Rainforest Cliffs
08-27-2017, 08:36 PM
like breaking diamonds with your hands
He was adrift.
Mauja had always been somewhat of a ghost—pale and heartless and graceful, lost in some black current only he could feel. A distance in his eyes, as if his soul wasn't quite there, but rather, encased in ice, somewhere out of reach. He had been a harbinger of death, he had been a frozen King, and, finally—a ghost, well and truly. He had died and died and died, but he still walked the land, a haunting specter in the downpour and fog.
He hadn't felt alive in a long, long time. It was, he thought rather dully, something that happened if you spent a couple of years either in a glacier or the sea, being, for all intents and purposes, dead to the fucking world, but he should've sparked back to life. He had been heading in the right direction, until that fuckwit Kisamoa decided to kill a lot of people he cared about, and then throw him through a Portal, which.. which did unspeakable things to him.
That space in his soul that should've been occupied by Irma gaped raw and empty, except there was no cut edge, no scar tissue, just a smooth, smooth surface, as if she'd never been there at all. And Kahlua's stone, giving to him so long ago when she had no idea how to comfort him, had lost its glow. Myrrine's flower charm, left behind after the poor mare finally died of something, stopped blooming. Diego, his remaining owl, was sluggish, hard to reach, sullen and feverish. He wasn't well, but he'd always been a sickly child—maybe that happened if you were plucked from your nest, had your egg nursed back to life, and hatched in a time of rampant, destructive magic.
That Diego remained did nothing to ease him, to soothe him, to ground him. Irma had always been his anchor, had always been his heart, from the day their minds first touched—his guardian, his friend, the one who kicked him when he had to get up, and who told him she loved him in the dark, cold hours of night when he wondered what he had become, or when he was afraid.
Irma, who had raised Diego as her little brother, because Mauja had been too emotionally crippled to take care of the owlet.
Irma, who had been his everything.
Gone.
So he'd crashed through the forest, day after day, barely sleeping, barely eating, his already thin frame growing more skeletal again. Whatever fever plagued his companion plagued him too, a fire running rampant in his veins, his eyes circled by white-and-red, his mane tangled, his hide sweaty.
He was looking for her, and sometimes, he thought he saw her, the flash of white, the metallic glint of her blue barring, but she was always out of reach, always just out of sight, for when he turned his head, she was never there.
He'd cried his eyes raw. He'd shouted his voice hoarse. He was burning up.
It was in such a state he stumbled upon the hefty black stallion, barely seeing him even when they shared the same glade, ringed by neon eyes and hungry shadows. Mauja's body shuddered to a halt, his steps faltering before his brain realized he had stopped, and it took even longer for his eyes to notice the other horse, and when he did—
AH! he tried to yell, but all that came out was a weak, rasping, "ah?" and his worn eyes focused on the creature. It was a horse. It was not Irma. It was irrelevant, but he might know something, and Mauja's gaze sharpened, grew intense, which only helped to make him look even more deranged. "Have you seen my owl?" he demanded, oblivious of the fact that he might have to explain that he was looking for his other owl, and not the sorry-looking one currently perched on his back.
[ @Luminar ]
Mauja had always been somewhat of a ghost—pale and heartless and graceful, lost in some black current only he could feel. A distance in his eyes, as if his soul wasn't quite there, but rather, encased in ice, somewhere out of reach. He had been a harbinger of death, he had been a frozen King, and, finally—a ghost, well and truly. He had died and died and died, but he still walked the land, a haunting specter in the downpour and fog.
He hadn't felt alive in a long, long time. It was, he thought rather dully, something that happened if you spent a couple of years either in a glacier or the sea, being, for all intents and purposes, dead to the fucking world, but he should've sparked back to life. He had been heading in the right direction, until that fuckwit Kisamoa decided to kill a lot of people he cared about, and then throw him through a Portal, which.. which did unspeakable things to him.
That space in his soul that should've been occupied by Irma gaped raw and empty, except there was no cut edge, no scar tissue, just a smooth, smooth surface, as if she'd never been there at all. And Kahlua's stone, giving to him so long ago when she had no idea how to comfort him, had lost its glow. Myrrine's flower charm, left behind after the poor mare finally died of something, stopped blooming. Diego, his remaining owl, was sluggish, hard to reach, sullen and feverish. He wasn't well, but he'd always been a sickly child—maybe that happened if you were plucked from your nest, had your egg nursed back to life, and hatched in a time of rampant, destructive magic.
That Diego remained did nothing to ease him, to soothe him, to ground him. Irma had always been his anchor, had always been his heart, from the day their minds first touched—his guardian, his friend, the one who kicked him when he had to get up, and who told him she loved him in the dark, cold hours of night when he wondered what he had become, or when he was afraid.
Irma, who had raised Diego as her little brother, because Mauja had been too emotionally crippled to take care of the owlet.
Irma, who had been his everything.
Gone.
So he'd crashed through the forest, day after day, barely sleeping, barely eating, his already thin frame growing more skeletal again. Whatever fever plagued his companion plagued him too, a fire running rampant in his veins, his eyes circled by white-and-red, his mane tangled, his hide sweaty.
He was looking for her, and sometimes, he thought he saw her, the flash of white, the metallic glint of her blue barring, but she was always out of reach, always just out of sight, for when he turned his head, she was never there.
He'd cried his eyes raw. He'd shouted his voice hoarse. He was burning up.
It was in such a state he stumbled upon the hefty black stallion, barely seeing him even when they shared the same glade, ringed by neon eyes and hungry shadows. Mauja's body shuddered to a halt, his steps faltering before his brain realized he had stopped, and it took even longer for his eyes to notice the other horse, and when he did—
AH! he tried to yell, but all that came out was a weak, rasping, "ah?" and his worn eyes focused on the creature. It was a horse. It was not Irma. It was irrelevant, but he might know something, and Mauja's gaze sharpened, grew intense, which only helped to make him look even more deranged. "Have you seen my owl?" he demanded, oblivious of the fact that he might have to explain that he was looking for his other owl, and not the sorry-looking one currently perched on his back.
[ @Luminar ]
