Mauja Frosthjärta

There's a time and place for everything—for prayers and for faith, in the immortal or the mortal, for violence, for talking, for.. walking. Or, in other words: for doing nothing. Somehow, he knew there were things he had to do. Words he had to say, to certain people. Ties to form, ties to maybe break. Like leaping off a ledge, except he held back, as if wanting to savior the view even though it had since long lost its luster. Or maybe it was just because he didn't want to die, crushed against the rocks so far below. He didn't have any wings, wasn't sure he even had them metaphorically. For all his crystalline arrogance, Mauja had a notion he was terribly, terribly stupid, and heavy, most of the time. Not exactly a happy thought.

Mauja blew out a sigh, and stopped in his tracks, halfway between nowhere and somewhere. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. This wasn't the reason he had come back. This wasn't why he had survived the damn war.

Honesty, brother. He closed his eyes; that space on his left, by his flank, felt perpetually cold ever since Sarazheha had taken his leave in a storm of color and whipping winds, until not even the breeze whispered his name in its sing-song voice anymore. Until the leaves didn't rustle upon their branches, and the only wind which blew was natural, and not spawned from his brother's beating heart. Ever since then, he'd been more alone than he'd ever been, even though Irma perched upon his shoulder more than she ever had, and twined her warm, feral heart around his. He hadn't known how dependent he'd become in those months, how much he needed the warmth of Sara's split eyes, the slight quirk of his smile, the way the air stirred when he laughed.. nor had he known how much it'd crush him to say goodbye, to see that warmth slowly go out, fade, like a dying flame.

He pressed his eyes shut harder. Some day, brother.

A few moments passed, the autumn sun bearing down upon his white back; Irma's beak was combing through the strands of his pale mane, the grip of her claws upon his flesh reassuring. For nearly two years he'd lied to himself and those he loved, but somehow, that—and the heaviness of his heart—had been easier than facing who he was. And now that he was trying, it was like trying to catch a shadow. It always slipped away, out of sight, out of reach, and as he opened his eyes again to stare at the familiar horizon of southern Helovia, he wondered if he'd ever truly know himself.. or if he ever had.

When had he ever lived for himself?

He blew out a breath, and kept going, going nowhere. He'd never find anyone here; all the ones that mattered were up north. d'Artagnan, Psyche, Faelene... Ophelia. His heart stumbled in its pace. That was probably the hardest thing to come to terms with.

It was worse than losing a battle, it was worse than the blood burned into his mind, worse than the shame, the disappointment and disapproval, worse than everything—all the things he had to face, all the things he had to accept, to.. to somehow become whole again. His mind shied to the things it knew, to the safe routine of hate and deception, but his heart wasn't answering the call anymore, and Sarazheha's gentle command had torn the veil from his eyes. He couldn't lie to himself any longer, but the truth was a damn lot harder.

He wasn't getting anywhere. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles while his feet took him nowhere, a place ironically similar to a temple. Hell, his mind grumbled, watching the slow pulsing of lava, like the blood of gods, of the earth; this is a place for broken dreams. Gods were the last thing he needed, yet he found himself there, upon the path to their divinity, and his blood fed itself the bitterness.

Irma suddenly cried out, took flight in a flurry of white. For a moment she seemed to bear the sun upon her wings before she disappeared into the sky. Take flight, her mind murmured, the rush of wing-beats rippling through his soul. You need to let go.

I don't know how.

A familiar shape sat by the path, his gangly form sinister in its lines and shapes, tail like the lashing of an agitated cat—Aramis, the Doctor's hound. Was he here, then? Here, of all places, a meeting place for the disillusioned and non-believing? Black-rimmed ears swept forward to the sound of a familiar voice, carried by the acrid wind, and his heart did a thousand things at once: broke, wept, grew whole... It thundered in his chest, he felt like running, like urging his hooves to strike against the hard rocks and usher him forward—as if he could somehow fix all of Mauja's problems, when all he'd probably get was a shove off the ledge to make him find out for himself. He drew in a shuddering breath. He had leaned on Sarazheha, but he could not lean on d'Artagnan. He needed to find his own four feet, to be able to stand fast against the storms of the world again.

It was like that first, hesitant trip away from Mother's side, legs all wobbly, except now his heart and mind were shaking too.

Silent, worn, with his thick mane falling about his face, Mauja came to stand where he could see the Doctor—and, where he could be seen. It was time to come out of hiding, and face the world anew. To see what it was these days; to see who he was.

But one thing he knew: he was happy to see the red bay. It was evident by the grin that slowly spread across his face, from a hesitant gesture to something radiant, relieved.

"Damn, I've missed you," he heard himself saying.

A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.