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

and I'm on my knees
and the water creeps to my chest

Mauja knew of suffering: he knew of darkness, of ice and torment. He knew of taking, of standing dark-eyed as the scythe fell and another life ended (—another dream laid to waste, family shattered). They had begged and pleaded, cried and raged, attempted to make unholy bargains, tried anything to save themselves, and their beloved ones. And he, he had not heeded them. Mauja knew of suffering, but he had only ever suffered at his own hands.

It was almost curious to think of all the evil he had inflected upon this world—how he could stand here, now, with a heart that beat, how he could mourn those he had lost, how he dared to love, live, at all. If there was any kind of justice, anything that was fair, Mauja ought to be dead.

But nothing in the world is fair. For if something was, how could this be happening? The hiss and crackle of flames, sparks spat into the heavy darkness, reflecting in eyes that had suffered too much already. Mauja lingered in the shadow, safe in its embrace, kept away from the rush of heat embedded in the tree trunk.

(Safe, from the rage blazing red in Tembovu's chest.)

How had it come to this? Tembovu had come to him bearing scars and smiles, had stood by him as the world crumbled, carried him from his daughter's death and into the future: picking up the cursed crown, putting it on his own head, preparing to lead them into days that weren't so dark. Mauja had always known there had to be a darkness as deep as his own within that scarred, broad chest, but it had always been so well-contained, perfectly locked away, merely raising its head to sniff the wind when seared by fire— (—slavering jaws gnawing on their metal bars, throwing itself against the walls of its prison). He had seen it, that day, a ghost in the Elephant's gaze.

But now, the ghost was Tembovu, hiding behind the abyss of his own rage and grief. In the darkness, his black chest smoldered like embers refusing to go out, each breath upon them glowing hot red, making him seem a demon.

It was as foreign as his voice, a rough command uttered from dark lips, spurred out through a raw throat and rushing like a tide of red along the coals upon his chest; Mauja shivered in the cool shadows, wondering what he had walked in upon. Possession? Or just a magic as fickle and unfortunate as his own? They all had secrets, and where Mauja had buried his in ice, perhaps Tembovu had burned his, giving rise to this.. this dark-eyed monster, a devil in the Deep Forest. The fire in his eyes—was it just a reflection?

Tembovu either hadn't seen him, or didn't recognize him. He could still get out of this. He could back out, quietly, the way he had come, disappear to his northern snows, never look back, a wolf ousted by himself and his own cowardice—left to live in the reek of his shame, another life he let down.

Would this fire consume Tembovu? Would it ravage through him, until nothing remained but blackened ribs, a blackened skull, charred, crusty flesh? Would they come here, and find the scorched ruin of greatness, and see the horns, and know who it was who had fallen here?

(Would they cry, 'murderer, murderer', and come hunting him again?)

Mauja had teetered upon the edge. The storm had whispered and roared around him, his long, white hair a halo in the gale. He could've simply fallen, but between him and the precipice there had been someone—someone who dared place his hooves just upon the edge of life to push him back into safety. Mauja could've charged him. Bowled him over. Taken him down to oblivion with him.

But a quick fall and a broken body wasn't fire.

Not that it ever was a question, not that he ever had a choice. In the face of obsidian and embers threatening to burst into flame he simply stalled, folding in on himself, wishing he could get away but knowing that he couldn't.

If Tembovu was a god, he was proving to be one hell of a god.

"I am here," he said, his voice gentle in the suffocating darkness. Something, some caution, kept him from moving too quickly. Because where could the fire licking up the tree had come from, if not the rage blowing red in Tembovu's chest? So with the faintest of sighs, Mauja steeled himself, went into the ring, facing the one thing that had ever laid him down.

Furious fire.

A single, lonely sparrow of flame flickered into life by his head; its wings beat softly, casting a gentle light upon his pale face. It did not move from its position, straining against its invisible tethers, wanting to be free, but he smothered it, held it close, refused to let it go.

Accompanied by the small bird Mauja began to head for Tembovu, praying to Gods he no longer believed in, clinging to his shred of courage, and hoping—hoping that he was not wrong about this.

Mauja

the white queen