það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir A scream of sheer frustration tore out of Azzaron's throat, but Mauja was unyielding, heart and soul carved of marble and ice. Smooth and cold even in his rage he stood, a dark revenent cloaked in moonlight, but in the depths of his eyes roiled shadows, and in his veins the frigid darkness spun like liquid ice. He was cold, to the bone, and the air he exhaled was a puff of frost, rising towards the sky. The muscles of his jaw clenched, the tip of his horn steadying as the moments ticked by. Crowley had either caught on fast, or meant what Mauja had thought — whichever it was, he was grateful, but there was no time to show that. The Weaver's demand was cold and harsh, Descaro a silent soldier ready to puncture golden flesh with crystal, and Mauja merely waited: not for Azzaron to leave, but for a cause to jerk his head forward and stab his smooth horn into the curve of his neck and splatter them all with blood. He wanted to hurt him, to tear his body apart, to leave him scattered on the Basin floor for Talbot and Aramis to feast on.. but he kept his anger in an iron fist, and as Azzaron severed the ties with his family, a confusing blend of satisfaction and regret washed over him.

Delinne and Destry were, hopefully, safe. His and Psyche's mischief had paid off. On the downside.. he did not get to stab Azzaron.

Golden wings flared out wide and Mauja rocked back to avoid getting feathers in his head, and then the night rang with the strike of hoof on cold rock. Something within his head switched, slipped, and before he knew it each step Azzaron took was punctuated by eighteen hands of ice slamming up from the ground and into the sky, like monuments of the heartbreak which had taken place. None touched him; they rose where his hind hooves had left the ground in each stride, a straight line of six spires rising towards the moon. Mauja's eyes weren't on them. They were fixed on the shape receding into the sky, and his ears clenched to his neck when he heard the distant echo of a wail. It was pitiful, pathetic, and, blinking, he returned to the present and looked vaguely surprised at finding six of his own creations saluting the sky. He hadn't been aware of losing control; Azzaron's flight were moments of darkness in his memory, and with a slight shrug he released the cramped, almost painful hold his soul had on the magic. Giving an almost metallic click, the spikes began to sink, slowly being swallowed up by the earth they had come from. Lighter, warmer, his breath no longer steamed as white.

Guiltily Mauja glanced at the others, his smooth eyes betraying nothing of his confusion at having lost control. Well. Their job here was ended. Azzaron had been driven out, and Delinne was safe, though her legs were folding beneath her and she crashed to the cold Basin floor. Alarmed, Mauja sidestepped to avoid having her accidentally kick him as she settled, and then Destry folded beside her; he felt like an intruder, the cause of all this grief, but it was for the better. Neither Crowley nor Descaro was particularly social, or warm, and he assumed they'd leave now that the threat was gone — but Mauja couldn't just, leave. Slowly he stepped closer to Delinne again, his heart a lump of frostbitten, dark flesh in his chest, and lowered his muzzle to brush it across her poll. He offered her no words, merely his presence, cold as it may be, but he was still there, unlike the golden stallion which had disappeared. Irma had trailed him for a short while but he was gone, swallowed up, outside of their borders, and she saw no reason to follow him further. Azzaron had, by his choices, removed himself from all his families, and Mauja couldn't care less.

Raising his head he stood beside Delinne, one front leg resting lightly against her warm back. He would not abandon her. He would stand vigil over her and Destry until the sun, and she, rose again.

[ end? :3 ]
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.