i am the vanguard of your destruction

And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall...

He was a fortress, sitting somewhere in the slanting sunlight and looking innocent enough—inviting enough, with his whitewashed walls and stained glass windows, ice-rimed doors ajar and something curious in his arrow-slit eyes. He was a fortress guarding the bared, beating heart of a wounded wolf (dog), the desolate ramparts testament to one thing: he let no one in.

In fact, he rained death upon any who came too close, came after them snarling and biting, until they were far enough away again.

His heart was not empty, but his life was.

He had wounds that were old. Some were scars, some were still open, some were infected and some simply bled, and no matter what he did, he could not nurse himself back to health. He had, after all, been trying to do that for years. So he froze himself over, locked the pain away and tried to forget about it. The halls that had been filled with life and light and joy grew empty and quiet, a thin cover of dust settling over all that had been pristine and beautiful. Dust motes still hung golden in the rays of sunlight, they continued their slow and elegant dance, but there was no one there to witness it.

Mauja sat alone upon his frozen throne, crown upon his head and bleeding heart in his hands.

And now he had her at his walls, had her fucking standing at the doors, innocent blue eyes peeking in at the barren courtyard—leaning against the nearest wall. After all those years, another soul allowed to lay eyes upon something that was part of his innermost secret.

He was getting lost in it. Drowning in it. In the thought of it—a sickening, intoxicating rush of fear and daring—and the feeling of it, of the warmth from her skin rubbing against his with each breath, and the sensation of not only being allowed to hold, but being held. Of.. no. He could not think it. Dared not think it. Saw only that fortress in his mind, and the small shape of Kahlua, and he wondered what would happen if he dared let her in—what she would find.

He didn't know. After all, he'd sat bleeding upon his throne for years, and never bothered to go looking to see what the dust had hidden inside his soul.

Mauja swallowed. He was tired of the constant ache in his heart, he was tired of the confused, empty spaces, and he was tired of being afraid. He wanted to let her in, to finally let someone see him, but it was frightening, daunting, because he did not know who he truly was. Not anymore. And maybe he had never really known anyway.

“Come home with me,” she whispered and he wanted to say, I am home, but the words could not launch themselves off his tongue. And so he remained silent a little longer, head pressing down on the warm curve of her spine, soul purging itself with tears. He had loved and lost and kept on losing, but..

.. had he ever been loved, by any other than his family? At some point he remembered having given, perhaps not much, but he had given, and the world had kept on taking until he had had nothing left. And so, he had given less and less, until he barely gave at all. For all the love he had once had, he had received nothing in return. Was it, then, so strange that he had become what he was? That he didn't truly recognize, nor trust, when others tried to give to him?

She'd been trying to take him home for a year, or more, with different reasons and as different things: lost newcomer, friend, convict, ..forgiven?

Why did he keep resisting? Why, when she gave so willingly, could he not accept? Why was it so hard, to dare to give a little of himself again?

Kahlua was whimsical. Kahlua had shown him that her trust didn't go so deep—that she was afraid. But somehow, he still thought that she could keep a little piece of him safe.

And that even if she didn't.. that he would live.

"Yes," he finally whispered against her back, heart in his mouth.

[ this took a very long time to write and was very annoying and I am not sure I like it at all. ]