i am the vanguard of your destruction

About the only good thing with having a horn attached to your forehead was this: you could skewer someone. You could turn them into shish kebab. (You could do that with ice spires, too.) You could punch your way in between their ribs and end that otherwise ceaseless motion of their heart—and the red would follow the spirals down until it pooled on your forehead like a battle necklace of rubies.

But it was dried blood.

Aside from that one, violent fact (and maybe a few other things, like poking about in holes?), having a horn.. well, if he was going to be completely honest, as he lay there under a clear blue sky and rubbed himself green against the ground, he figured that maybe, in the long run, the unicorns weren't the best off. Wings... The Pegasus could fly. They could spread their wings and take to the skies, soar and fall and spiral through the air, travel and play and fight, and... And equines, they could roll onto their goddamned backs without getting cricks in their neck.

For a brief, glorious moment, Mauja lay as much on his back as any horse could, pale belly bared to the disinterested sun. His front legs were tucked, and his neck stretched out, buuut.. instead of being able to rub the top of his head on the ground, which he imagined would feel pretty damn awesome, it got stuck at this odd, uncomfortable angle because there was a horn in the way.

"I thought," he grunted, coming down on one side again, sprawled but peering at her with the air of utmost dignity and sincerity, "that green and purple work well together."

But then there was that shift again, like her eyes went out of focus, up into the clouds and the sky where the owls had since long disappeared with her new friend. He knew what it felt like, to stretch across the distance and feel someone else as intimately as you felt yourself—to share in their highs and lows, their thoughts, their feelings, to share their vision and their hunger; satisfaction. How many times hadn't he felt the echoes of them gorging on some unfortunate rodent spilling over the bond? How many times hadn't he lurked in the backs of their minds, enjoying that wolfish kind of feast?

With time, with practice, it got easier to keep one ear on them, and one ear on his own life. They faded into the backdrop, they had their own lives, satellites around you but more like your roommates and not some annoying cat living underfoot.

But they never disappeared. They were never silent—apart from that one time, when he had been lost in time. Irma had ridden his withers, but if he had reached for her, he had only found .. nothing.

Come to think of it, now that he had lived years and not just months with her—it was terrifying. If that were to happen again.. now...

He swallowed, and decided to not think of it.

"Yes," he said after a moment, sober now; still lying down, but within the confines of his mind again. He wasn't sure why it hadn't surprised him when Irma hatched—maybe.. maybe he had been surprised for a moment, but she had come so violently into his mind, a blizzard raging before falling asleep with her belly full... And after that, there just hadn't been any room to doubt or wonder. It was just the way things were. "You're never going to be alone again." For better or for worse. His dark lips curved into a small, almost sad smile, but he let her see it only for a moment before hauling himself to his feet.

Without them, I wouldn't be alive anymore.

They hadn't saved him from some kind of danger.
They existed. They cherished life. And they would die with him.
That simple fact had made him step aside from Ophelia's horn.

"Come on," he said, wondering if she would sense that the cheer in his voice was faux. He felt old and heavy and afraid, ashamed, sick to the core with how deep he had fallen. "Let's go see where those featherballs took him."

Because I can feel him squirm in my grasp.

[ @[Roskuld], the end. <3 ]