i am the vanguard of your destruction

And for the second time that day, his entire being was reduced to a single word, compressed into the rage of a thundering voice. "YOU!"

What was that I said, about him being tired of being yelled at?

"GET YOUR FILTHY MAW OFF HER! YOU DO NOT GET TO TOUCH HER YOU FUCKING SWINE!" But, his exhausted mind protested weakly, I'm already pulling back.

As if that mattered. As if it mattered that he cared, that all he'd done was try to fucking save her, that.. that.. well, fuck. Nothing mattered. And he didn't understand. What the hell had he done to deserve this? Who was this ugly brute? And what on fucking earth had Mauja done to upset him?

And who the hell was he to decide things for Ophelia?

It ignited a slowly burning rage in his chest, the embers glowing as blue as his eyes, preparing to flicker into life as white-hot flames—who was he, to say he couldn't touch her, when she'd said nothing about it?

If it was one thing Mauja loathed more than anything, it was the concept of getting to decide for others. Thinking you had a right to it, to say what someone else could and couldn't do—he wasn't saying Mauja couldn't touch Ophelia.

He was saying Ophelia couldn't be touched by him.

Controlling.

He saw it so often in males it blew his mind how anyone put up with them. He saw it so often and he hated it almost as much as he hated rape. He hated it and on that basis alone he could've run the black bastard through with an ice spike on the spot.

Murder at the scene of a murder, just another corpse dancing in the fickle sunlight, and his guilt would be as clear as day. And you know what?

He would've laughed in their faces if they thought he cared.

But the tentative spark of anger found no fuel to burn in his tired, tired mind, and a broad, black shoulder slammed in between him and the angel of white; the impact forced him half a step aside with a grunt, pain blossoming in the smashed nerves and blood vessels.

What, the fuck. What the fuck had just happened.

A black storm had blown in yelling, and now Mauja stood alone again, robbed of the only one present that was strong enough to shield him. Cold air that had nothing to do with the season pressed in around him, cementing his isolation. A shiver ran down his spine. He felt physically sick with it.

And his eyes spun to Ophelia, wanting to beg her for reason, for a voice, for the words he could not speak, because his anger had disappeared into the dark void, and his mind was not eloquent enough to form the words he wanted to spit into the air. The only thing he thought to say, and said as a low, heartbroken whisper, was this: "You suck." And he said it to Torleik, who probably wouldn't hear it, because it was little more than an exhalation anyway. It couldn't even begin to cover the reasons but it stated the conclusion well enough, but even breathing two words, stringing something together in the roaring chaos of his mind, had been too much.

He couldn't say more. He could barely think, grasp it in his mind, or make sense of it—but then she was looking at him, something he couldn't begin to place in her eyes, and she mentioned the Reaper's name.

Wait. She had looked into Gaucho's mind, and found something like Deimos lurking in his soul? That.. didn't sound good. At all. Mutely he stared at the stallion for a moment. He didn't look like a necromancer. He could, though, be the tool of one. Mauja supposed he wouldn't be too hard to trick, as long as you didn't act shifty. Being shifty hadn't really worked out for him.

Selfishly, he wished Sarazheha would come and sweep him up into a gale.

But then Ophelia moved, just a little, just slightly, so subtle, a white shoulder finding support against a black, and he felt more alone and abandoned than he had ever felt before.

"I awoke one day nothing more than a child, an empty mind, and... happy."

He couldn't forget the blood in his heart. He couldn't will his lungs to stop breathing. The only thing he could do was impale himself on an ice spike, and in the face of the hurt he felt, it was a very tempting option. She was leaning on the black bastard, accepting his control and his anger, and Mauja's soul roared into life again, all blue wrath cascading in front of his eyes. He couldn't even separate it from the grief anymore.

You do not get to touch her...
His mind knew a thousand intricate, intimate ways in which it could touch—wreck—her just to hurt him.
And he knew that he never would, because this black, braided, angry mess wasn't worth hurting anyone over.
Least of all her.

He thought, in the haze of his anger and pain, that there were some depths he would still not stoop to.

But he wasn't sure. And it terrified him beyond reason.

So it was just barely that he heard Ophelia, suspended between a pole of fury and a pole of apathy, slowly moving from one end of the spectrum to the other. Trapped between all the things he wanted to do he remained rooted and silent, tormented and taunted; he wanted to forget reason and logic and just feel, but murdering the black wouldn't solve any problems.

And wasn't it just as bad of him to attack Torleik, as it was for Torleik to try and separate him from Ophelia? Did he have a different reason? Did he have any reason at all, except that he was angry?

Did he have any right to try and champion Ophelia?

She had accepted the fucker anyway. Leaned into him.

He felt something in him wither and die, a perfect glass rose dropped onto a too-hard floor and shattered—and in its ruin it was still perfection, sharp edges glittering beautifully in cold, cruel light.

Its name was disappointment.

He couldn't stand feeling it, so he forgot the whole damn thing, and just stared vacantly at Gaucho as Ophelia spoke, listing crimes and evidence, pinning it all on the sand-man. Mauja hummed some sort of mute, dumb agreement, but something was wrong, something was off, and why did they have to involve the Gods..? What did they care, anyway? They were distant and cruel and mean and—no, that was unfair of him. There had been times when they had helped him.

And times when they had nearly ruined him beyond repair.

"White," he heard himself say, his voice so cold and calm in his ears—how was it possible? How could it be that he didn't sound as shattered and lost as he felt? "I don't.. white feathers?" And he motioned helplessly towards Gaucho's flaming, black wings.

He didn't even know why he cared.
Maybe because he knew what it felt like to be accused.

Maybe because he was losing his mind completely and it was about the only thing he could hold onto right now.