Blood Falls
08-04-2018, 09:48 AM
like breaking diamonds with your hands
But then what? He had expected something to change, for something to happen—but nothing did. Nothing changed. The mud pots churned and snapped. The snow remained undisturbed. Night rolled in like the tide. No divine herald cried out that Mauja had chosen a god to champion.
Silence weighed heavy on them.
Then—
"Mauja?"
At first, he did not understand. He hadn't heard his name in a year or more. How come someone still knew which syllables to put together to describe his soul? One black-lined ear turned back, his entire being disturbed and irritated (he had been on the brink of something, some revelation, something light and wondrous that had slipped out of his grasp), and then he turned his entire head.
It was Evangeline. And she was alone, a torch stuck in the snow, a face that made him absolutely, horribly aware of the sorry state he was in. She'd come across his walking death at least twice before, if memory served him right. Something close to shame made him turn his head away again, glad his shaggy winter coat hid just how horribly he had mismanaged himself.
"Evangeline," he said, peering out over the white-and-red slopes. "I didn't know you'd ended up here."
A nudge—he assumed it was Diego, though he couldn't understand the owl's sudden, if distant, outpouring of affection—had him turning his head, peering up the slope just as a tiny tan pony stopped to look at him. Mauja stared right back.
"Hello," the other called after a moment, and some of the tension left him. He wasn't sure why he was so on edge, except—he was weak and emaciated and in a land that had, on occasion, proven to be very, very viscious.
Good job.
"No," he simply answered, his voice clear and light and tired, "you are not."
Silence weighed heavy on them.
Then—
"Mauja?"
At first, he did not understand. He hadn't heard his name in a year or more. How come someone still knew which syllables to put together to describe his soul? One black-lined ear turned back, his entire being disturbed and irritated (he had been on the brink of something, some revelation, something light and wondrous that had slipped out of his grasp), and then he turned his entire head.
It was Evangeline. And she was alone, a torch stuck in the snow, a face that made him absolutely, horribly aware of the sorry state he was in. She'd come across his walking death at least twice before, if memory served him right. Something close to shame made him turn his head away again, glad his shaggy winter coat hid just how horribly he had mismanaged himself.
"Evangeline," he said, peering out over the white-and-red slopes. "I didn't know you'd ended up here."
A nudge—he assumed it was Diego, though he couldn't understand the owl's sudden, if distant, outpouring of affection—had him turning his head, peering up the slope just as a tiny tan pony stopped to look at him. Mauja stared right back.
"Hello," the other called after a moment, and some of the tension left him. He wasn't sure why he was so on edge, except—he was weak and emaciated and in a land that had, on occasion, proven to be very, very viscious.
Good job.
"No," he simply answered, his voice clear and light and tired, "you are not."
