blame it on hell's fires, and on my desires

Perhaps whimsy is sometimes the best—to dream a stupid little dream, and follow it, all the while knowing of its folly. When he woke up earlier that morning, he'd never imagined finding himself on the borders of the Edge, speaking of Torasin's unfortunate demise, even less letting the herd know that he wanted to come in, and speak the truth. He knew that one of his greatest faults was his tendency to hesitate, to plot out every single detail and then never carry it out. When it came down to it, he was flexible and imaginative, but when it came to simply acting.. of initiating these massive things; of throwing the first rock to set off the landslide... Oh, it was a long time indeed since he'd taken these plunges for himself.

Where even he himself sometimes saw a monster, she clearly saw something else. Maybe just a man wounded too many times by himself, in shambles from his touch with fire and flame; she had overcome something within herself.. come to terms with the death resting upon his conscience. Accepted him, despite knowing parts of what he'd done. Again, his eyes closed, and he breathed in the scent and taste of her warm breath. Returned the favor. It was the first time he had spoken of it. Hellena and Kahlua were the only ones he had ever told what he'd done. Kahlua, the only one who knew the entire story, along with him. And still, some things he held back: that this wasn't the only instance of deadly violence in his past. Mauja was no saint, and had no explanations, justifications, for the other things he had done. To tell of them would simply be to ruin what understanding had blossomed here, and still, it felt like lying—like cheating. As long as there were things he did not speak aloud, he would always have to hold back.

“My family burned in fire. I ran.” His mind watched the play of fire along trees, the way the hungry flames bit deeper into ancient wood; the crash of flaming branches too heavy for their wounded limbs to carry, and how they collapsed to earth. Of the gray, rain-wet ash plastering itself to everything in the aftermath.

He could understand running from that.

"I'm sorry," was all he said, in the end, but not callously, nor lightly. He said it as one who has been burned might say it to another, knowing of its soft, sinister song and its painful bite. There was not much else to say. One who has been burned does not need to ask what the flames feel like.

His gaze strayed back to the Edge. No fire was visible from where they stood, hidden partly by daylight and partly by distance, but he knew they were there, burning between the flame-bit trees. Mirage's audacity had never ceased to outrage and amaze him—and knowing that their glass-worker harbored some of his fear for fire, too... Were all dragons so thick-headed and selfish? Forcing their hot, precious flames onto everything?

I want to see your heart freeze over.

Looking for exoneration or not, Mauja would never be Mirage's friend, nor ally.

His jaw had tightened, something in his eyes had gone cold, but at the sound of Kahlua's voice it loosened up, softened, and was gone. It was a legit question, and in the chaos of his sudden decision, not one he particularly knew the answer to. A slight frown etched itself on his face as he turned his attention back to her. What would he do, indeed? He'd already said he'd leave for a bit, come back later, when maybe the dragonwhore would be keener on listening to him speak truth, but.. what else would he do? "Leave for a bit, I guess," he finally said. "I have other unfinished business to attend, and, well.. I don't know. I hadn't meant to come here. I have no plan."