en natt så kall och månen den var klar

It startled her—maybe even frightened her, the power of his blood. His legacy from the cold northern mountains. It was not some gift given by a God of Helovia, not something he had begged for, but something he'd been born with. Something that was cold and dark and terrible, and rode his fury like a curse. Something that almost seemed alive when it reared its ugly head in his mind and soul. The beast within purred, delighted with the reaction, and itched to send her dancing across a field of ice spires. Mauja beat it down. Killing someone on accident sucked, and if he killed Delinne right now, because of his mood.. he'd classify it as an accident. Not just "unplanned", or opportunistic.

In many ways, Torasin's death had been his turning point: when he could no longer deny that he'd laid off the hunt.

Or had he given up before that? Had he died before that? In many ways, yes; he had been a broken creature even before he met Torasin. His quest gave him temporary life, seated flame instead of blood in his veins, and living on the edge of danger made him feel alive.. but then, Sarazheha had come, and he'd saved a nation and worked miracles, but life felt just as gray as it had before. Had he spent his years running from the truth, and wasted what life he'd had on nothing in particular? Had his time run out, and he was simply loitering around, waiting for death to come and take him?

He didn't like that notion. He didn't like the idea that he was like the ice scattered on the grass, slowly succumbing to their own particular deaths in the sun's glare. He was Mauja, damn it, and much as he hated wolves he was one at heart.

But nothing in his soul stirred.

She came up beside him, reached out to touch him again. He peered at her from the corner of his eye, white forelock falling over his face. What did they linger for? There was nothing left for them to take here, nothing left to give, but cynicism and empty words. Why had he followed? Why had she let him? Why did she come closer, when she ought to hate him, and want to kill him for the injustices he'd done to her? "Death is peace," she said, but Mauja shook his head. Death was not peace; death was bloodied, foaming mouths, tears and saliva freezing on their faces, limbs tangled in stiff, bloody poses. Death was flight frozen in place, and fire going out, not even beautiful. Death was just.. death. But death was also the smile on Torasin's lips as he slipped into oblivion.

"We're creatures with brief, meaningless existences; I wonder why we bother living at all when in the end, all we've ever done is going to be swept away by time. We will not be remembered, not by our grand-children's grandchildren, and no empire we build will last a hundred years. We've forgotten our pasts and we will not experience our futures; the heroes of our ancestors are unsung, and lost to us. Who remembers what happened to the forest of the Dragon's Throat, and remembered when the ocean licked the shore much further inland? Who walked among the sparse trees of the Frostbreath Steppe?" Mauja knew, because he had seen it, lost in time-streams and taken on mysterious ways by the God of Time himself. He blinked, sighed quietly, and looked aside. "Only Gods leave some kind of mark, here. Only they remember, and to them, we are nothing but petty, amusing for a time, but ultimately, unimportant. They play with us for their own amusement, and never bother to take care of the shredded souls they leave behind."

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Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål