but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Who are you—

Who are you to step into my forest—

Who are you to bring him here—

Can't you see he's gray as a wolf?

There was no sunlight to strike the white scales alight; it had sunk to its watery grave, leaving the sky to darken. One by one the stars blinked into existence, strewn and scattered across the heaven—but they didn't need a fucking sun to see her. She was a ghost, a wraith, lithe and beautiful and a fucking dragon. She spun through the air above his forest, an intruder in every sense.

Stalked, by a frigid owl, her eyes blazing disapproval. Dragons meant no good. Dragons breathed fire. Dragons caused pain—Irma had an excellent memory. It was fortunate she hadn't quite been hatched when Fajira had blasted Mauja's back.

But most of all, the dragon was someone unknown.

And Mauja was flowing through the forest, breath punching out of his lungs, sweat steaming off his warm hide—it was blind, a rush, a race against the clock and he couldn't even decide why—

The wolf was a fool. The wolf was a foolish, foolish man blinded by his own naive views. The wolf was a bother.

But the wolf was no threat.

So why did he bother? Why did it make his heart beat furiously? Why did it kindle this mindless, gut-wrenching rage in his soul—

His breath was hot and cold, his eyes dark, and he just wanted to reach out and grasp his heart with an icy claw, squeeze it, test its mettle, constrict and shred and rip and rage—

It doesn't matter! he yelled in the face of his hopeless rage, squirming in the grasp of his own anger, thundering down pathways to the wolf and his iron guide. It doesn't matter it was all so long ago and he's no threat, no threat, no threat, he's just a fool—

Mirage wasn't there. The one worthy of his anger wasn't there. He knew that, so why couldn't he just stop—?

There was nothing for him to slay here.

The ice spike came before he did. With no warning it slammed into the air in front of them, thick and sturdy, easily reaching taller than both of them—and in the shadows Mauja gave a frustrated snarl, wrenching his heaving body to a skidding halt.

I'm supposed to be better than this—

No, fuck it, I hate idiots still—

I never said I was going to stop hating them—

But it would give him the upper hand—

He was drenched in winter sweat, limbs trembling with the force of his rage (adrenaline, adrenaline, adrenaline); lips pulled back and eyes blazing.

I can't—

Overload—

The glade around him lit up with fire as two swans of flame surged out of his chest, the discharge of his fury, streaking through the air before disappearing with a crackle. They left a trail of melted snow and soot-stains; Mauja had leaped back, the edges of his mane singed, and eyes wary.

Well, fuck. If they hadn't known where he was before, they certainly knew it now, and—belatedly—he realized that the last thing he wanted to do was to don his icy mask and play politics.

[ @Lace, @Nyx ]

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same