02-25-2017, 12:48 PM
His heart has become an onion.
(Meat, vegetable - it is the one and the same to him.)
But she starts to peel back the layers of him one by one; she becomes his undoing.
It is beautiful how it happens; how it hurts. A heart can only suffer so much and his can no longer bear the looks that she gives him - both hopeful and stubborn. He thought he suffered her because she was both of these things and that reminded him of his daughters, but he realizes it is something altogether wholly hers’ that they never had - some sense of spirit, unflinching and bright, that rises up through her copper skin and he thinks then, that he is far too old for her and too battered, too bruised, for her to waste time on. Except that he cannot turn her away now (besides, his feeble attempts to do just that had failed him!) nor does he wish to, not now, not now.
Because she undoes him, layer by layer, until he is raw and exposed and something like how he once was - bright, like her. Hopeful, even.
It is the feel of her mouth on his neck, the way she uses his name against him as a question.
He cannot look at her just yet, even as her nose drops further to his shoulder and finds a home there - no, nestles, like she builds a nest of breath and being in the crook of his skin. Mandan almost sighs; the thought of home was never a thing within his grasp but she makes it almost possible, and with just those small meaningful touches that he never thought he’d know again, not from a mare - not from a… a what? What exactly is she to him? That is the darkness talking; it rises up, rears back it’s ugly head and pummels him with doubt and reservation, and years of guilt that try to drag him back down again. Until she says his name in a tremulous breath, and only then, does he almost look at her.
Not yet.
There is magic afoot; he feels it spiral up and out of her and he squeezes his eyes shut against the things that she does with those brilliant blue fingers of light. He can feel them moving through him, a pulse different from his own that sparks and beats and begins to heal things in him that he never knew needed healing. The one thing that does not heal is his heart, and the light cannot drive the shadows from his eyes but he feels changed, somehow. Because of her.
The darkness reacts;
It grabs him, makes him look harshly at her and bark at her in a gruff voice when all she means to do is soothe him.
(Dimly, some part of him is sad that he acts this way towards her but knows it is the best way to keep the hurt from repeating itself all over again. In the end, he knows how it will be - she’ll leave, or he will, it doesn’t matter who but that’s how it always happens.)
Her eyes and her mouth are magic too.
They undo him further.
“I don’t know what you think you saw…” he begins, falters. How can she be so sure? He doesn’t even know if that self still exists despite her soft assertion that it does. It is her trembling lips on her jaw though that cracks the hardness of him until it crumbles right off and leaves him starkly vulnerable and soft like he has never been. He swallows back a lump of feeling when she confides that she likes him this way too, harsh and unforgiving. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be those things to her. He wants to be so much more but has forgotten how to be anything other than just that - harsh and unforgiving.
Mandan relents;
He reaches for her at the exact moment her face furrows and she turns away from him.
It is good that she has turned away because she cannot see the panic stricken look that takes him then, as he thinks a stupid thought - that the act of him almost touching her turned her away, like flesh scalded and withdrawn. He has to shake his head to relieve himself of this terrible feeling and misses the heavy press of horns on his head, misses the way her lips felt on his skin. Even those are things he should forget. But her eyes find his and everything that feels like it should falls back into place (like stars falling into familiar constellations in the night).
Mandan was about to open his mouth to say yes but she charges on ahead before he can think better of his commitment to follow her (not that he could or would now), and his dumb stupor deepens the moment she touches his jaw again. He follows her, like a diligent dog, through the thinning trees and across the familiar meadow’s back until they reach a shoreline and though he has never been one to balk at water, he hesitates. He is about to indulge in a deep masculine laugh but it catches in his throat as she smiles, lifts her chin and looks him square in the eyes. Too late! He knows he is caught and the way the tips of the feathers brush his skin does something new to him.
“I…” he starts to speak but stops. He doesn’t feel right all of a sudden.
Fly, she had said. His flesh bubbles then breaks open; damn the gods, it hurts! Hurts in a way that his horns emerging had not hurt but this is new, like she is, and in the breath of seconds and heartbeats and a sickening rip of skin and crack of bone, he staggers away from her to disappear in a fury of swirling air and one sharp noise of pain that leaves his newly panting mouth. When the air settles, he is left in a puddle of fallen feathers and tufts of horsehair, small rivulets of blood trickle down his sides and there is now a great glossy black crow’s wing on either side. He looks at them in shock, then turns accusatory eyes to her. “Did you do this to me?”
It must have been her magic that pulled something else out of him. Not healed it, but made it come alive. He is not sure how he feels about having wings instead of his horns, but the pain and the exhaustion and the overwhelming sense of her breaks him for the last time. Mandan starts to laugh, it is boisterous at first but subsides in a fit of further panting from him as he gapes at her. “I don’t even know how to use these things.” he admits, crestfallen as he takes a weary step towards her. Of its own volition, his lips find her neck and press there as if the feel of her skin beneath him can steady him. “Exist.” he mumbles into her neck, before he pulls back to look at her.
(Meat, vegetable - it is the one and the same to him.)
But she starts to peel back the layers of him one by one; she becomes his undoing.
It is beautiful how it happens; how it hurts. A heart can only suffer so much and his can no longer bear the looks that she gives him - both hopeful and stubborn. He thought he suffered her because she was both of these things and that reminded him of his daughters, but he realizes it is something altogether wholly hers’ that they never had - some sense of spirit, unflinching and bright, that rises up through her copper skin and he thinks then, that he is far too old for her and too battered, too bruised, for her to waste time on. Except that he cannot turn her away now (besides, his feeble attempts to do just that had failed him!) nor does he wish to, not now, not now.
Because she undoes him, layer by layer, until he is raw and exposed and something like how he once was - bright, like her. Hopeful, even.
It is the feel of her mouth on his neck, the way she uses his name against him as a question.
He cannot look at her just yet, even as her nose drops further to his shoulder and finds a home there - no, nestles, like she builds a nest of breath and being in the crook of his skin. Mandan almost sighs; the thought of home was never a thing within his grasp but she makes it almost possible, and with just those small meaningful touches that he never thought he’d know again, not from a mare - not from a… a what? What exactly is she to him? That is the darkness talking; it rises up, rears back it’s ugly head and pummels him with doubt and reservation, and years of guilt that try to drag him back down again. Until she says his name in a tremulous breath, and only then, does he almost look at her.
Not yet.
There is magic afoot; he feels it spiral up and out of her and he squeezes his eyes shut against the things that she does with those brilliant blue fingers of light. He can feel them moving through him, a pulse different from his own that sparks and beats and begins to heal things in him that he never knew needed healing. The one thing that does not heal is his heart, and the light cannot drive the shadows from his eyes but he feels changed, somehow. Because of her.
The darkness reacts;
It grabs him, makes him look harshly at her and bark at her in a gruff voice when all she means to do is soothe him.
(Dimly, some part of him is sad that he acts this way towards her but knows it is the best way to keep the hurt from repeating itself all over again. In the end, he knows how it will be - she’ll leave, or he will, it doesn’t matter who but that’s how it always happens.)
Her eyes and her mouth are magic too.
They undo him further.
“I don’t know what you think you saw…” he begins, falters. How can she be so sure? He doesn’t even know if that self still exists despite her soft assertion that it does. It is her trembling lips on her jaw though that cracks the hardness of him until it crumbles right off and leaves him starkly vulnerable and soft like he has never been. He swallows back a lump of feeling when she confides that she likes him this way too, harsh and unforgiving. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be those things to her. He wants to be so much more but has forgotten how to be anything other than just that - harsh and unforgiving.
Mandan relents;
He reaches for her at the exact moment her face furrows and she turns away from him.
It is good that she has turned away because she cannot see the panic stricken look that takes him then, as he thinks a stupid thought - that the act of him almost touching her turned her away, like flesh scalded and withdrawn. He has to shake his head to relieve himself of this terrible feeling and misses the heavy press of horns on his head, misses the way her lips felt on his skin. Even those are things he should forget. But her eyes find his and everything that feels like it should falls back into place (like stars falling into familiar constellations in the night).
Mandan was about to open his mouth to say yes but she charges on ahead before he can think better of his commitment to follow her (not that he could or would now), and his dumb stupor deepens the moment she touches his jaw again. He follows her, like a diligent dog, through the thinning trees and across the familiar meadow’s back until they reach a shoreline and though he has never been one to balk at water, he hesitates. He is about to indulge in a deep masculine laugh but it catches in his throat as she smiles, lifts her chin and looks him square in the eyes. Too late! He knows he is caught and the way the tips of the feathers brush his skin does something new to him.
“I…” he starts to speak but stops. He doesn’t feel right all of a sudden.
Fly, she had said. His flesh bubbles then breaks open; damn the gods, it hurts! Hurts in a way that his horns emerging had not hurt but this is new, like she is, and in the breath of seconds and heartbeats and a sickening rip of skin and crack of bone, he staggers away from her to disappear in a fury of swirling air and one sharp noise of pain that leaves his newly panting mouth. When the air settles, he is left in a puddle of fallen feathers and tufts of horsehair, small rivulets of blood trickle down his sides and there is now a great glossy black crow’s wing on either side. He looks at them in shock, then turns accusatory eyes to her. “Did you do this to me?”
It must have been her magic that pulled something else out of him. Not healed it, but made it come alive. He is not sure how he feels about having wings instead of his horns, but the pain and the exhaustion and the overwhelming sense of her breaks him for the last time. Mandan starts to laugh, it is boisterous at first but subsides in a fit of further panting from him as he gapes at her. “I don’t even know how to use these things.” he admits, crestfallen as he takes a weary step towards her. Of its own volition, his lips find her neck and press there as if the feel of her skin beneath him can steady him. “Exist.” he mumbles into her neck, before he pulls back to look at her.