if this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much?
if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love?
if you'd return for me, i'd never want for more.

If she ever had to imagine what it would feel like to have Hobgoblin shatter, his steel towers who had once stood unbreakable, threatening with its gaze searching everything for any source of a weakness, exploitation that has already promised him a perfect outcome(or at least in his eyes), she would have never expected him to roll away like pieces of glass hit carelessly. Yet that's exactly what she's done now, leaping out with claws already armed for whatever they could find, not caring for the face they tear apart when they make contact at last.
How does it feel to have the tables turned? It's an aggressive whisper from reality, laced with hatred and sounding off walls and ear drums with cackled laughter, but as they both linger in the back of her head, Sikeax simply needing to know the reason why and Hobgoblin frightened, searching for that weakness now like it'll save his life against this agony, they both know who it is. The weight of it all crushes him further than emotion she could had created in her chest, split between two souls.
The sound of it is a lot worse than expected, but then again, it always is. She considers him her's, another child hailed from a different womb only to find their way to her guidance, and a child's first weeping, especially at her hand, is never the easiest.
It continues to consume her until she cannot take anymore. He knows it's happening, but no part of him can find the drive to stop it. Every piece of him struggles with the situation at hand. His throat aches from the sobs that crank sore muscles into it, scratched up places where nails have raked through. Rib bones whine with tiredness as convulsions work their way in and out. Hobgoblin is not a beautiful crier. In actuality, he's one of the ugliest, with snot brimming in his nostrils and tears straining the smooth lines of exposed bones, barely visible against his partial transparency. They roll out in waves, made in earthquakes when his eyelids crinkle shut into nothing.
Then again, you can't expect a first time crier, who has gone their entire life laughing and frowning upon weeping faces and sob-filled voices, to cry like a cramp. Sikeax is the master of that, with silent tears rolling down her cheeks even now, the only motion to be seen being the quick batting of her eyes as they work to herd away the rain.
The storm goes quietly for her, and leaves behind only short-lived puddles. I didn't mean to try you that way.
"Then why do?"
It rips another hole into her to imagine why, so she lets him feel how it makes her feel, choking on his tears and snot in an achy windpipe, coughing briefly as the guilt sinks in like a grey cloud rolls over the Sun. The heavy shadow rolls in quietly and takes its place like its always deserved it, known where to go, and knows that it will be there to stay for at least a good while.
"Okay." He tells in his choked up tone, sniffling now but nonetheless still caught up in his mess. None of speaks 'apology accepted,' but she can't begin to think of accepting it.
All of this takes such a beating on them mentally that they dissociate in gentle succession, Sikeax's tail swinging with a lazy, effortless motion to swat away flies that probably aren't there. Her eyes still remain locked on the shrine, except now nothing really has a grasp of her attention. An image fills up the blank spaces in her vision, but not a single specific location can make her eyes focus.
Hobgoblin simply stands, silent excluding the muffled noises of sorrow and weakness, looking as frail as china despite the transparency in his bones. He could die while taken as an actual ghost now, and the whole world would shutter in fear. It's just that bad.
He's the one to notice Amara. No customary "Monster" runs through his head to Sikeax's at the sight of her, nor is there an obivous display of hatred and disgust. His gaze follows her as she approaches, body holding no other movement other than the flick of his pupils. Nothing has gained the willpower to do anything, and it's beginning to look like it's going to stay that.
Nonetheless, his position next to Sikeax's shoulder remains filled, giving only a hard look once as the winged mare arrives, still looking worse for wear but when does Amara not look that way?, refusing to budge his spot.
If anything was to happen to Sikeax, he'd rather see himself be the first thing to go. A world without her would be so dark and meaningless that it's likely he'd give away his life simply to be with her again, just to know that she's okay and at least somehow happy.
She gives him a look over her shoulder that reads light surprise and confusion, haunting her with the aftermath of his breakdown but not letting it reach the light yet. She only lets it known through the tuck of her eyebrows into a place further up her face, barely clmbing as they go. It ends after only a handful of short seconds. Sikeax's attentions seeps into Amara, and all he can manage to do now is lean into her shoulder blade, damp, smelling sea salt and sweat with the most minute pieces of red sand left buried in it.
Almost gone, almost free, almost someone else who isn't Sikeax the Sea Soul.
Every motion from her is off, the swift movement of her head to the side to see Amara choking on a name that barely feels her own these days, because who is around to call her that anymore? No one loves her that deeply these days.
The smaller mare looks terrible, the familiar ache of worry and heartbreak at the sight of her friend? once-friend???? best friend?? lover? regardless of all the attempts at recreating and finding someone to take her love when Amara makes it scream in fear when it's never brave enough. She wishes that she'd try a bit harder and see that the world is worth living and enjoying, that finding a place in it takes a different kind of courage and willpower, strength and self-confidence, love than what she thinks it does, but Amara is a brick wall she cannot get past, like Hobgoblin.
A huff momentarily stamps an unseen foot in her head. No apology, not this time.
"Amara." It doesn't come out the way she intends, voice still unintentionally sharp and jaded, a stone to be thrown carelessly into a river when you are attempting to avoid something, but she's come here to face the beast, study it, understand why, and Amara is a forced portion of that beast.
Its now or never. Sincerities are not going to fit the picture any today.
"Have you decided to come back to your old haunting place?" Blurred memories of their shared childhood makes a run for it, sprinting to make it back into place as she remembers Amara telling about the marsh, especially the stench of rotting bodies, now vacant with their presence, but they'd all grown and found a touch of life to carry themselves away, to carry Sikeax and Amara both away. The world falls black in that time until she reaches the one.
Hobgoblin only catches a glimpse of it before she snaps the lid down on her chest, slamming her preverbial body weight down atop the top so that it makes that distinct THUMP! when it strikes the wood on the other end. The picture is Amara, skin rotting, jaw looking as it was barely holding on, body changed and barely noticeable. What follows after, he can dig through at his own pleasure. None of it really captures his attention though, flooded with the rainwaters of depression.
Brows thicken. The corners of his eyes are raw with the burns of his tears, sore as he rips the sick skin to make an expression she can't catch. "Fits."
Sikeax doesn't answer. Hobgoblin didn't expect one anyway.
"Everything looks a hell of a lot different without all the corpses, and more specifically, all the living ones that like to drag you into the waters." More unneccessary snaps, only now beginning to fade out the aggression and sink more in a monotone attempt at sarcasm. Her eyes instinctively scan the area regardless of the lack of death lingering here now, ever fearful. She is not ready to return to such a life.
"And I guess for you, turn you into a corpse." The last word flicks out of her lips with a crack of a whip. Sharp crackling would follow short if she had it her way. Amara had become the dead, seeking out her, finding her place in nightmares and ruining lives. Things might have been different if you hadn't gone and died.
The thought makes her want to take it back, hesistating as her brain runs through the idea of whether or not she means it. She does, and none of her feels wrong about it. Amara has done a great deal of things without care for how it will affect them.
Careless, selfish runs through her, and Hobgoblin finds himself taken back like she should be, but no part of her is ready for it. All of the wounds are still fresh, still licked in silent hours when she thinks Hobgoblin is not paying attention, hidden away in the depths to ignore her curse.