Mauja Frosthjärta

Snowy owls don't nest in trees.

If he had never been bonded to Irma, he never would've known that; didn't all birds nest in trees, or hedges? Apparently not. He'd never paid attention to the owls back in his homeland, either. Maybe he should've.

Anyway. He'd been doing what he mostly did since coming to the sanctuary: sleeping, legs folded up beneath him under the tree Irma had chosen for them. For once he'd been deep in dreamless sleep, not tossing and turning at the whim of his fever, when she had simply entered his dream and, out of the blue, informed him of that fact: snowy owls don't nest in trees. Not normally, anyway. Necessity had forced her to flee with the egg, high up where no hooves could trample them, and no dragon could steal it and eat it. And with that wisdom, sort of anxiously, edgily imparted, she'd left again, though in the waking world she had taken the egg in one taloned foot, and descended to the ground. She had abandoned the nest for another, made in the nook of Mauja's warm back and ample white hair. She knew he would lie still in sleep.

The day began as any other day did down there—which is to say, not at all. The light in the glowing room was a constant, fluorescent blue, all at once sharp and soft. The aquamarine lights greeted him as his eyes cracked open, the soft moss on "his" patch of land ground down by his teeth, rough against his body. He blinked. There was never any way to tell if it ought to be day or night, nothing but him and his internal clock, which nearly always seemed to tell him to be sensible for once, and sleep the curse away. He was fairly sure one day he would wake up, and find everyone gone, back up to the surface, the sunlight.

Damn, he missed the sun.

Grunting, Mauja shifted his stiff neck to peer behind him, at the owl and the egg. Right; because snowy owls don't nest in trees. Where had that revelation come from? Why was it suddenly so important that she wasn't in the tree? Did she expect him to stay put here for another week or so? He frowned, prepared to turn away and do something else (go back to sleep, maybe), when Irma suddenly moved. She scooted to the side, and hunched down, wings tight to her sides and blue eyes eager, alert. Something was definitely happening.

He'd been through this before. He'd seen it before, heard it before. The pitter-patter of a beak picking against a soft shell, and the sound of it breaking open. Irma had briefly disappeared to their precious hoard of food. At the moment, it consisted of a poor, unfortunate hare she'd found on a trip to the outside, and some kind of lizard Mauja had found in the tunnels. She returned with the lizard, but touched down a few steps from the owlet, head canted to the side in a most owlish gesture. The young bird was tangled up in Mauja's hair, feebly moving in the wreckage of its shell. He could feel its mind casting about even as he heard its cries for food, for comfort and love, but Irma remained motionless a moment longer. Finally, she hedged a query through their bond, the words tentative: was I that ugly when I hatched, too?

A warm, gentle laugh spilled from his sleep-dry mouth. Indeed, owl chicks weren't pretty; they were formless bundles of off-white down, with dark beaks and beady eyes. Yes, he told her fondly, waiting for her to come around and feed the thing before its cries grew louder; she was the one who had wanted this, so why did she hesitate now?

I don't believe you, she finally said, not angrily but with some kind of polite conviction he couldn't quite define. Whatever memories he might show her wouldn't sway her: she'd simply made up her mind about it. A smile tugged at his dark lips.

But it seemed that it had been the conclusion she'd needed to reach, for with a few graceless hops she approached the newly hatched bird. One well-padded foot pinned the lizard against the ground, and with her sharp beak she tore pieces out of its stringy flesh and offered to the owlet. He—for suddenly Mauja just knew, that it was a he—accepted it greedily, his hungry cries silenced by the food. Brace yourself, he whispered across the bond to Irma; he'd done this before. She hadn't.

As the young male owl ate what she offered, they were, with all the abrupt lack of grace of a child, suddenly bombarded with the chaos and tempest of the young creature's mind, heart, and soul.

Mauja smiled grimly. It'd be a small miracle if Irma didn't kill the latest addition to their mind-family before he had the chance to grow up.

If I told you what I was, Would you turn your back on me?

and it's a lot to ask her not to sting, and give her less than everything

Mauja Frosthjärta

Irma's eyes had narrowed, her movements stalling, faltering for a moment. He felt her presence fade, soul drawing itself away, closing the spiritual walls in as best as she could—the deep, driving hunger of the owl chick rang like a gong all through the three of them, fire and earthquakes and need. The stringy meat slid down his throat, and his beak clacked, voice rising into a child's cry again as no more food came but he was hungry. Mauja watched Irma silently, listening to the owl's helpless confusion. He was merely minutes old. Of course he didn't know what was going on. He just knew the cold air around his thick, downy feathers, and the hunger clawing a hole in his gut, and that the food had stopped, but why. Irma blinked, and held out her wings. Rattled them lightly in the ghastly light. He felt her steel herself, as if she was telling herself something, but what? That it had to be done? That if she had grown into a controlled creature, so could he?

Whatever the case, with an air of dignified torture she bent her head again, beak gripping the bloodied side of the lizard and tearing yet another piece of flesh off. It dangled from her beak, and the owlet pounced on it greedily. Some of the storm subsided, the attention elsewhere, on devouring. Sensing this, Irma didn't halt again, but each time the young owl had swallowed a piece of meat she held up more for him, baiting his soul into some semblance of calm.

"Someone is hungry, it seems." The voice was familiar, directed at him, and his head swung in a neat arc from one side to the other, up in the air; blue eyes peered through the teal gloom and at the owner of the voice. Living in a cave, practically on top of horses, had ground his instincts down, silenced the alarms that rung each time someone stepped close—a stupid necessity. Otherwise, he would've flown to his feet every other minute when someone passed, and you couldn't rest like that.

So he'd grown dumb, not cautious enough.

"Psyche," he said, her name falling from his mouth bluntly. He hadn't seen her since the whole thing with his pet in the Threshold, but how could he ever not recognize her? He'd been around her too long. Even without the horn, he simply knew her. Soft sapphire light traced the outline of her body, lit the fathomless black to something bluer; under her thick forelock her face shone, the blaze throwing every ounce of fluorescent bright light back at the world. Slowly—for he refused to believe her a threat—he turned his head back the way he'd had it, to peer at the downy owl chick lying in the crook of his back. Irma's blue eyes had snapped up to Psyche when she'd arrived, but then gone back to the youngling. "Aye." His voice was quiet, a touch of fondness. "They tend to be that when they're young." He'd been lucky, when he had Irma, that the wolf-warden had hunted for him. He hadn't seen her since the Edge fell.. and that was a pity.

His blue eyes peered up over the arch of his scarred back, mind whispering who are you, lady of the black? I will not eat you if you come closer, but the words that came off his tongue where different. "How have you been?"

Soft, soft voice, and gentle, impossibly blue eyes. He wanted to forget the darkness tarnishing their past, forget the state of being he'd tried to force upon himself—but in that, he knew nothing of her. Of her heart and wants. His eyes blinked sedately in the relative darkness, black-rimmed ears forward, awaiting her voice.. any kind of revelation.

I get the feeling just because everything I touch isn't dark enough

and it's a lot to ask her not to sting, and give her less than everything

Mauja Frosthjärta

It was always there, in him—something between him and the world, between heart and mind, truth and tongue. It was the layer of frigid protection just beneath his eyes, the discord between logical emotion and actual emotion; it was the way he sometimes didn't feel at all, or never the right things, or how it always came out wrong, or he somehow didn't think of saying what he actually felt, because for some reason he either thought they already knew, or he didn't know that he knew. It was there, it was in him, it was part of him, all of him, and it was the reason some, sometimes, managed to batter themselves against his stoicism and armor. While he had capacity for great cruelty, and great love, by some irony of fate, it was usually when he didn't mean to hurt anyone that he truly did. When his thoughts never ran deep enough, and the words tangled themselves up, or when he simply didn't understand what he did, or didn't.

And that, was the reason he did not smile at her, or cry out in joy, or reach out to touch her and pull her closer to his soul again—that, and the uncertainty. She'd lost her crown, but had she lost her anger, her darkness? Would she think him nothing but a broken man who had cast away his own crown, tarnished his own glory, forgotten his brilliance?

She was Psyche: in his world, she was ferocity and strength. She was the deep, driving power, the flame to his snow; tempered by time and age, but still relentless and dark.

But for all that, in that moment, their eyes meeting, the blue-cast amber robbed of its fiery hue, she seemed oddly fragile and.. normal. Normal, because her gaze was not intense, her body not edged with danger and darkness; if she had been fire, she suddenly was ash, the remnants of something else.. he couldn't put his finger on what it was, just something, a combination of all the small things, stance, voice, memory. It blurred; suddenly it seemed impossible to recall the one he'd thought of as jackal-heart, the mare he had both loathed and loved, feared and shunned, and then, admired. And failed, betrayed.

So with his head stuck in memories he couldn't quite recall anymore—because in every one her details were impossible to make out, lost to the shadows and the fire of her gaze—he lay upon the ground, ears forward, eyes going gentler. Whatever creature of dominion and power she had been, she seemed just as lost as he was now; the broken laugh grated against his ears and heart, the sound of his failure given a tangible voice. Had he helped do this to her? By encouraging her to be the obliterating darkness covering up the flaws in his own character? By leaving her as Kri came, with a silent promise, an oath he broke because he was too weak? What was it Ophelia had said, all those years ago—she suffered abuse when she was younger by their father, I believe. I pity them.

But Mauja did not want to pity Psyche.

"I have been... happy," she responded to his query, after that laugh had quieted, and his 'brows drew together in dark furrows. It did not add up, that sound which had crept out from its cage in her soul—it did not speak of happiness to him, and yet she said she'd been happy, but why? What had she been doing, while Mauja was gone? While Mauja disappeared like he always did? He knew that it was always his own fault, that he wandered and roamed and that thing stuck in his soul which kept him from realizing he needed to take the time and just be with those he cared about, or he'd lose them, like he'd probably very nearly lost Psyche. It was not he who found her time and again; it was she who bounded back to him. He wondered why. He didn't mind—he just wasn't sure what he had to offer anyone except heartbreak when his idiocy sent him ranging far and wide again.

She came closer before he had the chance to form some kind of reply, which he realized too late, anyway. He'd been too busy staring at her with eyes that were troubled and soft, a look not often seen upon his glacial face. If he was a stranger to himself, surely he was a stranger to her—and she was not the Psyche he'd thought he'd known, but if he'd never been honest with himself, about himself.. what kept her from being honest with anyone, too? Was this honesty? "Of course," he answered in quiet surprise. This, truly, was not who they had been, Crux and Bane; they had been titans, wound close together yet miles and miles apart. Whether it was only his fault or not, he wasn't sure. Slowly, he shifted his head to keep watching her.

The question was turned back on him, and he was silent. How was he? Truly? Aside from beat up and sick and sort of confused about everything? He was bitter. That was nothing new. He was.. angry, with himself, and not only the world, though he didn't really know why. Maybe because he'd let himself waste years and years on something he knew he'd have to abandon one day, jumping ships just because he saw the sunrise. His eyes closed. There were many things he could respond, many things he could say, elaborate on the many twisting pathways of heart and mind, but each time he tried, not a word wanted to lay itself upon his tongue and come to life. He'd shored himself up too well, and to take that first step—say the first words—was always the hardest. Did he trust her? He didn't know. Did he want to let some of the deep thoughts roll of his tongue? He didn't know.

He didn't know anything at all. He didn't even know what he knew, or didn't. He opened his eyes again. "I've been better," he finally said, as casual and shallow as the mayflies. He was out of his depth, and the layer of frost and ice along his being was irksome; he knew there were many things he wanted to say, and feel, things that were deeper than his scarred skin, but they always came into mind too late—like the fact that he was grateful she was safe and sound, how strange it was to hear her state that she'd been happy if it was a good thing, or that her desire to just casually lie by him was odd, and touching in a way (unless she was just working it up to chew him out for being a right bastard), and a whole new experience for the marble-hearted soldier who had never had a real heart-to-heart with anyone except d'Artagnan of all horses. These things, they spun through his mind, half-realized, half-thought, too late or out of reach.

A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.

and it's a lot to ask her not to sting, and give her less than everything

en natt så kall och månen den var klar

[ I'm terribly sorry, @[Rayo]. Please drop-kick me. ]

He'd spent too much time skirting around issues, watching her from the corner of his eye, caught up in fire and flame—too caught in it to ever truly try and see her. She'd attracted him with her darkness and fiery passion, frightened him with her bitter vehemence and ambitions, and finally, he'd tried to deceive both she and himself.

And through all of that, he had never quite looked at her. Trapped in his own paranoia, the twisting, winding pathways of his frigid, frightened mind, the only thing she had been was ally or threat. It had been like dancing with a tiger, when maybe she'd never been a threat all along, except in the deranged, distrustful parts of his mind. And still he could barely see her in the half-dim darkness, trying to trace the movements of her body as she fell down beside him—two gods cast down from heaven, to below earth.

Because they had been great, and what were they now?

Bitter, like always—at least he. As they lay there, and he knew that he still could not take her in and commit her physical image to perfect memory, he cursed the part of him which had tasted the highest peaks of powers. Because it remembered, and it loathed the gritty air down here, but in the end, it wasn't strong enough to climb back up again.

And he didn't know if he wanted to. What was his cause? His passion for the crusade had run out into the dust, the only thing he had left was memory. With no cause he could have no followers, and with something he did not believe in, no true charisma—and why would he attempt to cleanse the world, when he didn't want to anymore?

When it came down to it: what he hated about himself was his bitter selfishness, the way all his thoughts revolved around himself. How he could not see her, because she was too tangled up in someone he didn't want to be anymore.

"I've made a right mess of things since you've been gone," she said, gaze to the darkened ceiling. Strange green and sapphire flicked along their rims, transforming her from a hawk to something else. "I made a right mess of things before I left," he said into the silence, a wry smile curving his dark lips.

Silence your thoughts.

And he reached into the darkness, to turn himself inside out, forced himself to look at her, but what could he ever see but shadows? Just a minute ago she had folded herself down to earth, but the memory of it was hazy, and now was not much better—and that hurt, too. It hurt because in some way, forcing himself to try and look at he was like admitting many things.. like how he'd never truly shown his appreciation, or his fear, or his envy, or.. what did they even have, but shambles of a shattered past? Pieces of cracked mirrors, slivers of heartache? He'd lied to her for so long, just as he'd lied to himself, and still she came to him now—laid beside him, wanted to be close to him.

She spoke again, admitting a truth Mauja had been wondering about a long time. It was almost like having the constant question answered, and Sarazheha's voice echoing like a murmur in the back of his mind: honesty.

Was not that the point of life? The way to find some kind of happiness? To be honest with others, and more importantly, yourself?

For years he had struggled with the lies he told himself, for years he had tried to go back to being something he'd grown out of, and he'd always had it at the tip of his tongue, but never quite admitted to himself just how much he had changed—not at heart, but in mind. Because to warp reality had become increasingly harder and harder.

In a way, it was like letting go; like exhaling one, final time, and sinking down into the depths. He sighed; he let go.

And she echoed his thoughts in a feral voice that lacked all the danger it had once held. There were no threats, no suave promises of pain so elegantly hidden between the words. "I changed a long time ago," he said after a moment, raising his own pale eyes to the cave roof. "I just.. tried to pretend I hadn't." I lied. To everyone. To you. His ears fell back to hang loosely against his mane, and Irma made some soft noise, beak clicking; the hatchling had fallen asleep in the long, tangled strands of his hair.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

But what the hell does that even mean?
And what are words but words, if you never show that you mean it?

Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål

and it's a lot to ask her not to sting, and give her less than everything

en natt så kall och månen den var klar

Was that their main difference—that Psyche was fluid, ever-moving, while he had frozen in time? Had she adapted to the ups and downs of their road, moved with the shaking of the earth and the shattering of the skies? When there came a dip in the road, had she simply gone with it, knowing she would rise again? While he had raised his head and tried to pound the road into submission, striving for the heavens and pretending that his back didn't lower with the inevitable?

He kept on fighting. He kept on fighting change, he kept on fighting the future, himself, those he loved—but most of all, he kept on fighting time. Seconds flowed by, minutes, hours, days, lifetimes, and Mauja remained rooted at the spot in the timestream, frozen, shackled by his infected pride and soul-rotting bitterness.

If she moved to the rhythm of the world, she was strength. And he, he was weakness, because he did not join in. Because he lived in his dream still, and reality poisoned him, because reality did not match dream anymore. It had, but he'd lost it, and in losing it he'd.. given up, in protest. As if his denial of the world could make it go back to the way it had been.

It was pathetic. Childish. The kind of truth that didn't make itself known until years after the fact; it made him want to slick his ears to his neck. He loathed it, and all the other things he knew about himself, but even though all he wanted to do was reach down and somehow stab himself to death, he never managed to change. Two years or more, and he was still the same, still stuck in the same place, in the glory of his rising reign just before the long, hard fall. Was it the sound of his pride snapping, or the sound of his future breaking?

Because he had no future. He hadn't had one since then. And still didn't. Because if you gave up on life, life would become meaningless—simply the passage of time.

And that was what his life had become. Meaningless seconds filled with nothing but an abstract longing for things to end.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not," she said.

He'd always known she'd been the stronger of the two of them.

He only met her gaze for a moment, burned by their intense ferocity, shamed by her strength. She was everything he wished he was, and in his envy he'd shunned her for a very, very long time. "I shouldn't be, either," he replied in a voice where he, for once, masked nothing; it bore all of his frustration and shame, but most of all, it was rank with bitterness. He was poisoned by himself, and he knew it, but he'd never been strong enough to scrub its black stain away. He hated it, and he hated himself, and that sounded amongst his words too. "But I am, because.. because.." His mind groped for words and his ears slicked themselves against his neck; he wasn't sure whether he didn't know how to phrase it, or if the truth scalded his tongue. When he managed to go on a second later, his voice was an angry hiss and his eyes narrowed. "Because I'm a lame fucking idiot incapable of moving on; I'm stuck in the past, it's like I'm just waiting to wake up again and this will all have been a nightmare, and each time I think I manage to let go it's for no longer than a minute and then I'm sinking again in this black swamp and I hate it and—"

He drew a deep breath.

"—I hate myself."

He would've gotten up, then, stalked off into the darkness—would've, if not for the precious hatchling lying too close, his heartbeat thrumming through the bond. That small, fragile creature was in the way of Mauja heaving himself up and disappearing.

Briefly, he hated that, too. It meant that he had to stay and confront this. Stay and fight for once, instead of run away.

Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål