en natt så kall och månen den var klar

"Mauja." Was he never a harbinger of joy, and good news? Did the sight of him always make the cracks in the heart ache, like old wounds in winter? Would eyes never light up again when they saw him, and lips tug into small, shy smiles? Anger, and emptiness—and was that what he brought with him? Her voice was tinted with sadness, and he couldn't help but feel like he disappointed everyone he had once known. That they saw him, and remembered what had been, and the stark reminder of that loss was like a hurt, something that ached, and so when they saw him, they said his name with that mournful note in their voices, and that sad cast of their eyes, or spit venomous words at him to cover up their own losses and flaws.

She chuckled at his question. Did everyone laugh when the truth hurt too much? Some kind of hysterical reaction, to stave off the gaping, roaring abyss? But there was nothing deranged about Arah—she just seemed.. sad. Mauja's 'brows drew together. Had he been sad, too? Or had he always gone from the painful things and straight into this empty, desolate wasteland, where he felt nothing? He didn't know. Emotion seemed a very faraway thing.

"What say you Mauja. Does time heal?"

Then it was his time to laugh, a short, dry and bitter thing. They kept saying that, everyone who offered consolation (not that anyone offered him consolation, but he'd heard it passed around like some kind of miracle cure), but what did they know? What did they know of crippling bitterness? His nostrils widened. Anger was always so startlingly close at hand these days. "No," he said, watching with dulled curiosity as a small griffin came down from the trees. "No, it doesn't." The little creature glared endearingly at him, and Mauja stared back levelly, until it went off, down towards the brook.

Irma sent him a brief, cold trail of disapproval.

"At least.. not by itself." He sighed, and took yet a few steps closer. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her, but he kept to himself. He'd had a surplus of time. He'd had all the time in the world—years and years of it. And not a damn thing had healed. Just scabbed over, so he didn't see, didn't feel, unless something made it tear. No scars, no closure, just raw, inflamed wounds. Maybe, if he hadn't always run from it, things would've been different.

He'd thought he'd healed. He'd thought his recent victories would be his redemption.. that it would put the old ghosts to rest. Instead, he'd been thinking more than ever about it, but when you cannot go back and make something undone, or different.. how do you get over it?

"New friend?" he asked quietly, blackened muzzle pointing in the direction of the fishing young griffin.

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