The Portal
09-08-2017, 12:41 PM
Slowly, the fever died.
Hope wilted.
He was the ashes left behind—gray and worn, dull and lifeless. Spent. A matted coat draped over a bony frame; hollows between his protruding ribs. His long mane and tail tangled and knotted. Sweat and grime crusted on his hide, like the memory of salt waves, only, the stains had never worn out.
And his eyes. The fever was gone, the intensity was gone, the urgency which had spurred him on—it was all just gone, along with his soul. In the wake of it was just a body, walking a foreign earth, robbed of everything but the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins.
Forgive me. His ghastly form roamed the veiled forest, the black smoke curving away from him, like a perversion of the Edge's mists. This, this place where the shadows pulsed and throbbed and the eyes flayed the skin from his back, was where it had begun, and where it had ended. It was the mouth which had swallowed him whole. It was the knife which had severed something in his soul. It was the poison.
He'd barely found anyone he knew, or rather, barely anyone he knew had found him. He hadn't looked. He hadn't cared. The best part of him, the only part that seemed to matter, had been taken from him.
He had chased shadows and rumors and moonbeams and dreams, but always come up empty-handed.
I'm sorry.
He stumbled through the forest. Jokingly, he had always called Helovia Hell-o-via, because no good ever seemed to happen there—it burned, everyone died, the gods did despicable things, and he got hurt. Those he loved got hurt. Over and over and over, the cycle always spinning on, one hurt avenging the next, until everyone had claims to everybody's blood. Only a few sought to water the earth with it, but enough to keep the strife and tension constant.
And if it wasn't them, the poor idiots who just seemed incapable of leaving, it was the gods spurring on the conflicts. He never got a good answer out of the Moon, why she'd done it, why she'd killed all those people, and now she was dead, too.
I can't do this anymore.
How bitterly he regretted complaining. How bitterly he regretted throwing himself into glaciers and oceans, thinking they would show their love for him only if he nearly died from them—wasting years he could've spent with them, for now.. many of them were lost, forever.
Dead. Dead, dead, dead.. and he lived on, as usual. Nothing changed there, at least, though it might soon. Parts of him hoped for one of the nameless terrors of the Rift to lumber out of the shadows and sink its teeth into him, end it once and for all, but—no. It hadn't happened yet, though if it did, he was easy prey. Not much meat on him, though.
No, not much meat at all. He was bones and skin with some flimsy strips of muscle in between, and he staggered into the presence of a pitch black mare. Elegant wings were folded to her sides, and her face was lit up with a white marking—blue eyes piercing through the haze and shadows of the Portal. He almost thought her a figment of his imagination, a bit of shadow coalesced into something to antagonize him, until he simply decided he'd had enough of blaming everything on himself.
It was still his fault, but, honestly? Making up monsters wasn't going to fix anything. The fever had run its course. The pain had clobbered him senseless. He was numb, and he was dying, and he was chasing starlight so pure it always ran from him.
"Hey," he said to the mare, his voice like gravel and rust, "you're in a bad place, kid." Because, at the grand age of fourteen, he figured he'd kind of earned being able to call everyone else 'kid'.
[ @Maetharanel ]
Hope wilted.
He was the ashes left behind—gray and worn, dull and lifeless. Spent. A matted coat draped over a bony frame; hollows between his protruding ribs. His long mane and tail tangled and knotted. Sweat and grime crusted on his hide, like the memory of salt waves, only, the stains had never worn out.
And his eyes. The fever was gone, the intensity was gone, the urgency which had spurred him on—it was all just gone, along with his soul. In the wake of it was just a body, walking a foreign earth, robbed of everything but the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins.
Forgive me. His ghastly form roamed the veiled forest, the black smoke curving away from him, like a perversion of the Edge's mists. This, this place where the shadows pulsed and throbbed and the eyes flayed the skin from his back, was where it had begun, and where it had ended. It was the mouth which had swallowed him whole. It was the knife which had severed something in his soul. It was the poison.
He'd barely found anyone he knew, or rather, barely anyone he knew had found him. He hadn't looked. He hadn't cared. The best part of him, the only part that seemed to matter, had been taken from him.
He had chased shadows and rumors and moonbeams and dreams, but always come up empty-handed.
I'm sorry.
He stumbled through the forest. Jokingly, he had always called Helovia Hell-o-via, because no good ever seemed to happen there—it burned, everyone died, the gods did despicable things, and he got hurt. Those he loved got hurt. Over and over and over, the cycle always spinning on, one hurt avenging the next, until everyone had claims to everybody's blood. Only a few sought to water the earth with it, but enough to keep the strife and tension constant.
And if it wasn't them, the poor idiots who just seemed incapable of leaving, it was the gods spurring on the conflicts. He never got a good answer out of the Moon, why she'd done it, why she'd killed all those people, and now she was dead, too.
I can't do this anymore.
How bitterly he regretted complaining. How bitterly he regretted throwing himself into glaciers and oceans, thinking they would show their love for him only if he nearly died from them—wasting years he could've spent with them, for now.. many of them were lost, forever.
Dead. Dead, dead, dead.. and he lived on, as usual. Nothing changed there, at least, though it might soon. Parts of him hoped for one of the nameless terrors of the Rift to lumber out of the shadows and sink its teeth into him, end it once and for all, but—no. It hadn't happened yet, though if it did, he was easy prey. Not much meat on him, though.
No, not much meat at all. He was bones and skin with some flimsy strips of muscle in between, and he staggered into the presence of a pitch black mare. Elegant wings were folded to her sides, and her face was lit up with a white marking—blue eyes piercing through the haze and shadows of the Portal. He almost thought her a figment of his imagination, a bit of shadow coalesced into something to antagonize him, until he simply decided he'd had enough of blaming everything on himself.
It was still his fault, but, honestly? Making up monsters wasn't going to fix anything. The fever had run its course. The pain had clobbered him senseless. He was numb, and he was dying, and he was chasing starlight so pure it always ran from him.
"Hey," he said to the mare, his voice like gravel and rust, "you're in a bad place, kid." Because, at the grand age of fourteen, he figured he'd kind of earned being able to call everyone else 'kid'.
[ @Maetharanel ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
