en natt så kall och månen den var klar

His breath was still ragged, sides swelling as his starved lungs dragged the air in deep: cool, cold, blessed night air, free of the heat of fire and the smell of its clean-burning smoke. And at least some of his yelling had turned off her tirade about him killing her—she stood in the water, its silver-lit surface swelling along her flanks before receding to the rhythmic push-and-pull of the tide. Mauja remained on the beach, a pale beast with his horn shearing the heavens, and the stars glittering behind his white head. Even in the aftermath of his anger, there was something powerful to him; and even in the loss of his own heart and strength, there was something graceful to him—elegance, in his pale, blue-eyed sorrow.

Her voice carried all the fire she had swallowed, all the fire that raged beneath her golden skin. Her name was kill? He'd always thought it'd come from aureate, golden, a theme that fit with the sun-flecks on her sides—but what did he know? What did he know of the meanings of things and names? He was Mauja, simply Mauja, a name like any other name, just like Sarazheha bore nothing but a name. Meanings were not important, when the name didn't shape the soul.

"What a pity I'm disinclined to follow the commands of others," he replied icily. He wouldn't kill her just because some idiot somewhere else had said it was a good idea—if he was going to kill her, it had to be because he wanted to. Whether he needed an actual reason or not, he didn't particularly care in that moment, but unless she tried to torch him, too, he thought it was quite unlikely she'd annoy him enough to actually make him want to kill her.

Death was so final.

"Maybe I am 'fucking insane', but why should that bother you?"

He tilted his head in the blackness, his stark shadow mirroring the movement flawlessly across the silver sand. Did it bother him? It had, mostly, just been a frustrated, yelled observation, frustration at the fact that what he'd actually thought could turn into some kind of normal conversation had swiftly gone to hell. Why couldn't things just be nice and full of sunshine for once? Some stability, predictability? He stared at her across the distance, but she seemed to give up on him ever answering her, and asked another quite relevant question before walking out of the water. Mauja sighed. Fuck the world.

"Because maybe I'm hoping against hope that you'll prove me wrong?" he answered tiredly, the surprise of her fire and her behavior having run itself dry and into the ground. He just felt cold, and tired, and lonely—infinitely lonely. His blue eyes trailed her movements, until she stood looking directly at him. Only his head moved, but his body remained still in the moonlight. The occasional cold, wet breeze made him shiver from within, bones cold and marrow aching.

"I'm too tired to be angry for long with you tonight," he said bluntly after a moment. "But if you are going to be pissed off..." He shrugged. "That's on you."

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