Mindon Island
April 3rd, 2010
He threw it all at the mountain.
Walking had not been any sort of a relief; it felt, in all ways, like some final failure of his. Leaving Harold to sit on a beach. One step forward, two steps back. Where do you go, though, when you have no where else to step back to?
So, he threw it at the mountain. It started as some need to keep moving and became sheer bloody defiance; anger and hurt and frustration, and he wanted to punish himself, so he did. Not in any particularly deadly manner, but in the way that something has to when it hurts too much to be still. There was no point in trying to repeat anything right now about proportional justice or mistakes or accidents or how fair or right it was to measure it appropriately.
Wilderness knew no measured justice. And when all reason, logic, even kindness seemed to fail, Scotty knew instinctively the reign of primitive law.
He threw it at the mountain -- all that anger and hurt and grief, and threw himself at the mountain because he was the cause of it, the center of it; Harold's tempest, but he raged now uncontrolled. Against himself. Against the gray rock and grasses and moss and growth. Against everything. Pure, unfettered, primitive. Uncontrolled and snarling wordlessly as he climbed, tearing himself up handholds and footholds. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care.
It was defiance and punishment and desperation and need, all rolled into one thing. He breathed and he climbed, nary a pause, and sometimes when his hand slipped, he snarled again and then regrasped the rock to climb again. There was no future, no past; no tomorrow, no yesterday. Just his breath, and whatever one replaced it, and a mountain and the hurt that drove him.
His muscles burned for the effort, and his hands hurt. He was scraped and bruised, and he didn't really feel any of it, not like most people feel pain -- he was aware of it, but it held no real purchase on him. What hurt was all invisible, under the surface; sorrow, mostly, and anger for the cause of it, and mourning for the fact of it, and snarling against it so he could keep breathing. It was failing and falling and a divide he couldn't seem to leap across and a million things he wasn't good enough to fix. It was being sick of himself, and sick of his self-absorbed silence and since he couldn't fix that, either, he did this.
He threw it all at the mountainside. Punishment. Defiance. Desperation. He didn't want to talk about measured justice. The only shades of gray he acknowledged were the literal ones of handholds. It was not a tall mountain, but it proved enough of a challenge. He fell twice, before he caught hold again, moments teetering on the brink between life and death, and then he snarled again and dragged himself up on pure defiance, only to keep going. No measured justice. No more whining. No more failing. The mountain wasn't the judge; it was just the handy instrument of one.
He climbed until he reached well over halfway up, and his body quit before he was particularly ready to; he dropped on the cool ledge, the rock above shading him from the sun, and lay there panting raggedly, bloody-fingered and bruised and scraped and still snarling.
'If I own it, I control it.'
Harold wasn't going to like this. Harold never did, when he got banged up, and even less so when it seemed like he had sought it out. This time, he had. Punishment. Pain. He understood it. It made sense; it was clear and it made sense; primitive law, no measured justice. He got what he deserved; no more, no less, and if it would not be handed to him by someone else, then he would hand it to himself. It was simple, and he got it.
He controlled it.
No more selfish silence. No more of this stupidity. He had screwed up, and trying to measure justice only lead to him screwing up more. Missteps, mistakes. He walked away from his husband, and it was a final failure. For that, he deserved real justice.
And he got it from a mountain.
--
He wasn't gone as long as he had thought he would be -- he'd forced himself to the summit, and he had forced himself right back down, shaky-limbed and growling now to keep going because it was right, rather than because it was punishment.
And it was with his pride and self-determination that he kept his chin up and his steps measured when he came back, limping and bloody and exhausted and bruised and finally not so cracked up. He was ready to defend his decision to his husband.
Harold was still on the beach, and looking at him through the trees from the back of the house was both a relief and heart-wrenching. Heart-wrenching because he looked so alone.
A relief because Scotty could feel it. Not through a fog, not veiled and hidden away in some swirl of malaise and ache, but clear and sharp and his to own.
He watched for a long moment, and then he went inside. Showered, and watched the black tropical dirt and the fresh and dried blood flow down the drain. It stung and burned and it was satisfying in both of those. He washed the mountain off of himself, and took a grim sort of pride that he wore three scars from a denubae on a shoulder-blade in defense of his husband, and now a couple more on his hands in defense of his marriage.
Harold wouldn't understand. He would probably be angry. But Scotty was ready to deal with both of those. He pulled out the beach house's first aid kit and bandaged himself up, that which needed it, and then he went to the kitchen and made some tea. Lemon tea. The most soothing flavor he knew.
It was with tea and determination that he went out to fix what he had damaged, with a mountain behind him.
April 3rd, 2010
He threw it all at the mountain.
Walking had not been any sort of a relief; it felt, in all ways, like some final failure of his. Leaving Harold to sit on a beach. One step forward, two steps back. Where do you go, though, when you have no where else to step back to?
So, he threw it at the mountain. It started as some need to keep moving and became sheer bloody defiance; anger and hurt and frustration, and he wanted to punish himself, so he did. Not in any particularly deadly manner, but in the way that something has to when it hurts too much to be still. There was no point in trying to repeat anything right now about proportional justice or mistakes or accidents or how fair or right it was to measure it appropriately.
Wilderness knew no measured justice. And when all reason, logic, even kindness seemed to fail, Scotty knew instinctively the reign of primitive law.
He threw it at the mountain -- all that anger and hurt and grief, and threw himself at the mountain because he was the cause of it, the center of it; Harold's tempest, but he raged now uncontrolled. Against himself. Against the gray rock and grasses and moss and growth. Against everything. Pure, unfettered, primitive. Uncontrolled and snarling wordlessly as he climbed, tearing himself up handholds and footholds. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care.
It was defiance and punishment and desperation and need, all rolled into one thing. He breathed and he climbed, nary a pause, and sometimes when his hand slipped, he snarled again and then regrasped the rock to climb again. There was no future, no past; no tomorrow, no yesterday. Just his breath, and whatever one replaced it, and a mountain and the hurt that drove him.
His muscles burned for the effort, and his hands hurt. He was scraped and bruised, and he didn't really feel any of it, not like most people feel pain -- he was aware of it, but it held no real purchase on him. What hurt was all invisible, under the surface; sorrow, mostly, and anger for the cause of it, and mourning for the fact of it, and snarling against it so he could keep breathing. It was failing and falling and a divide he couldn't seem to leap across and a million things he wasn't good enough to fix. It was being sick of himself, and sick of his self-absorbed silence and since he couldn't fix that, either, he did this.
He threw it all at the mountainside. Punishment. Defiance. Desperation. He didn't want to talk about measured justice. The only shades of gray he acknowledged were the literal ones of handholds. It was not a tall mountain, but it proved enough of a challenge. He fell twice, before he caught hold again, moments teetering on the brink between life and death, and then he snarled again and dragged himself up on pure defiance, only to keep going. No measured justice. No more whining. No more failing. The mountain wasn't the judge; it was just the handy instrument of one.
He climbed until he reached well over halfway up, and his body quit before he was particularly ready to; he dropped on the cool ledge, the rock above shading him from the sun, and lay there panting raggedly, bloody-fingered and bruised and scraped and still snarling.
'If I own it, I control it.'
Harold wasn't going to like this. Harold never did, when he got banged up, and even less so when it seemed like he had sought it out. This time, he had. Punishment. Pain. He understood it. It made sense; it was clear and it made sense; primitive law, no measured justice. He got what he deserved; no more, no less, and if it would not be handed to him by someone else, then he would hand it to himself. It was simple, and he got it.
He controlled it.
No more selfish silence. No more of this stupidity. He had screwed up, and trying to measure justice only lead to him screwing up more. Missteps, mistakes. He walked away from his husband, and it was a final failure. For that, he deserved real justice.
And he got it from a mountain.
--
He wasn't gone as long as he had thought he would be -- he'd forced himself to the summit, and he had forced himself right back down, shaky-limbed and growling now to keep going because it was right, rather than because it was punishment.
And it was with his pride and self-determination that he kept his chin up and his steps measured when he came back, limping and bloody and exhausted and bruised and finally not so cracked up. He was ready to defend his decision to his husband.
Harold was still on the beach, and looking at him through the trees from the back of the house was both a relief and heart-wrenching. Heart-wrenching because he looked so alone.
A relief because Scotty could feel it. Not through a fog, not veiled and hidden away in some swirl of malaise and ache, but clear and sharp and his to own.
He watched for a long moment, and then he went inside. Showered, and watched the black tropical dirt and the fresh and dried blood flow down the drain. It stung and burned and it was satisfying in both of those. He washed the mountain off of himself, and took a grim sort of pride that he wore three scars from a denubae on a shoulder-blade in defense of his husband, and now a couple more on his hands in defense of his marriage.
Harold wouldn't understand. He would probably be angry. But Scotty was ready to deal with both of those. He pulled out the beach house's first aid kit and bandaged himself up, that which needed it, and then he went to the kitchen and made some tea. Lemon tea. The most soothing flavor he knew.
It was with tea and determination that he went out to fix what he had damaged, with a mountain behind him.