i am the vanguard of your destruction

It was the death of a star.

He had not seen Paladin rise, had not seen his bloodied past and the sterling sword of equality he raised in the torn land of Isilme—Mauja's first words written within that black book were spattered with blood, a heart hardened to iron, his snowflake path mingling with the ferocious virtue of a warlord in his prime. Paladin had been there, at the Edge, his stalwart belief in Mauja's evil driving him to lend the aid of his herd to Mirage's pack of lying dogs. He had seen him then, emblazoned in the glory of a warmaster: not so old that his body could not handle a war, but old enough to have survived much. And learned much.

Then he had seen him as his arc began to shift towards the earth, a comet with his flaming red-and-white tail heading down the inevitable path into decay—the road they all would take, some day. Graying muzzle, regret catching up with him, for some reason ready to listen to Mauja and not just judge him upon the rumors that had flown around Helovia years ago. Formidable, but growing older.

But he had not expected this. Mauja had sought the Grove for a reason he couldn't remember, aimlessly wandering the fractured earth searching for the one whom he had the most left to say things to, yet never finding her; the wind lay the other way, so it was his eye that found the aging stallion first, and not his nose.

Did heroes die in war to avoid this?

Not that it was much his eye could see—he couldn't see the troubled mind, burdened heart and aching joints. He could only see the head lowered in what seemed like defeat, and the silver breaking up the pitch black of a scarred face.

Is this my future, too?

He was not far, frozen hooves tracing another path up to the pond's edge, calm blue eyes on the outline of the father of someone he cared very much for.

"Paladin," he said quietly, at last, the hint of a question buried in the folds of his voice.

[ @[Tamme]. Hope you don't mind I nabbed this. <3 ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

[ So, so, sorry for the wait, guys. Life just swallowed me for a bit. Tag @[Aaron], you're it! ]

It is too late to regret anything tonight
After what has come to light
...You have played me for a fool, for all this time?

And he was the cold spear of power poised above them, the glacier come down from the mountain; transformed, in the matter of a few seconds of voices, from something snow-soft to frozen. The relative gentleness of his blue eyes blinked away, replaced by grim, hard ice, and the curious tilt of his head righted itself, neck pulling upwards. In many ways, Mauja's size was his armor, the head he held above others his shield—in his imposing stature, he found security, and comfort.

In the frozen vista of his face, he found the same. He hid behind himself like a child behind its mothers skirts, masking his uncertainty with the unyielding frigidity. If Paladin had watched him—would he have seen the softness pulling back, replaced with the stoic face they all, surely, knew so well?

The face of the villain.

Never mind that he was the sheep in wolf's clothing.

The stranger—oh, he remembered his body all right, brown splotched on white—spoke both their names, and Mauja resisted the urge to flip his ears backwards at the youth. It always struck him as unfair they knew his name when he didn't know theirs, and for those who remembered the old times, it was almost always the case. So in silence, he simply inclined his head, long mane waving against the arch of his neck. "Who doesn't, these days," the fourth said, as Mauja's eyes had fallen to Paladin's hooves in thoughtful silence; those hard, blue eyes snapped up again. He didn't know this one's name either, but remembered him from the very same day: a gray body, a blur of white, the sickening sensation of his skin drying, breaking, cracking, pulling apart like dried leather with each painful jolt of his body. A flicker of white above the battlefield mess, like an angel.

Mauja's voice was reduced to silence, wariness making him bite his tongue—it was ironic, that for the briefest of moments he'd looked forward to spending some time alone with Paladin, here at the end of things.. and now he found himself in an odd gathering of four stallions, and in terms of affiliations, they were three to one. One of his ears fell back. In the back of his mind, Irma and Diego had a heated discussion about how to best destroy a dragon; they'd returned to circle the trees above them, and Mauja felt one corner of his mouth flick up ever so slightly. He didn't like dragons. And this one didn't seem to like him either, if that piercing stare was anything to go by.

"You look like shit, Paladin," the small fat gray was saying. While Mauja couldn't contest that statement, because Paladin did look like something half-dead and pitiful, it still irked him to hear it said so blatantly—irked him to hear the word shit roll off anyone's tongue, because he had a mind as pristine as newly fallen snow.

And it was, actually, quite rare that Mauja ever cursed. And if he did, he was so unimaginative he just said "fuck" about three thousand times.

"You look like shit, too," he said coldly to the gray, eyes as unreadable as the snows themselves; it nearly surprised him the air didn't turn to cold steam in front of his face with each exhalation. "But then again," he went on, "you always do."

The corner of his mouth flicked upwards, ever so slightly, and there was something in his eyes—something, that almost seemed to imply jest.

i am the vanguard of your destruction

These are my final lines,
I've lived all my nine lives...

Things had changed. For better or for worse, the game board had altered, in some ways subtly, and in some ways as vast as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, leaving Helovia's political landscape irrevocably changed. And that was the problem, wasn't it? Mauja still lived with half his mind in the past, thoughts crystallizing into patterns which no longer matched reality. Would either of them have tolerated his comment a few years back?

He was certain of one thing, though—if now had been then, Paladin would not have laughed, and the gray would not have made a smart-ass comeback. Mauja simply favored him with a mocking, cold stare. He was old enough to know there was no harm in backing down, swallowing some self-deprecating retaliation that wouldn't have made him win the bout, just taken the edge off the defeat. Besides, much as he hated to admit it, the agitated dragon was grating on his nerves; was it cowardice, or simply common sense, to be wary of it, and not want to provoke it into action?

He remembered far too well what it felt like to burn. And just like Paladin still wore his fire-scars, so did Mauja, in the many whorls and irregularities scattered atop his haunches. His gaze flickered over Paladin's stubby mane, listening to the truth he'd almost suspected being spelled out—and it seemed so infinitely sad, like the ending of an era, the passing of something great.. like the sun blackening and going out, and the stars falling from the sky. Back in the beginning, Paladin had almost seemed the bigger, more real threat, with his grand dreams and designs, aspirations for equality, and his iron war hoof to back it up. He had been an enemy Mauja could respect, unlike the Dragonwhore with her head in the clouds and her brain twisted into illogical knots; he had somehow symbolized what could become the greatest threat to the Plague. A warlord, but one not aligned with their own cause.

And now, age was robbing Mauja of that undefeated enemy, of the man that was the father to—

Mercilessly he quenched the thought, not knowing which words he had been intending to use, and not wanting to know either. It would just hurt when the dream splintered into tiny, sharp fragments, and drove themselves deep into his heart.

So he simply listened, pensive, that blue-edged sorrow back in his eyes as he gazed at something in the far distance. Was this what the future held for him, too? Would he one day stand here and talk to, oh, Loudmouth maybe, confessing of how it was like fire to move? That he was reckless and thoughtless when he was young?

That he put his brilliant mind to all the wrong uses, dancing with himself until he finally realized what he was doing?

Something, in the present, niggled at him. It begged for his attention, and, blinking rapidly, Mauja's focus returned to the odd gathering. His gaze fell first on the fat gray, but he was silent, maybe mulling over how hard it was to grasp Paladin's decline, so his blue eyes roved on and found a pair of churning crimson ones locked on himself. A small frown spread over his face. What had he done now?

"There is nothing wrong with wanting to live with your own," he was saying, and for the briefest of moments, Mauja wondered if they were even thinking about the same thing—if this really was Paladin talking. You should ask Psyche sometime, he had said about his old homeland torn apart by selfish war, and Mauja still hadn't. And even when Paladin had said his mystifying piece, Mauja remained silent, his gaze lowered and veiled behind his forelock. What does one say to that? What does one say to such a reversal of roles? Could he, somehow, confess that he was as pure as the color of his coat—and had Paladin grown into the blackness of his?

".. But for no one to be equal? That's tantamount to condoning the slaughter of others simply for being different and I can't stand for that." We're only as equal as we make ourselves, he thought sourly. Was the gray still so naive he truly believed in that kind of fairytale equality, or was he a stubborn dreamer who would stop at nothing to make such an utopia exist? And what would he do with all the restless souls, when there was nothing left to fight?

Mauja had often wrestled with himself about what he wanted to do with the hornless, and with that exact aspect in mind—if they were all destroyed, his more volatile subjects would grow restless, and might seek to overthrow him. If they were enslaved instead, they could grow too strong and revolt, but unless they didn't, the unicorns would remain entertained, and with, maybe, just enough to do to let Mauja be.

A land of utter peace would never work. You needed war, you needed chaos and cruelty, in order to be able to appreciate it. Those who had never known the devastating destruction of battle did not know to fear it.

Something niggled at him again. His gaze slid to the side, met this time the one of the younger paint draft, the one who had spoken about fighting for peace (which just happened to be something that irked Mauja, because 'fighting' and 'peace' never lined up). "I don't know if you remember... But I fought you when the Qian came to the Edge."

Of course he remembered. How could he not?

"I do not regret fighting for what I felt at the time was right, only for harming others in the process."

Old pains flared up like aching joints in the bitter winter, and the mellow light in his gaze faded, replaced by the ice. It was mirrored in his cold, smooth voice, the inflection bordering on nothing but with hints of ire, mockery, disdain. "You believed it was right to take our home simply because your hypocritical Dragonwhore declared that your own need was greater. How selfless and heroic," and his dark lips curled into the faintest of sneers. "You followed that dragon bitch blindly, came like dogs at her call, and for what?" His head had come up, but his voice had not risen, only grown impossibly cold. "For war and blood and fire, and none of it needed. I didn't lie that day, when I said I had offered her and her followers sanctuary but a season or two previous—an offer she did not take me up on. I never told her I changed my mind. She just came with an army anyway and had the gall to make me an ultimatum." He did not glare at them, because they were only to blame for their blind, foolish faith, but he looked at them long and hard. "There is nothing wrong with living with your own kind, but there's a great deal wrong with selfish hypocrisy. I'm rather inclined to believe it was she who didn't want to share."

And you know what?

He still wanted to murder that fucking bitch and nail her corpse to a tree. After all these years, she still made him furious.

[ @[Tamme]'s turn! ]