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

No—

Click, was how the end began, a dark muzzle fumbling against a buckle. A simple, sterling sound in the slow roar of the world. Thump, was how it ended: and the time between was nothing but a slow slide down a red shoulder, an agonizing moment in time when the end hung in the air. The dry fire in his gaze would've incinerated it on the spot if it could've—if it would've meant anything at all, to prevent the leather bag from hitting the green floor. If he just could've caught it.. stopped it.. held it in its place against that shoulder, pressed it to the heart beneath the bone and the sinew and the flesh: pressed it into his soul.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw himself at d'Artagnan, to shriek from the bottom of his black, frostbitten heart; to cry all the tears he had not cried, to fling a thick forelimb over his back, bury his horn in his heart and let the Red do the same—

He wanted to make d'Artagnan understand how much he meant. How much he would miss him. How.. how empty he would be, without him.

But he didn't. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He didn't tackle the Doctor to the floor and yell at him that how dare he take himself from Mauja while he still lived—how dare he rip his heart out, like this?

How dare he do to Mauja, what the cruel world had just done to himself?

d'Artagnan still lived—still breathed, even if his heart was hollow and his lungs full of dust, but he still lived. He could still dream. Hope. Love.

He would not give Mauja a body to mourn; he would not give him an end, but this moment.. this brief, too-fast moment of blue eyes blurring up with tears. He would not give Mauja the time to say goodbye, to hold him close for as long as he needed, until the stampede in his heart stopped running on hooves like needles. He would take, because he could, and would leave his bags like a memory of him—a lesser shadow, a constant reminder, a poisoned needle stabbing always into his shoulder.

He would carry d'Artagnan next to his heart in all the ways he knew.

Aviya lay dead, but it was no longer the reason his heart was breaking.

How can you do this to me—

How can you leave me—

—with breath still in your body? How can you let anything but DEATH do us part?

But death had parted them—she lay right there, broken glass horn pointing to an innocent sky. I didn't want it to end this way—

My death, your death, not *her* death—

Yet there they stood at the close of it, and he was going; Mauja knew it without asking, without words, knew it in the ache in his heart and his bones, in the torrent he held back for the sake of his friend.

Would my tears hold you back—

The mismatched gaze rose for a final time to look him in the eye, and Mauja could do nothing but cry in silence, wordlessly mouthing 'please' and shaking his head. Please, don't leave me, don't go, don't do this, please— "Am I pitiful now?" Pitiful? Pitiful? He was a father who had lost his daughter and his lover, a man who had lost his purpose, a.. Mauja's ears fell back in sorrow. He was a friend, losing himself to himself. "No," he choked out in a sob, tears masking up the bright (frozen) light shining somewhere in the depths of his soul—the light that always shone for d'Artagnan. "You are beautiful."

"I think I will not return to the mountains."
"I know."

And when the Red finally moved, Mauja's body hitched forward unbidden, muzzle reaching for that which he could not grasp—could not hold—could not keep, for the shade was not his to keep, and never had been. But still, to see the cherry bay back turn to him, and know that he had seen his eyes for the last time in this life—stood next to him for the last time .. it was more than he could take, he could not watch his final farewell to his son, could not watch as man and hound began to walk away.

Away, from Mauja. Away, into something new, some place he could only hope would be better for his friend, and yet, and yet it hurt like nothing he had ever felt before to have life take from him in this way; all the pieces of his heart whispered don't leave me but the Red didn't hear.

"I love you!" he finally cried after him, their last rites: his final message to carry with him into the world beyond.

And with the words, the singular truth which had defined him for so long, the rest of the grief tore its way out through its thick crypt of ice and burst into the air; crying as he had never cried before Mauja fell to his knees, to his side, into the darkness of his loss and despair.

d'Artagnan was gone.

[ I don't believe I have ever cried in this way before while writing a post. :< ]

I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
the long broken arm of human law