och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

"ENOUGH!" he roars from the sidelines, an angry beast pulled from its restless sleep by these voices. Bickering, blaming, grieving in the only way a bleeding heart knows—in violent words and harsh judgments. In pain, there is no logic. In pain, there is only pain, and the need to purge yourself of it.

It devours you, and you lash out, blinded with it.

He knew this, and he knew it too well, sharp little fragments forever embedded in his heart, and driving themselves deeper and deeper each time it beat. He knew he could not fault them for their accusations and conclusions, for their hatred and their words, but at some point it had to end before it was nothing but a shout-fest between the mortal and the immortal.

And which would always win? The immortal, of course. They could yell their throats hoarse and their lungs empty, but they were only mortal and with empty lungs they could not live. So Mauja stood at the outskirts, flat eyes angry, ablaze, and heart bleeding in his chest—just like theirs. Just like all of theirs, but what perhaps broke his heart the most was Ljós, looking so defeated and so worn. He hadn't caught her words, knew nothing of what she felt and thought, but he had seen it all.. the death of a god-child, the destruction of the sky island where his heart had broken anew, and the subsequent mayhem.

Gaucho's body was guilty but there was no satisfaction in the knowledge.

"Enough," he said again, into what he hoped was silence. His voice was rough, like his face, worn around the edges—he had lost at the hands of the Moon, too, and as he saw her disappear towards the cursed Edge he wondered what had driven her to these deeds. Spite? "Just as they have no right to blame us for their mistakes we have no right to blame them for ours." There was no mercy in his words, only savage conviction, his frigid gaze sweeping those gathered. "I have lost to this mess—I was not there to save her from this puppeteer's charade. But what good will vengeance do? Who will it bring back? And what purpose in blaming someone else? A soothing balm on your own wounded pride?

"We were not there for those we loved, and because of it, they died. If we need to blame, we can only blame ourselves." He was tired. He was tired of emotions and the stupidity they brought on. "The Gods are just as flawed as we. Ultimately, we can depend on no one, trust no one, but ourselves." His gaze lost its hard edge, grew tired as the soul beneath, but his voice was still harsh as he spoke and stared at each and every one of them. "Justice is the coward's vengeance and vengeance never does any good.

"We all failed, both as individuals and as a whole. Suck it up and love what you have left and try to protect what you still can protect.

"The dead are dead."

The last was quiet, and Mauja was little but a wraith in that moment, ears held back at a sorrowful angle and his blue eyes heavy with burden. What he spoke was what he knew to be truth, but it was a merciless, cold prospect, and one he doubted they would appreciate in this moment of raw pain and fresh wounds.

But it was better they be jarred back to reason, before more lives were lost, and the twisting tale of blood feuds would go on until they all laid dead and dying upon Helovia's fractured face.

[ basically he's yelling at everyone a little. ]