i am the vanguard of your destruction

He was treading water, his mind heaving itself through thick sludge, battering itself against his exhaustion; it lay like a thick, warm, dumb blanket just in front of his thoughts, between the icy precipices of his mind and the cold, dark reality, blunting him. It frustrated him that he couldn't recall where he had seen her before. He usually remembered everyone, everything, had it etched into perfect relief in his memory—but not her. She was like smoke, flickering, haunting, a shadow cast by a shadow, like a word at the tip of his tongue but still eluding him.

His hunch had been correct. This sneaky, weird, blunt and intriguing mare loved the Deep Forest, and all its haunting darkness and mystery, all its blood and death and red water. He listened for the things she didn't say, for the things her voice did not betray, tried to see what was not to be seen—she was as cold as him, as emotionless. Did she hide it, like he did? Or did she not know how to portray what she felt? Or did she actually not feel at all? By her tone, she could've just as well have been observing a dead tree, and not commented on her favorite place in all of Helovia.

But, ah! There it was, that flicker of life in her eyes, like a breath rushing across dying embers to bring a touch of orange back to them; then it faded back into the ashen gray, dull and lifeless. Interesting. So there was a soul hiding behind those dark, dark eyes.

And he'd met a thousand reactions to his name, to the sharp-edged way he smiled and gazed; everything from hatred, to recognition, awe, nothingness. In all honesty, he hadn't expected her to know of him, even less had she expected for her to stare through him, as if seeing into his past, his soul. Uncomfortable, the walls around his mind tightened and the heavy numbness wore the edge off his features, leaving him blank. What was she doing? Thinking? He felt no touch against his mind.

Then, just as he was considering all sorts of irrational theories (she's a ghost; can I leave her here and just walk away?; did she just lose what few marbles she had left?) she came back, with a laugh that seemed so out of place it nearly sent a shiver up his spine. The detached way she seemed to view life and say things were at odds with the quiet tinkling of her laughter. Laughter belonged to life.

Laughter didn't belong to statues like them.

"It answers enough, I know who you are, or who you were," she said, scrutinizing him; Mauja let her, just stood with tired grace beneath the onslaught of her dark gaze as his mind spun, frantically. There had to be something, some connection—why else would he recognize her, and she know of him? Who you were. Well damn, who am I even now? Back through the years, back, back, flashing images and faces, but as always, when you are looking for something, you never find it.

"You outcast me when I was just a child."

Seiren.

"Ah," he said lightly, remembering—remembering the newborn filly and her ghastly, red-tipped small wings, and the nub of a horn sticking out from her forehead. Birthed by one of what he'd thought was his fiercest warriors. The shame, the anger, the.. the.. simple idiocy of it all. And now Seiren's Ghost was back to haunt him, too.

It certainly explained why she was familiar, though.

"Unfortunately, you are quite right." His head tipped to the side, drawing her in again. She was too dark, there was no way to look at her and say ah, yes, that's Seiren I see in her, because Seiren was nowhere to be seen on this dark, moonless night; it was just shadows draped over fine bones and muscle. Mauja's choices had yet again impacted another's life, and the bitter voice in him asked, what did I make her into?. "Did she ever try to kill you? Seiren, I mean," he asked with mild interest, wishing he could somehow apologize and explain but thinking it best he never uttered those words.