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06-27-2017, 01:34 PM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Far below, the waves shifted and churned against the white cliffs. They hushed and whispered and clucked, a constant rhythm, backdrop to the penetrating gull cries. Its sweet siren song drifted into his black-rimmed ears, and on occasion, they flicked to it. He thought about that heart-stopping drop. Thought about Glacia, weaving drunkenly through the rain towards it, her soul already half out of her body.
Leaping to find it. So many times she had almost died from him, and it chilled him to think of. What if he hadn't been there, to save her from the sea? What if he hadn't been there, to stop her from leaping from the world's edge, and into death?
She would've broken upon the rocks, or broken upon the waves, and lifeless as a doll, she would've either drifted out to sea, or washed up on shore. Dead all the same. He didn't have enough energy to swallow. Just limped on, kept company by bleak thoughts.
I can't die. I can jump off. Just to feel myself fall, and fly.
What if she's already gone? What if I waste my last chance?
What if she's had enough of my near-death tricks?
He limped on. Put one hoof in front of the other. Shifted his weight and felt it jar through him, a bright, flashing counterpoint to the constant ache. He heard his pain; felt it in his ears. The thrum of his straining heart, and the little gasps each time his legs had to bear him up again.
He had never been this worn before; a couple of days as he regenerated blood was nothing. Being a desiccated, frostbitten corpse was nothing, because the Goddess had jumpstarted him a little.
But this? This was walking death, and he bore it with as much grace as one could imagine—which is to say, none at all, but he couldn't do much else besides go on.
A familiar voice called out a greeting. Feeling guilty, Mauja stopped, and did his best to hide the relief. He didn't want her to know how weak he was. He didn't want her to know what a miserable sod she'd fished out of the sea. He didn't want her to frown at him, concern in her eyes, and wonder what the fuck he was doing walking around when he obviously wasn't fit to.
Bullheadedness and hopelessness goes a long way, he thought sourly. He didn't have anything better to do than pace, and nothing was at stake for him. He couldn't suddenly overtax his heart and collapse (maybe he could, but even if he did, he would just get back up again a couple of hours later).
It sucked.
"Alysanne," he greeted her when she came near, his voice a fragile echo of itself. She looked at him, intently, long enough that he had to fight not to fidget under her green gaze. There's nothing wrong with me he wanted to say, as if the words could hide the hollows of his hips, the shadows between his ribs, the awful contour of his neck. “How are you?” she asked, as Irma suddenly swiveled her head, and strained to look at something at Aly's wings. Mauja didn't see it, and gave up, instead laughing bitterly.
"I was going to say, 'I'm alive', but that's hardly a feat for me." He snorted, and turned his head to the sea; his matted forelock slid across his face, and hung down across his eye. "And you? How are you?" he asked, knowing fully well that he hadn't answered her question.
Leaping to find it. So many times she had almost died from him, and it chilled him to think of. What if he hadn't been there, to save her from the sea? What if he hadn't been there, to stop her from leaping from the world's edge, and into death?
She would've broken upon the rocks, or broken upon the waves, and lifeless as a doll, she would've either drifted out to sea, or washed up on shore. Dead all the same. He didn't have enough energy to swallow. Just limped on, kept company by bleak thoughts.
I can't die. I can jump off. Just to feel myself fall, and fly.
What if she's already gone? What if I waste my last chance?
What if she's had enough of my near-death tricks?
He limped on. Put one hoof in front of the other. Shifted his weight and felt it jar through him, a bright, flashing counterpoint to the constant ache. He heard his pain; felt it in his ears. The thrum of his straining heart, and the little gasps each time his legs had to bear him up again.
He had never been this worn before; a couple of days as he regenerated blood was nothing. Being a desiccated, frostbitten corpse was nothing, because the Goddess had jumpstarted him a little.
But this? This was walking death, and he bore it with as much grace as one could imagine—which is to say, none at all, but he couldn't do much else besides go on.
A familiar voice called out a greeting. Feeling guilty, Mauja stopped, and did his best to hide the relief. He didn't want her to know how weak he was. He didn't want her to know what a miserable sod she'd fished out of the sea. He didn't want her to frown at him, concern in her eyes, and wonder what the fuck he was doing walking around when he obviously wasn't fit to.
Bullheadedness and hopelessness goes a long way, he thought sourly. He didn't have anything better to do than pace, and nothing was at stake for him. He couldn't suddenly overtax his heart and collapse (maybe he could, but even if he did, he would just get back up again a couple of hours later).
It sucked.
"Alysanne," he greeted her when she came near, his voice a fragile echo of itself. She looked at him, intently, long enough that he had to fight not to fidget under her green gaze. There's nothing wrong with me he wanted to say, as if the words could hide the hollows of his hips, the shadows between his ribs, the awful contour of his neck. “How are you?” she asked, as Irma suddenly swiveled her head, and strained to look at something at Aly's wings. Mauja didn't see it, and gave up, instead laughing bitterly.
"I was going to say, 'I'm alive', but that's hardly a feat for me." He snorted, and turned his head to the sea; his matted forelock slid across his face, and hung down across his eye. "And you? How are you?" he asked, knowing fully well that he hadn't answered her question.
