She was trapped. Elegantly, neatly trapped, and he just stood there, staring at her with eyes that slowly lost their manic glow. What was he doing? What was he doing? Each breath felt less and less invigorating, growing heavier until they settled across his throat, threatening to choke him; the fire, the frantic elation, that had flowed through his veins dimmed, faded, until nothing remained but a leaden weight in his soul. He felt dirty — vile. Blood spattered the ice, something that should've been so beautiful to him, exciting and terrifying, but it was just ugly in the pallid moonlight. Mauja tried to swallow the shame, but it stuck in his throat and refused to disappear; his ears flattened to his neck to block out the sound of her mad laughter. Since when had he used attack as a means to solve a situation? Since when was he so weak that something like this could corner him into lashing out?

And what sickness made him enjoy hurting the body of someone he knew, a familiar face? She was writhing in his cage, moving, pushing forward, kicking out; he felt each blow reverberate through his soul, but somehow kept himself from flinching. Through the narrow spires he saw her dark body, saw the cold glitter of her blood.

Delinne, bleeding.
Because of him.

His conviction that it was not her body was fading; it smelled wrong, but what if that was just the magic? What if she was trapped inside, a helpless observer, barred in behind the witch's foul consciousness?
The spike behind Delinne broke. Mauja had all but released his hold on them; they hung in a precarious balance as his mind shuddered.

As the black mare backed out of her prison he let them go; warmth returned to his blood, to his soul, the doubts coming back to life as the beast retreated. Cracks ran down the spikes, mirrored by the cracks in his shaken mind, and in a shower of sparkling fragments they crashed down to earth. Let not the monuments of his madness stand; they would melt against the warm soil and take her blood with them into the ground.

"Do you really hate me this much?" No. I'm sorry. "I thought you were my King - not an asshole who just wants to punish his subjects by impaling them with ice spikes." I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. "I thought I knew you." You didn't.

You don't. I don't know you.
Wary and distraught he stared at her, his eyes blank not from ice-wrath but from the fact that he could not make sense of the situation. She couldn't be Delinne. Delinne would've.. cried? Screamed? She wouldn't have been so cold, as if the blood leaking from her scraped sides didn't matter at all.
But what if she was locked within.
He couldn't kill the witch.

"I loved you, Mauja..."
No you didn't. You loved Azzaron. And I destroyed that.

"Shut the fuck up," he whispered hoarsely, shifting restlessly upon the ground; his right shoulder throbbed and he frowned, trying to recall why, but he couldn't remember. "Go away." She looked aside and he felt his heart constrict, not knowing what to do; Irma came out of the darkness, a white bullet, and settled on his scarred withers. The painful squeeze of her talons was comforting, the battle hymn she sung in the back of his mind something stable to hold on to. He drew half a step forward, suddenly unsure again. The darkness stirred in his veins, but Irma seemed not to mind, only soothed his straying thoughts. The waters rose again, but she urged him not to fight it, to be pulled under... she would guide him, she would lead him, he was safe with her, he need not worry, she was there, here, inside, within, mind, soul, heart, she would take care of this, it was alright; relax, relax, relax, I'll take care of you.
Smell, she said, and he did; nothing of Basin, Destry, or Druid.
Move, she said, and he did; one hesitant step closer, only a few paces between them now.
Destroy, she said, and his mind broke.

She gripped his shoulder tightly as he lunged across the space, head lowered from his taller stature to bear his horn towards the left side of her neck. It sent a thrill through her, to feel the power of his muscles, the thrum of his veins, the beat of his large heart; after all, birds were not such muscular creatures. As Mauja sank into oblivion, his body moving to her silent commands, Irma smiled grimly to herself on the inside.

She would pound this witch to a pulp for him.

[ 3/4 :: 788 words ]

Mauja Frosthjärta