somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me

Is it that, until you've lost something, you didn't know just how much it meant? That, when it floated somewhere in the periphery of your existence, it felt safe to put things off for another day—because you could just come back, and pick it up later? Snö was a problem he hadn't known how to tackle; when they spoke, biting words and scathing gestures slowly melted into some kind of truce and forgiveness, but then time and distance drove them apart and next time they met, had they come anywhere at all? It was almost like her dislike of him had powered her to go on.

So he had let her be, unsure of what to do—of what she had truly needed from him. Where he had given her space to think (but maybe she hadn't done any of that, anyway, and he had simply treated her like he thought had been best), maybe he should've come back in close, never giving her time to rebound into her frigidity and chill.

Just like how d'Artagnan had sat comfortably in the outer rim of his existence, easily accessible when needed, but not pulled in so tightly as Mauja realized he had wanted to—and maybe he had been afraid, too, of what he felt, and it had been easier to live with the intensity of that on offhand occasions and not at all times, every day. Maybe, in his strange, subconscious crusade to protect himself, he had grown complacent and lazy. It was easier to blame the world for being stupid, than it was to realize that maybe you weren't doing enough.

How many chances and bridges would he have to burn, before he learned? How much grief would there have to be, before he found some peace?

(Selfish, even now—)

But wasn't grief also selfish? Grief was mourning something you had lost—and maybe d'Artagnan grieved too, because he was still alive to know that he missed something (and gods how Mauja wished he could guilt-trip the bastard from afar, so he'd come home), but Snö? Snö was just dead. Snö was just dead, and, selfishly, he wanted her back from that abyss.

His blanket of feathers was soft, Naerys' gentle breath the only thing he felt in his weighted darkness: Snö did not push back against him, nor did the sand and the drying blood. It was just him and Naerys and the fragrance of passionflowers overpowering the scent of war and loss. And he was content to stay there, in the shadow, taken from responsibility, given reprieve from life, from duty, from difficult decisions and hard tasks like getting up off the ground—

Then there was something else, like a tug at the roots of his hair, a gentle pulling, the faintest, cold touch of scales. What..? Those blue eyes, shut against the cruelty of the world, slipped open, but all he saw was the sky, so he closed them again. He didn't want to raise his head. He didn't want to signal to anyone that he was still alive, because frankly, he wished he wasn't. He had spent his entire life not feeling, so now that he did, it was like a wildfire and a flood, the dam-wall burst from pressure and he had no way to contain it. And in the face of that, he would rather not feel.

Tinek, Irma told him softly, calling the silver name up from the depths of his memory. It was Tinek sitting by him, running his claws through long, silken strands of white, and—and—and why—

The quiet tears grew stronger again, a half-quelled sob racking through his body. Tinek was comforting him. Tinek was soothing him. Tinek, Ophelia's dragon, she, the one he had always let down in one way or another, the one he had failed, the one he hadn't been strong enough to love—

They had grown cold and distant and frigid, and the blazing red of her coat—but here was Tinek, her dragon, sitting by him in his grief, and did it mean anything? Was there still a chance for them, to rebuild what he had ruined..? Not love—he was far too fragile to love—but something, anything that was better than what was between them now.

After all, Ophelia was still alive. He could still do right by her. Right? Right?

But then Ulrik was there, saying something, whenever he was ready—but what did ready mean? Would he ever be ready, if all he wanted was to lay here until death claimed him, too? It was cowardly, the easy way out, but he wasn't strong enough—

“Mauja, get up,” and he moaned and groaned in protest. Couldn't they just leave him be? It was what he wanted, to expire on this beach, to never have to rise from his bed of flowers and blood, to pull the cover of the soft wing from his body and stagger upright...

Who were they, to tell him how to mourn?
Who was he, to know how to mourn?

He had never mourned before. Slowly, drunkenly, he disentangled himself from Naerys wing, brushing it gently aside with his plush muzzle; he half-rolled into a position he could move from, and the world spun around him. They were a lost corner of this world, a forgotten place revolving around a dead creature; were the rest of the warriors too sensitive to his grief to come and stare like vultures, or did they simply not care? He brought his head around to Tinek, and attempted to push his face against the dragon, not knowing any other way to express his .. gratitude? at the gesture—at reminding him that there were still things he could fix. "Tinek..." he murmured to the sterling creature, before getting his hooves under himself and hauling himself up. His hind legs quivered.

Mauja rose, from the lowest to one of the highest—such a marked difference when he stood, coated in sand and blood and some unfortunate petals stuck onto his grisly flank like an artwork made by some delusional jerk, from when he had lain, folded and beneath them all. And still, he shrunk away from his height and size, looking awkward and lost. "This place does not know her," he said, softly despite his rough voice. "But she—she passed among friends, at least. We will.. we will burn her in the Edge. Where she belongs."

And he nodded to Ulrik, then. If he could not grieve as he wanted to, lost in the darkness beside the body of his daughter, then, well, he better trust those who had seemed far more successful at living without being reduced to rubble.

[ If you guys want to post again that's fine! If not, I figured we could end it here and just agree among ourselves they went back to the Edge and burned Snö. :) @Ophelia @Naerys @Roskuld ]

somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me