i am the vanguard of your destruction

"I have damned myself."

It had been years since he had offered Ophelia the truth about himself, but he still remembered the moment—golden, blazing light that finally caved in against the darkness, the high-pitched shriek of his demons, and the earth cracking open beneath his feet. Even at its core it had been burning with gilt light, so fierce it had hurt his eyes.

And through it, with talons clutching his poll and a heart linked to his, he had fallen.

A sickening rush; a waterfall of pure light, spiraling through the planes of his own soul, and hunted by the same.

He had come nowhere since then. Maybe, he'd even been walking backwards, fractured heart stumbling and growing colder, harder, darker. Where there once had been purpose, there was nothing, only cold, empty spaces and apathy—his own brand of listlessness. The world had lost its meaning and colors so thoroughly that if not for two owls—two owls godsake, two damnable owls the spirits of Helovia had seen fit to bind him to—he would've closed his eyes already, to never open them again.

That, and maybe, just maybe, the memory of joy.

Of hope. An echo of a song, the shaft of sunlight spearing through the cover of clouds to alight upon a point somewhere far ahead, far away from you and your shadows, a scent half-forgotten, half-remembered, drifting past on a warm breeze but gone in an instant.

Something so intangible he wondered if it had ever been real—something that was only chemical balance, but so elusive.

He could remember smiling (even as he plotted the death of her brother). He could remember laughing, feeling alive, something genuine and enjoyable, and not just the thrill of the hunt.

Oh, he had always thrived on darkness, on violence and the cold, the cynical, the systematic eradication of something. But, blind as he had been, he had still had those things he had now lost; living with his eyes closed to what he dreamed of, he had been able to smile, and laugh, and feel alive, and not just only when the frost-fire pumped in his blood.

Was there ever anything that would justify it again? Was there ever a reason valid enough to go hunting? He did not believe in justice—the coward's vengeance.

He didn't believe in vengeance either.

He didn't believe in anything.

Not even himself.

Mauja the Frostheart, the man who breaks every heart he comes within twenty paces of, including his own. Mauja the Ice King, who was shattered like a glass statue and is now fragments melting on the ground. What had he ever accomplished? What had he ever done, except send his people into battle and watch them die against a foe they had made generations ago?

Stupidity always came around to bite you. Why were the lives of his kin more important than theirs?

What good did anything ever do? Everyone should just stick to themselves, live their lives in isolation and never give a fuck, and never do anything at all. A quick, quiet end to the era of stupidity—their lines would bleed out like water soaked up by sand and then dried by the harsh desert sun.

The world would be cleansed.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” don't be, “What am I supposed to do?” and you're asking me? He could smell her fear, see it in the twitch of her body each time he moved—each time he reminded her of who he was, what he could do, and the beast in him was hungry for more of it.

Because, when you're bored and nothing's fun at all, why not terrorize someone a little?
Nice. You a-hole, Mauja.
Filling up the empty spaces with even more emptiness.
Hollow feelings, faux impressions, memories crafted from memory and neatly inserted into labeled slots—simply because they were not apathy he wanted them, but to get them, there were actions required, and those actions.. he found himself not wanting to carry them out against her, as she stood up to him, weeping; crumbling.

He drew in a deep breath. The air tasted of salt and fear. And he let it out, a quivering snort through wide nostrils.

Fuck it all.

"Don't ask the devil for advice," he told her flippantly, voice cold but there was something else there—not the blue rage, not the tears freezing in his soul, and not the bitterness, nor the bone-deep sorrow.. just the husk of it all, the bones of the beast, the armor of the monster as it crawled out from its hole and into his soul, sitting there comfortably, smug and snug and contemplating how to best devour the world. "And don't ask me either," he went on, trying to outpace the thing awakening in his mind. He had to reach Kahlua before it did.

The words kept tumbling out, "Because I think I'm about to lose my mind."