i am the vanguard of your destruction

It was a new sound, a deep and regular rhythm—steadfast like the ocean itself, slower than the wild keening of the wind. Familiar, like a second heartbeat, a shadow to his pulse, rocketing through his veins in a way that made him only twitch his ears. Both owls were turning their heads, this way, that way, until his movement was mapped, marked out with precision, and partially it was their lack of alarm that had him rooted at the spot, unable to turn.

He couldn't remember how it had been when he'd found d'Artagnan here—who had been standing at the edge? Who had been sneaking up on the other? He felt like he had been the one to find the Red, but still, their steps had rang here on the rocks and their voices had mingled with the ocean and the Doctor had threatened to push him off the very ledge he had stood teetering on—

And now it was Tembovu who materialized out of the darkness, sand to the blood red cherry bay, ebony instead of glass for horns .. Mauja's eyes closed again, trying in vain to hold back more tears. He was mourning his friend as much as his daughter.

d'Artagnan wasn't even dead.

But he had left. He had left Mauja. And while he understood—fuck, how he understood, hadn't he walked out on his own life as well?—sometimes.. sometimes it was just a sledgehammer to the face, a soul-crushing kind of realization, so deep it made his heart vibrate: d'Artagnan had left him.

d'Artagnan had fucking left him.

Mauja had disappeared many times, but he had always come back—had always intended to come back, to everyone, to .. him.

But they both knew d'Artagnan wasn't coming back from this. He was gone, and Mauja didn't know whether he should've left with him or not. Part of him wanted to, because .. what was he, without the Red Doctor? And part of him just felt betrayed, let down, worthless. Because why else would he have left?

Besides, the world was vast. Who knew where he was now?
(And don't tell me love will prevail—)

And then, Tembovu was there, warmth radiating from his skin just inches away, and Diego's wings opened, the softest brush of feathers along Tembovu's sandy hip. “My friend, I am sorry…”

"For what?" he managed to get out, voice like gravel and a knife in his throat; what did Tembovu have to be sorry for? It wasn't his fault—none of it was his fault. He breathed in deep. "This isn't the—" The last thing he needed was to think of what it had been like almost losing Irma, but there he was, thinking about that exact thing. "—f-first... first time you're here, cleaning up the mess the Gods left of me." His eyes opened for a moment, flickering blue, darkened by the night. "Or apologizing when the world is a dumb, silent place with no voice." And they closed again, because it was easier that way, even though the blue kept seeping in through the edges.

"It's not your fault," he managed after a moment, spitting it out through clenched teeth and a sob; the burning in the back of his throat was worse, defying words, so he lowered his head and carefully, cautiously, sought comfort in the heat of a sand-colored shoulder against his cheek.

Bliss was such a fragile thing.

[ @Tembovu ]