but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Who had he known back in the day, when he had first come to this dismal corner of the world?

d'Artagnan. Psyche. Prometheus. Lotus. Kou.

Psyche was dead. Prometheus was gone; besides, the undead child had not been very impressed with Mauja the last time they had met (the next time, I won't apologize—). Lotus—gods knew where she were, and wherever that was, good riddance. Kou was dead.

But d'Artagnan was still there, after all these years, like nothing but wind and a couple of hours sleep had passed between them. Like it had been yesterday they had gone to the Veins to see Father Earth, like it had been just last week they'd gotten high in his cave in the Basin, and—and like it had just been hours since they'd met in the frozen north, and spoken of Kou's death. Mauja swallowed. Of everything that had once been, of the greatness that once had been the Plague, d'Artagnan was the only thing he had left.

“Ugh look it’s all stuck to you,” the Red said in disgust, watching Mauja as if he were the filth of the sand itself. The same softness that scared the living shit out of him curved his lips, danced in his eyes, capered around the edge of every word as he shot back, "I'd feel better if you were stuck to me too," and he nearly swallowed his own tongue in surprise; the way he recoiled nearly visible as his heart skipped a beat and doubt—fear—flung the blinds down over his blue eyes.

Shit shit shit shit—

There had always been something between them, a playful sense of familiarity, a mocking kind of jest sprung from something warm—the way brothers (or lovers) bickered, and he—he—well fuck, it was just that, that.. It never used to be so much, and no, he didn't think d'Artagnan would suddenly stab him through the heart, but he was afraid all the same—

—afraid of losing him—

—and that was why he shied away from his own flirtatious nature. Because the last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed, was d'Artagnan leaving him after all these years.

But d'Artagnan just said he was overweight and brainless and laughed in a way that could bring down mountains. Mauja just sat there a moment longer, ass planted in the sand and bracing against his forelegs, before the sound found its way through the thick wall of his uncertainty and fear, and then he was laughing too—at himself, at the world, at the Doctor, with the Doctor... And for a moment, everything was right—and not just right, but alright. Like, the sun and the slush and the sea and his heart—it was all right. It was going to be alright.

Even if the world was a shitty, gritty, sandy place, it was going to be fine—even when their words and voices took darker turns, touched upon mortality and the brevity of life, things were going to be fine.

Because he had d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan had him.

And if that wasn't enough... gods help them.

"Queen Mauja," he said with a short laugh, a sound that somehow conveyed the bitterness of his situation—the brittle kind of sound one makes to cover up all the flaws, the kind that tricks every stranger in the room but not a single friend. As the questions were turned back on him, he sighed, slowly.

Was he happy at the Edge? Sort of; it took his mind off things. Was he happier than he had been as an Outcast? Maybe. Was he happy, in general?

No.

"No," he finally said, something wounded crawling at the bottom of his voice—writhing at the floor of his soul. "I didn't mean to—I didn't want to, but... It's better than what I had. What I was." Vagabond and fallen. "But it's not entirely on my terms anymore. I.. I've changed, d'Artagnan—" And his ears pinned back in uncertainty, spitting out confession after confession there in the sand (because his body had already screamed, 'I love you'). "I don't believe anymore—in us—in that a horn makes us better—" The words were coming out too fast, like he had to get it out now or he would never dare, a jumbled mess spilling out. "I lead with Torleik and, well—I don't like him but we're the same in that sense, I suppose. It's... I don't know, d'Art. I don't know what I'm doing, or where I'm going, or why I wake up in the mornings. I just exist and I'm leading a herd and I don't even fucking know why." His voice had turned into a bitter, barking bite, acid and poison dripping from the words as it ended in a snarl. Then, "Sorry," he muttered, shutting up about his own life. It wasn't like he had had any kind of point to make, anyway—nothing but the need to spit his frustrations out and that hadn't done him much good either.

So he let d'Artagnan fill the silence he created, listening to a tale that seemed as forlorn and morose as his own. But d'Artagnan, not a healer anymore? How was that even possible? While he hardly was a bad fighter he'd never struck Mauja as a soldier—so what were they doing, putting him in that position? By the sound of it, d'Artagnan hadn't approved either, and who even led the Basin these days?

Fuck—here he was, diplomatic lead of the Edge, and he didn't even know who ruled which herd. Fantastic.

But then, everything grew dark. Cold. Still. Afraid, almost, and hurt; his heart's beat was uneven, jagged, a stampede—his breath almost nonexistent.

“Without Kou, there’s nothing here for me.”

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like it—cold and clammy, heart racing, fired up with adrenaline but frigid like death itself within.

No—

It felt like everything he had been afraid of—of this last, whole piece of his heart slipping away. Like dropping glass onto rocks.

I can't lose you—

The beach seemed to buck beneath his ass, threatening to throw him off; darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. I can't—

And it hurt, too, like having his heart scraped against gravel, or rolled on broken glass, or, or, anything, and when he spoke again, his voice was small, so tentative, barely a sound at all there by the ocean but somehow carrying the entire weight of his fragile, falling psyche: "Me?"

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same