No. But they were the only thing he had left of d'Artagnan, and some childish part of him kept insisting that he'd better damn still have them when the Red came back.
He's not coming back, Mauja.
"I should just burn this fucking place down," he whispered, hoarsely.
