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

(Screams—)

One, two, three . . .

(And the screams remain, burning through his mind.)

He could do nothing; he was no healer. The raw pain seared his ears, his mind, like a lightning lash down the length of his spine. He could take none of it away. He couldn't fix anything. Wild blue eyes snapped to the side. (Trees, trees, trees.) He could break things. Oh, how he could break things. (The sound of bones snapping.) He could break them and fold them into neat little packages and destroy them and no one would know—

Suddenly, the world around him lit up as fire exploded out of his chest, careening harmlessly through the much-too-snowy world before colliding with a snow-laden little spruce growing in the shadow of its tall brethren. It left an odd melted patch and some soot beneath, and Mauja had stopped prancing in a mad little circle to watch it with a dull look on his face. He didn't like fire. Why had he..?

"Ow, ow-ow-ow, ow," he winced, his train of thought broken; the skin on his chest was a little seared, a little crisp and tender. He could smell the distasteful scent of fire-induced blisters and singed hair, and grimaced.

And still someone was screaming as if she was being murdered.

(Maybe she was.)

Mauja could not heal, but he could damn well protect (—destroy). So why wasn't he? Why wasn't he running towards the sound? Why was he staring at a tree he'd accidentally blasted with fire? He looked about himself again; the snow was almost to his fetlocks here, and he could see his tracks as he'd run around in tight circles—but he couldn't remember doing it. Perhaps, he thought wryly as the screams still rang around him, I have finally gone mad, after all.

And then he was running, and the cries were growing softer. (Am I too late?) Finally, they ceased, but Mauja flowed on, until—

There was Tembovu, and there was Myrrine, and there was a stranger, and a little newly born girl. The snow was stained red with blood and afterbirth and other things which made him want to shriek and run away, and he smelled tension and blood and broke into a high-kneed trot around the edge of those gathered, white smoke billowing out in snorts from wide nostrils. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

(First of all, Myrrine had no place being pregnant at all—)

Shut up.

He came to an abrupt stand-still somewhere behind them, his gaze drawn to the bloodied mess of Myrrine's tail and the fresh red still seeping down her hindleg. It came from that place underneath her tail, and he didn't know what to make of it. What to feel about it. He couldn't even look at the others, because—there was blood. He frowned.

"Healer," he finally said, though his voice sounded odd in his ears. He couldn't quite figure out why, though, and as his gaze swept across the others again, his heart picked up its pace with a sickening whoosh. Why was no one else noticing that she was bleeding? Why did no one else care that there was a crimson pool starting to form around her in the snow? Was he seeing things? "Healer," he croaked again, quietly, wondering if he was even there—or if they were there at all. Maybe he was just imagining them. Or maybe he had died and that was why he felt so strange, and they couldn't see him as he stood there on the edge of them with his nostrils wide and eyes wide—

He cast about for anything, anyone, and in the isolating blackness there was a rush of warmth.

(We are here, they whispered, one of flame, one of ice, and he felt their wings beat the air. He felt them spread out, still whispering that little promise, that little tether to reality, and he knew what they were looking for.)

He knew, because he was part of them, and with a lost, wide-eyed look he started to back away into the shadows.

[ Hello everyone, have a Mad Mauja. || @Tilney @Alysanne @Evangeline -- Mauja's owls are looking for a healer. ]

Mauja

the white queen