`TO tame the vicious seas [ theseus + adamanthea ]

[Copabella of the Starks]

C H A P T E R I

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Vouloir

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Though we’re tethered to the story we must tell,
When I saw you, I knew we’d tell it well.
With a whisper, we will tame the vicious seas.
Like a feather bringing kingdoms to their knees.

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spoken|thoughts|others

I think you’ve had an inkling of this, but you’ve intentionally turned your eyes away from it, shut this painful reality up in a small dark place deep in your heart and closed the lid, trying not to think about it. Trying to suppress any negative feelings. This defensive stance has become part of who you are.

For a long time, she had been white smoke. She didn’t realize that until she left the North; because white smoke had no awareness of itself. It faded into the white world of mountains and frozen lakes; it was sucked away by the misaligned judgment of Tartarus who sparingly attempted to converse with the scattered smoke. He saw her outline, but did not realize she was hollow inside. She walked down long chambers of the caverns, watching the outlines of her shadow; as she walked, the days and seasons disappeared into a twilight at the corner of her eyes, a twilight she could catch only with a sudden motion, jerking her head to one side for a glimpse of steel grey cavern walls. She inhabited a grey winter fog on a distant Northern mountain where summer is lost indefinitely and its remnants mark the boundaries.

The smoke had been dense; visions and memories of the past did not penetrate there, and she had drifted in colors of smoke, where there was no pain, only pale, pale grey of the Northern caverns.

She knew at some point the grey on the walls would collapse into her thoughts like pale grey cobwebs, clinging to all things within her, and then her heart would begin to convulse, and she would have to hold herself steady in an attempt to hold back the tremor that grew inside. A great swollen grief that was pushing into her throat. She would go outside before it happened.

The wind was practicing with small gusts of cold air that fluttered the loose flakes of snow on the hills before her. The wind was warming up for the afternoon, and within a few hours the sky over the mountains would be dense with blizzard, and along the ground the wind would catch waves of biting snow and make them race across the frigid grey landscape. For now, meager sunlight illuminated the wide snowy expanse, highlighting a few moving figures in the far distance.

She felt better in the dark, where could not see the sharp ridged outlines of her constricted confines. To the dark she escaped. Time made no passing here. She could sleep in peace.

She woke up bleary and teary-eyed. She had been dreaming – and such that it was. She had been dreaming of color, and in the dream she smelled summer – grass, equine, sunlight – the smell she had forgotten until the dream; and she was overcome with all the love there was. She mourned because she had to wake up to what was left: dim caverns, grey landscape, devoid of emotion. She lay there with a feeling there was no place for her; she would find no peace in the place where the silence and the emptiness echoed the loss. She wanted to go back to Oblivion. She had to go back to where she could merge with the walls and the grey and the sky and the snow and the cold, shimmering white, remote from everything. Yet one can only retreat so far into one’s self.

Orbs glassed the expanse – pooling a collective unconscious into one moment. A soft snow had begun, falling, drifting, into nothing. Northern snow had no end; it grew like foliage from the sky, branching and arching to the earth, sometimes in steady tendrils flaking the terra, other times, in solid whippings entangling the senses. Then, Silence would heave its lumbering carcass onto the surroundings, pushing all else away.

There were no real thoughts that crossed her mind before hooves began to push her frame forward. Dimunitive, almost indistinguishable prints followed her trek – but she made no move to conceal them. Perhaps it was due to her lack of stimulation in the frontal lobe – as if her subconscious had finally reared its straining head and taken charge. Perhaps she would regret this later. Perhaps she would not.
She wasn’t really thinking.

She was approximately 42.74 km, or a day and a half, away before the subconscious deemed it fit to relinquish its numbing, paralyzing control. A ragged gasp of denial escaped her before she could recall it. She had sworn, promised, she would not do this again, to leave for days on end, and return fresh and ready for a downward spiral. To get her high, before suffering the wretched consequences. No – in her mind, it was easier, better, to simply withstand the pain, to retreat into herself, crawl away, refuse to acknowledge.

For some reason, she never stopped walking.

Every breath
Every hour has come to this
One step closer

She plodded on, thin and ragged as the weaklanders. Cowled in her meager pelt against the cold and her breath smoking, shuffling through the white and biting drifts. She was crossing the broad coastal plain where the secular winds drove her in howling clouds of blizzards to find shelter where she could. It was cruel land, harsh and undeserving of such life that was to be had in its expanses. It mocked her – she, too ill fit for such a world, too fragile in the frame. It withheld all pleasures, meager and scarce as they were, from her – taunting. She didn’t belong here. It knew where was headed, and for that, it would make it a journey all the more painful.

When she traversed upon the Weaklands, it was hardly any different, save for the effusion of red. The land was gullied and eroded and barren. The bones of dead creatures sprawled in the washes. Middens of anonymous corpses – their stories lost, vanished, rotted in the dirt along with them. All of it shadowless and without feature. It was here fear began to rule her direction, her actions. At least in the snow, it allotted the light-colored mare one small mercy by means of camouflage – but here, here in this red, clay-baked desert, no such pleasantry was to be had.

Fortune was to smile on her that day, for no semblance of draft crossed her nares, nor sight. It was quick line through the Weaklands – and then onwards to...her mind faltered at her naming of it 'Paradise' and settled for 'Contentment' instead.

Upon her crossing over into lush, lush greenery – color, at this point, has blinded her in elation – Adamanthea began an immediate search for a spring. As she followed the path of ever greener foliage, memories began to spring up like daisies, the accustomed mood of contentment attempting to drape its calm over her. A quick rebuttal startled her – a half-hearted attempt on morality’s part. Thoughts of Tartarus swirled in her mind as she came upon the spring, refreshingly warm and devoid of ice. She closed her eyes and swallowed the water slowly. She tasted the deep heartrock of the earth, where the water came from, warm in its renewal – pure – and she thought maybe this wasn’t the end after all.

All thoughts of Tartarus vanished into the deep recesses of her mind as she waited.

One step closer
One step closer

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NOTES! and so begins a much longed for thread on my part <3
TAGGED! THESEUS.
WORDCOUNT! 1222.
CREDITS! Turning Page - Sleeping at Last; Thousand Years - Christina Perri; Haruki Murakami

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[S p e c t r a]

I'm here again
A thousand miles away from you
A broken mess, just scattered pieces of who I am
I tried so hard
Thought I could do this on my own
I've lost so much along the way

Hooves dragged over the earth barely lifted, head slung low as the wounded stallion fought to cover the distance of his territory. He was a picture of ferocity, lurching from stride to stride with determination. He sagged and surged in rhythm, powering on in defiance of his injuries. Jaw set in a hard line, teeth gritted against one another and ears flattened completely, he wore a grimace to give hellspawn pause. Sweat and blood streaked his body, carving jagged lines over his spotted figure like veins forking out, spindly claws wrapping around him. Theseus laboured alone, refusing all help. It was his way, and he knew no other. He trusted no one but himself to get the job done right, and he wasn't about to let some dumb rookie step in and screw it all up. They had no idea what kind of dedication and sacrifice was required of the job. Even in health, there was no time for comfort. This was not the first time he had suffered an injury; in a position like his it was inevitable that he would gain his fair share of knocks and scrapes. But it was possibly the worst to date. The battle itself, the lines of soldiers on both sides... it had been so long since he'd seen a confrontation of that size. He'd thought, for a moment, that it might be the end. But the stallions of the South had come at his call, they had fought at his side, and had fought well. Against all odds, they had been able to match the gnashing, bloodthirsty heavyweights. The forces of evil had been held off for another day. He would pay any price just to see that it was so. At present, the Southern sentinel was not in fighting form. He wouldn't admit it, since such a thing might imply that the border was not as well-protected as it ought to be, and Theseus was not a creature who took criticism well. He didn't like to depend on anyone, and he certainly didn't like being told he should be doing a better job than he was. He was giving everything he had. Surely they could accept him being a little set in his ways, considering that he'd sacrificed any semblance of a normal life to keep these lands safe. Surely they could grant him the courtesy of leaving him the fuck alone to do his job. He didn't want to be seen like this.

With every rolling stride his haunches pitched sideways, tipping as one hind leg failed to bear his weight time and time again. But still he tried, miming as though the leg worked properly, as if he could command it to obey through sheer persistence and force of will. He had a job to do. The pain was striking and strange, but he didn't let it stop him. He was significantly slower, and had to work twice as hard to cover the same distance. But he preferred to work himself to death rather than accept help. He knew too well the powers of persuasion and deceit from the time he had thought Tartarus a visionary, before the confident Arab stallion launched an attack on all the lands. Without such a drastic event to shake his perception, he wasn't sure that he ever would've doubted Tartarus. Had such a line not been crossed, he may have someday ended up fighting on the side of his now-hated enemy. This deepened his mistrust to levels unfathomable. Circumstances had made of him a focused loner, married to his duty and closed to all else. He saw others as nuisances, wastes of time. He resented them for his misery and drove them away all the more fiercely for it. And then there had been the one who simply refused to be put off by his attitude, refused to get defensive in the face of his offensive. Of the very few that had managed to handle his mannerisms well, there was only one whose company he hadn't reviled. With everyone else he wished they would leave. With her... he wasn't sure what he wanted. It was simpler when she was gone, so much simpler. But the world was an eternal winter in the absence of her warmth. She gave sympathy without pity, kindness without expectation. She took his obsession in stride like it was normal, like she was used to it. She was a rarity. Why was it that the only one who didn't want to stay was the only one he could stand to be around? Sometimes he even tricked himself into thinking he could smell her, that she'd come back. He didn't know the details of the missions that she ran in the Weaklands, but it chewed him up inside to think that she was out there where he couldn't protect her from harm.

Hatred burned bright in his chest, the only salve to keep at bay whatever despair tried to crush him in its cold claws. He hated the world, hated the Southerners, hated the trees and the brush and the earth. To hell with all of it. All he cared about right now was getting from one end of the Borderland Woods to the other. It was all he had room for. The pain crowded out all other thoughts. He was so focused that he almost missed the scent on the breeze, didn't notice it at first, and even then it was just another newcomer his mind was trying to trick him into thinking was her. It never was, but he had to get there all the same. He heaved a sound that was half grunt and half sigh and threw his weight forward anew. His knees nearly buckled as he hauled his body up the slope, muscles shaking. The forest rose and dipped in a thick tangle of trees and undergrowth. In top condition, Theseus could navigate it with practiced ease. At present, he was hurting and worn out, running on stubborn will alone. Running on three and a half load-bearing legs. What if the equine he was approaching was a draft? What if the one after that was? He was in no shape to fight. Sure, he'd taken the leg injury fairly early on in the skirmish and still managed to come out on top. But he had paid dearly as a result, taking many blows and bites he normally would have been able to evade. He was bleeding and broken and utterly alone in the world. The only one who understood him in the slightest was far away and he might never see her again. Part of him wanted to stop trying, stop suffering, and just let his body collapse. He could stop caring and just give up. But for all his disdain of the Southern equines and their comfortable lives, they had come at his call. They had fought with him, and defended the border as one. Who else could unify the fighters of the South? They would stand together another day, he would hang on til then. He would lead them in the final confrontation, and then, only then, would he fall. He had known, almost from the start, that this job would kill him. He just hadn't realized that it would take every semblance of life from him long before that day.

Misery writhed inside him, eyes prickling with the frustration of his body's mutiny. Weakness ripped the control right out from under him, leaving him the prisoner of a quivering mess of overworked muscle and rent flesh. His strides had become slow and laboured, each drop of his hips threatening to be the last. But each time he righted himself, heart pounding in his jugular, and forced himself forward. All he could do was keep moving, and he would figure out the what-ifs when he got there. To his shame, he acknowledged the possibility of calling his stallions forward once more. It seemed too much for one simple draft, but in his current state he wasn't likely to be able to intimidate any unwanted equines off his turf. He could stand and bleed. But he did not have to die today, should he happen on an enemy. His senses had still not relinquished the illusion that he was coming upon a familiar mare, so he was coming in blind. He'd been disappointed enough times to know when his mind was messing with him. And so, when he caught a glimpse of dusty gold between the trees, he thought he had well and truly lost it, that the pain was warping his perception. He slowed to a walk to reduce the horrible lurching of his stride somewhat. The mirage was so clear. Too clear, and he could hear the whisper of the undergrowth about her legs. His insides gave a stupid little leap and he cursed himself for it. He couldn't bear to be seen like this, but of all equines he figured she was the safest trespasser to have. He tried, feebly, to guard himself against enthusiasm, but it was already twisting his gut in knots. He hated her for making him miss her. But he was glad she was there. Theseus straightened his bearing with what little pride and strength he could muster. He was a wreck, but damned if he was going to act like one. He would not trip over himself like a colt this time either. It wouldn't do to appear eager. He came to a halt a short distance from her, a shuffle of leaves about his feet as he adjusted his stance and rested his injured leg on point. He faced away at an angle, holding himself aloof. He surveyed his forest and did not turn to address her, speaking instead to the trees. His face betrayed no expression. You came back, he said gruffly.

Then I see your face
I know I'm finally yours
I find everything I thought I lost before
You call my name
I come to you in pieces
So you can make me whole
-- Pieces, Red

OOC: Theseus is bearing his Battlecry injuries, because I love continuity. ^.^