another head hangs lowly
child is slowly taken

[ ali I hate you give me the blood. <*///3 ]

"Who will die today?" he asked, tiredly, of the God—of the world.
"Your daughter," the world replied.

She had been there, at the fight—lost in the chaos of fire and tar and bodies, swallowed by the stench of burning flesh and singed hair, drowned in the screams of agony and rage. She had been there, his child, his firstborn, fighting alongside him in this pointless, dreary battle—but he lost her to the flickering sheets of flame, and to the strength of the tigress.

He lost her, and when he found her, it was at the edge of his vision, staggering drunkenly towards a horizon she would not reach.

And he felt something in his heart. Something deep, something dark; a cold fist sinking its claws into him and holding on tight—

"Snö!" he shrieked, blood welling out from his riven chest as he charged over the sands; it was a beautiful contrast to the stark white of his fur, bitten by the salty breeze.

He didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to acknowledge it. He didn't want to accept it.

But he knew it, in the way she staggered, in the way she slowed, in the way she started to fall—

"SNÖ!"

But his voice could create no miracles, and the love in his heart was not enough to save her.

She fell. (Click, the buckle on the leather came loose.)

An eternity later, she hit the ground. (Thud, the leather satchel landed by his feet.)

"I think I will not return to the mountains."

Snö had fallen, but Mauja was still running, wild with panic and denial. "SNÖ!!!" But there was no answer, and would be no answer, and—and—and—

He had nothing left anymore. He had been there at her birth in the Edge, watched her brought forth into the world by the shadow-mare he had grown to love; and in the very same mists he had seen Aviya born, stood guard over Kou as d'Artagnan would've, had he not been a captive in the Throat.

Kou was murdered. Psyche was murdered. He had watched Aviya die. And now, he had watched Snö die.

And d'Artagnan had walked away from him.

They were in heaven now, but he had been left to walk the earth.

"NO!" he shrieked, slipping in the sand—slipping on her blood—and falling down, crashing into her still and lifeless form, neck and forelegs draped carelessly over her. "No," he whispered, breathed, tears blurring his vision of the corpse that had been his eldest daughter.

"Who will die today," he repeatedly dumbly to himself, wondering why he did this—time and again, why he loved, when it was all taken from him and he was left with nothing—

His heart wasn't cold. It wasn't empty; hollow.

It was full of glass shards and misplaced blood.

"Snö, I love you, I love you, my girl, my baby girl—" He was babbling into her mane, into her cold neck, into her lifeless veins and into her valiant heart that hadn't been strong enough to keep fighting against such odds—

If only he had done more than glance at her before charging with his fire. If only he had kept an eye on her, been there to protect her, take the blow for her—if only he had managed to tell her how much he loved her, how much he had always loved her, how beautiful she was, how blessed he was to have seen her grow into such a lovely mare—

How much his heart ached that he had never seen her in love, that she had never borne children and felt the same pride over them as he had felt over her—

He had imprinted his icy, fucked-up view of the world on her and now she was dead, lifeless, trapped in his bloodied embrace as his screams of her name grew louder and louder again, high-pitched and broken, torn from the last shreds of his shattered sanity.

"It's okay," he was finally murmuring, rocking from side to side against her as if it could somehow cajole her back into life, "it's okay, it's okay, you're with momma now, you're with Psyche now, she'll take care of you, it's okay, she'll take care of you—" He was wearing d'Artagnan's leather satchel, wearing what he had left of love pressed against his shoulder. It felt as empty as his future. "—you'll be fine now, love, you'll be fine, it's okay, we'll be fine..."

But you won't ever be fine, Mauja. You've lost too much. Your heart's barely beating as it is.

Still, he kept promising her cold body that all would be fine, because what else had he ever had for her, but well-intended lies?

and the violence caused such silence.