for Psyche.

At first, it had been bearable. A nuisance, but bearable. He'd been able to take a step back, smile in amusement as the clones capered and changed, been able to think, it's alright, they change all the time anyway. On some particularly weak days he'd found faux comfort in their presence, but it always made him feel unclean, as if he tainted the memories of their real selves by acknowledging these altered copies. And on other weak days, he toyed with their minds, contorted their image of who he was, for they always forgot. They came back as someone else, unaware of what he had done to them yesterday, or even earlier that day. And when he was swept into the world where he was alone, it was easier to take it, the solitude, except for Irma, the comforting presence which had returned to his mind. It was easier to breathe.

But not anymore. Grass turned to ash in his mouth, his dreams turned into vivid nightmares and he was, second by second, slowly losing his mind. Hallucinations, specters from the other Helovia, came to haunt him, glimpses and flashes of a world he was no longer part of. Those moments of delusional imagination he feared the most, those twisted manifestations of his suppressed longing. He could not control them, any less than he could control his dreams; the only difference was, in one he slept, and in one he was awake.

When you were insane and awake, it was so much more real, so much more troubling — and frightening.

A slanting sun cast its pale rays across the undisturbed steppe, shimmered in the myriad of crystals littering the snowy crust. It was easier to sleep in daylight, to keep vigil in the night and pray that nothing unexplainable happened, and so when the sun had now risen to claim the cloudless sky, he headed for shelter. A constant panic lived beneath his skin now, his breath always shorter, his heart always faster. Irma's meddling had lost its effect, and no matter how much she tried to absorb or hide of his own emotions, she never quite managed to do it at all anymore. Giving a soft call she swept down to alight upon the arch leading into the cool caverns. He tried to reject every memory he had of the place as he stepped into its shadow, but how could he? How could he forget the stunted Pegasus, the equine colt and his dog, the pain as he had sheltered here, Ophelia..? Every place in Helovia had left memories upon him, memories he could not escape, not even here, in this place which was neither life nor death.

Bowing his head Mauja swept into the small cave, pressed himself against the far wall where he could see the entrance. Trying to calm himself, knowing that his owl always stood guard when he slept, he let his gaze slide its usual pattern through the air. Nothing was there, and whispering "I'm still alive," once to himself he closed his eyes. Sleep never came easy, and sleep never came quick, and sleep never lasted long: it was in fits and starts, like drowning, clawing awake time and again only to sink back into the vice-like grip of his mind's chaotic empire.

Slowly, the pace of his body slowed as exhaustion seeped in, and the wind whining outside grew muted to his ears. Doubts chased each other like wordless ghosts through his body, enigmas and dilemmas tearing him in half. He knew who he was (right?), who he should be (maybe?), that what he did was right (it had to be).. all the voices which were never louder than the merest breath in life, shouted at him now that his walls had fallen.

A feeling like drowning enveloped him as sleep dragged him down, the whirl of emotions and questions building to a nearly painful climax, and in the brief moment before his brain slipped off into sleep, the worst truth of his life which only came alive at the moment when every boundary fell away and his mind lay bared flashed across his thoughts before oblivion claimed him.

I have fallen for the half-breed.

Mauja Frosthjärta