och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

I'm not your hero.

There was something about storms that made him feel alive. There was something about standing on the edge of the world and watching the seas heave and crash, the wind grabbing long tendrils of white hair and snapping about his body like an aura of snakes, something about the feeling of the gale blowing through his bones... And, as he stood there through the hours of night, it was almost, almost, like meeting an old friend. He told himself it wasn't real, told himself not to hope, but his ears strained for the touch of his voice through the howl, of words in the keening as it rushed across the world.

But, of course, the wind was silent, and offered him nothing. His brother the gale was far from these shores and could offer the storm no voice.

Mauja remained, though, heart battering itself bloody against an idea he tried not to feed—straining, hoping, listening so desperately that it made him feel kind of ridiculous. There had been a time when he had been sovereign, the pinnacle of his own existence, and the only one he ever had needed had been himself. Within his case of ice he had been untouchable, and invincible. The memory of such a feeling tugged his dark lips into a sour smile. He didn't know which was more foolish—missing the feeling, or having believed it could be that way at all. If it was one thing he had learned it was that he wasn't strong enough on his own.

Irma and Diego huddled under the cover of early spring greens, fat feathers shedding rain, but one set of eyes, burning amber in the dark, stared out through the haze of thinning rain and onto the horizon. His dark heart was restless. With a pang of guilt Mauja realized that the child Irma had saved was not someone he knew well at all.

How had it come to be this mess? How had he gotten himself stranded in such an awkward situation? Bonded to two owls, one whom he had hurt badly by not letting her in, and one whom he barely knew because he had never had enough energy to properly pay attention to him.. and friends hurt and lost and forsaken all around, and without even having received a no the wound that was Ophelia had begun to scar over in his heart. After years of searching for her, had seeing her with another man in her presence been enough to write an ending to that chapter? It seemed as weak as everything else, and while it was tempting to seek refuge in some kind of moving-on, he doubted the scar would remain sealed if he saw her again.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and reached out to the awake owl. His mind was not a cold place, but one of fire, and shadow; a difference from the two he shared soul with, as they were both cold as ice. Again, Mauja's lips curled into that humorless smile. Saved from darkness only to be isolated, surrounded by glaciers. What kind of life was that?

The owl shifted, his keen gaze locking onto the still form of Mauja. Resentment masked whatever love he felt.

The Frostheart figured he deserved as much, withdrew politely, and prepared to mull over the next interesting thing: why the Edge had such a calming effect on him. It seemed a fitting thing to brood about when the storm was receding and dawn breaking through.

But fate willed otherwise. Horse, Diego was saying, his smooth voice like ripples on dark water. Amusement lined his tones as he borrowed Mauja his vision—and indeed, a black shape too large to be a bird was pushing towards the shore as if possessed. Mauja snorted. It had to be desperate indeed if it had attempted to cross an ocean.

And, he figured, strong, to have made it so far.

With a flick of his tail and a shake of his wind-stiff muscles Mauja detached himself from the high ledge and began the walk down.

- - - - - - - - -

The first light of dawn sheared through the gloomy horizon, and scattered the last of the night-lights and shadows. Mauja's strides had lengthened into a swift trot, eating the distance to the dark waterline. Diego had seen the pegasus fall, collide with the water, and then he had lost her in the waves—or maybe he hadn't cared, because he was who he was, and in the back of his mind it niggled that Mauja oughtn't care either. It was a stranger—the wings didn't matter, but it was a stranger, and hadn't he come to the conclusion that he didn't need to involve more people in his life, no matter how briefly and shallowly? It was bound to make things worse no matter what he did or how it ended.

But if he walked down that road, he might as well tell everyone to fuck off, and we all know how well that attempt went.

Just as he wasn't made for inactivity and peace, he wasn't made for isolation and the kind of mercilessness that came with ignoring strangers in need.

Still, it bothered him that something in his frostbitten heart was worried about someone who had never been more to him than a dark blot on a rainy horizon.

But like some kind of water-monster the mare rose from the waves, thrashing and spraying water everywhere; it ran down her disheveled coat in rivulets, glittered in the early morning light, and finally, when she fell over, it glued the hairs to her skin.. revealing how thin she was. Mauja had stopped at a distance, an uninvited guard, and took the liberty to gawk for a second.

This mare—this crazy, sodden piece of fish-food mare—had crossed an ocean in that shape?

Holy balls.

Grunting, he decided to skip out on the whole being awestruck-thing, because if he hauled his fire-wounded self around Helovia on a regular basis why should he be impressed if some starved mare flew across an ocean in a storm, and padded closer to her. Diego came down from the sky to settle on his scarred withers, amber eyes peering curiously at the fallen, but obviously living, form. Those wet sides rose and fell, still rapid with the exertion. Mauja snorted. Morning it might be, but it was clammy and cold in the way it is by the sea a night after a storm; she'd catch her death lying in the waves like that, but if her eyes were anything to go by, she was in a place he wouldn't be able to easily reach her.

Still, it was courteous to try, so he pressed his warm black nose to her wet shoulder, and blew hot air onto her sodden coat. If she didn't wake from that, he'd simply have to roll her up the beach by sheer strength and creativity. Horses weren't meant to haul other horses around.

So it'd be an eternity easier to save her skinny ass if she just woke up and dragged herself the last yards out of the sea on her own.

Knowing how Helovia tended to operate—he didn't have very high hopes of that happening.