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,

I'm not your hero.

There was something about storms that made him feel alive. There was something about standing on the edge of the world and watching the seas heave and crash, the wind grabbing long tendrils of white hair and snapping about his body like an aura of snakes, something about the feeling of the gale blowing through his bones... And, as he stood there through the hours of night, it was almost, almost, like meeting an old friend. He told himself it wasn't real, told himself not to hope, but his ears strained for the touch of his voice through the howl, of words in the keening as it rushed across the world.

But, of course, the wind was silent, and offered him nothing. His brother the gale was far from these shores and could offer the storm no voice.

Mauja remained, though, heart battering itself bloody against an idea he tried not to feed—straining, hoping, listening so desperately that it made him feel kind of ridiculous. There had been a time when he had been sovereign, the pinnacle of his own existence, and the only one he ever had needed had been himself. Within his case of ice he had been untouchable, and invincible. The memory of such a feeling tugged his dark lips into a sour smile. He didn't know which was more foolish—missing the feeling, or having believed it could be that way at all. If it was one thing he had learned it was that he wasn't strong enough on his own.

Irma and Diego huddled under the cover of early spring greens, fat feathers shedding rain, but one set of eyes, burning amber in the dark, stared out through the haze of thinning rain and onto the horizon. His dark heart was restless. With a pang of guilt Mauja realized that the child Irma had saved was not someone he knew well at all.

How had it come to be this mess? How had he gotten himself stranded in such an awkward situation? Bonded to two owls, one whom he had hurt badly by not letting her in, and one whom he barely knew because he had never had enough energy to properly pay attention to him.. and friends hurt and lost and forsaken all around, and without even having received a no the wound that was Ophelia had begun to scar over in his heart. After years of searching for her, had seeing her with another man in her presence been enough to write an ending to that chapter? It seemed as weak as everything else, and while it was tempting to seek refuge in some kind of moving-on, he doubted the scar would remain sealed if he saw her again.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and reached out to the awake owl. His mind was not a cold place, but one of fire, and shadow; a difference from the two he shared soul with, as they were both cold as ice. Again, Mauja's lips curled into that humorless smile. Saved from darkness only to be isolated, surrounded by glaciers. What kind of life was that?

The owl shifted, his keen gaze locking onto the still form of Mauja. Resentment masked whatever love he felt.

The Frostheart figured he deserved as much, withdrew politely, and prepared to mull over the next interesting thing: why the Edge had such a calming effect on him. It seemed a fitting thing to brood about when the storm was receding and dawn breaking through.

But fate willed otherwise. Horse, Diego was saying, his smooth voice like ripples on dark water. Amusement lined his tones as he borrowed Mauja his vision—and indeed, a black shape too large to be a bird was pushing towards the shore as if possessed. Mauja snorted. It had to be desperate indeed if it had attempted to cross an ocean.

And, he figured, strong, to have made it so far.

With a flick of his tail and a shake of his wind-stiff muscles Mauja detached himself from the high ledge and began the walk down.

- - - - - - - - -

The first light of dawn sheared through the gloomy horizon, and scattered the last of the night-lights and shadows. Mauja's strides had lengthened into a swift trot, eating the distance to the dark waterline. Diego had seen the pegasus fall, collide with the water, and then he had lost her in the waves—or maybe he hadn't cared, because he was who he was, and in the back of his mind it niggled that Mauja oughtn't care either. It was a stranger—the wings didn't matter, but it was a stranger, and hadn't he come to the conclusion that he didn't need to involve more people in his life, no matter how briefly and shallowly? It was bound to make things worse no matter what he did or how it ended.

But if he walked down that road, he might as well tell everyone to fuck off, and we all know how well that attempt went.

Just as he wasn't made for inactivity and peace, he wasn't made for isolation and the kind of mercilessness that came with ignoring strangers in need.

Still, it bothered him that something in his frostbitten heart was worried about someone who had never been more to him than a dark blot on a rainy horizon.

But like some kind of water-monster the mare rose from the waves, thrashing and spraying water everywhere; it ran down her disheveled coat in rivulets, glittered in the early morning light, and finally, when she fell over, it glued the hairs to her skin.. revealing how thin she was. Mauja had stopped at a distance, an uninvited guard, and took the liberty to gawk for a second.

This mare—this crazy, sodden piece of fish-food mare—had crossed an ocean in that shape?

Holy balls.

Grunting, he decided to skip out on the whole being awestruck-thing, because if he hauled his fire-wounded self around Helovia on a regular basis why should he be impressed if some starved mare flew across an ocean in a storm, and padded closer to her. Diego came down from the sky to settle on his scarred withers, amber eyes peering curiously at the fallen, but obviously living, form. Those wet sides rose and fell, still rapid with the exertion. Mauja snorted. Morning it might be, but it was clammy and cold in the way it is by the sea a night after a storm; she'd catch her death lying in the waves like that, but if her eyes were anything to go by, she was in a place he wouldn't be able to easily reach her.

Still, it was courteous to try, so he pressed his warm black nose to her wet shoulder, and blew hot air onto her sodden coat. If she didn't wake from that, he'd simply have to roll her up the beach by sheer strength and creativity. Horses weren't meant to haul other horses around.

So it'd be an eternity easier to save her skinny ass if she just woke up and dragged herself the last yards out of the sea on her own.

Knowing how Helovia tended to operate—he didn't have very high hopes of that happening.

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,

If it was one thing this sodden mare had, it was the constitution of a freakin' ox. She just flew across an ocean in a storm, blacked out, and came to at a simple touch. No big deal. Who didn't do this kind of thing on a daily basis? Like, what? She was too small and thin and wet, but she hadn't let that stop her. And now, with a touch that had neither been obnoxious nor violent, she'd simply come back from the edge of the abyss she'd been staring into and popped back to life with a groan. No resistance. No delay. No Mauja-has-to-haul-half-dead-mare-up-the-beach-to-save-her. Because she just woke up.

He didn't know what he was—impressed? Sort of. Jealous? He figured he had it in him too. Irritated? But that would just be masking some other emotion. Maybe, he was just envious of the fact she had made this feat of strength, and that some relatively kind stranger had found her in her moment of weakness upon the beach.

That someone cared. That someone cared to see that she was, right now, weak, at least in body. That someone saw past the black fur and black feathers and the keenness of her amethyst gaze, and saw that there wasn't a chance in hell she'd be able to save herself if some hungry wolf came cavorting down the beach looking for an easy meal.

Because maybe he was tired of no one asking him how he was, or thinking he could be tired too. Helovia kept expecting of him to be some kind of invincible god when really, he was just a broken man clinging to the fragments of his existence.

And at the end of the day, maybe that was the whole reason he cared—because he knew what it was like, to be locked away behind the ice wall. How many truly bothered with seeing beneath it? Of the top of his mind he could only think of two.

"If this... is heaven, I want.. a refund."

If this is heaven, I would be an angel.

If this was heaven, a lot of things would be very different, and he would be able to fly.

He realized he had withdrawn his head sometime during the course of her cursing and him thinking, because the tip of his muzzle was chilling where the water had touched him. She ought to be freezing. Catching her death. He could help her with that, if she wanted, but he thought not; this whole episode screamed of clinging to life. Holding on for all that she was worth.

He did, too, but he couldn't figure out the reasons why anymore.

"It's too wet here," he simply said instead, ignoring all talk of heavens and angels; blunt, as always, but he didn't want to do intricate word-dances and figure out nuances of speech. It was tiring, and he had no energy to spare. "We have to get you up on dry land, where you'll at least have a chance. Can you stand?"

Death didn't care that she had just crossed an ocean. Death took what it wanted, when it wanted, but Mauja would do all that he could to stand between it and her.

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,

"'Course I can."

'Course you can't.

He didn't know what he had expected, really—another miracle, and the small mare popping to her feet like some kind of valkyrie? It wouldn't have surprised him, per se, but it would definitely have been unrealistic to expect that of her, given what she had already done. All he got, for his question and her confidence, was some kind of graceless, uncoordinated flapping, wet feathers and wet limbs waving weakly and amounting to precisely nothing. She still lay in the sand, the ocean nibbling at her hocks with a rather definite promise, and she finished her attempt with giving up and staring—no, more like glaring—at him. He snorted. He didn't know why, but it felt like the appropriate thing to do.

But at least she was not beyond asking for his help, though he wasn't sure she actually had to ask when he was already there, giving it freely. Slowly, he lowered his head. It seemed that the situation had returned to its original problem: Mauja having to haul a half-drowned, exhausted mare up the beach. And how, exactly, do you do that? How do you even help someone to stand? Her inelegant attempt from earlier danced in his mind, her rather ridiculous and helpless flapping.. even if he got her upright, would she be strong enough to stand, with trembling muscles, or would she just fall over, even if she locked her knees?

Maybe some warmth would help? At this point, he doubted it would do no harm at least, unless he accidentally set her on fire or something—but, given how wet she was.. he felt confident it would take a while before she actually caught flame. So with as much control as he could muster he sought for that strange place in his chest, the place that was full of fire instead of ice, and drew upon something that was equal parts pain and equal parts fury.

Heat washed against him with a rhythmic beat, the wings of a fire-hawk spitting a few tendrils of flame as it hung in the air beside her. Every part of it strained to break free of his control and speed out towards an unknown point, where he knew it would disappear in a burst of heat and light, but he held on to it, forced it to stay where it was, and give back life to her.

"To be fair," he began to say, mind splitting into several small parts, each focusing upon their individual task, "I think my chances of forcing you upright are incredibly small," so I'm just going to stop an ocean instead.

Between one wave and the next ice rose behind and around her, spires no higher than his knees packed so tightly as to form a wall, and the water sloshed harmlessly against it. The bird wavered, strained, drifted a little outward before he caught it again, and dragged it back to where he wanted it, hanging above her wet frame.

"Now you can rest a little longer without dying in the process," he mused in his soft, lilting voice, knowing that he had only postponed the problem. Oh, if he only knew someone he could send the owls for.. but he knew no one with powers that would aid him now.

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,

He's not an angel; he has no wings of pure light, no gilt heart resting in a cage of silver ribs, and no heavenly voice to sing lost souls to paradise with.

He's something else, something that's been cast out, something that plummets and free-falls, so convinced of its own damnation it refuses to understand that it, too, has wings—in a way, so stubborn that it would rather fall. Bitterness and pride would always be the death of him.

And maybe, in moments like those, when he's just standing upon a beach and helping some stranger survive a cold morning, it seems so distant, hard to understand; doesn't there seem to be some kind of peace behind the thin amusement in his blue eyes? In the ways his muscles aren't tensed up? In the feeling of having time, because there's no rush, no hurry?

But it still ate at him, a monster in the back of his mind, nibbling and gnawing and infecting. He had become his own demon.. his own judge.

She seemed to recede into the darkness of her mind again, and he let her go. Unlike the ice, which he had grounded and then released, leaving it to stand until the waters melted it, the fire needed his constant attention, a tug at his soul, slowly burning away at his control; not having to talk was a relief in that sense, though it did have the drawback of leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Sunlight arced over the horizon behind him, stroked his back with gentle fingers and whispered, teased his shoulders.. he didn't want to listen. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to acknowledge it.. didn't want to feel the steady beat of the fire-bird's wings reverberating through his mind.

"Who are you?" she suddenly said—whispered?—and his gaze left the reflection of early sunlight over stilling waters, and slid down to her, but her eyes unnerved him and he looked away again. "The Light of Dawn," he murmured, a faint smile causing his dark lips to curve. It tasted as tainted as everything else he touched, corroded by the vile poison slipping through his veins.. tarnished by the voice that said, you will never know anything of goodness or light and it's not even their fault anymore—it's yours. A moment later his voice was followed by a short, bitter laugh.

"It doesn't matter," he said, because names held power, and when unfettered by the chains his name bore he felt freer; lighter.

Let him be only an angel of light and illusion upon this beach.

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,

[ gurgles it's kind of hard to throw myself back into a mind-set that's two months old but I'm doing my best x_x; ]

Was it deception? Was it lies casting shadows across the ground, where the sun's light could not penetrate his skin and shine through? He could.. he could, if he wanted to..

He could just reach out, and end her, then and there.

He could.

Couldcouldcouldcould.

And that voice whispered it was an accident last time, it can be an "accident" this time, no one will have to know—that voice dredged up too many memories of ice spires punching through chests, cracking and flaking ribs aside, forging a highway to their hearts and ending their motion. He was no angel. He was.. he grit his teeth together. He had walked a demon's path but had taken no oath to remain blind and stupid. He wasn't an angel, but he was going to save her anyway.

Because he could do that, too. He could bend his destructive forces for.. something good; mercy, without the killing. She was a wet rag washed up on the shore and he could've reduced her to a pile of cinders and given her back to the sea—that would've been mercy, too.

You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog.

And so it was that he chose a different kind of mercy, or perhaps it was mercilessness to force her to go on, to force her to make her own choices again. He had taken them from her when he had chosen to prolong her life. Soon, he would give them back.

But when she spoke again in answer, he looked aside, nothing but the shadows of dawn cast across his eyes and face—because he would never admit how her words were a tiny stab in his confused heart, another whisper to feed the poison and the echoes of demon-roars.. more fuel for the fire threatening to consume him. "I'd say my name fits me better than yours do you." It was the kind of pain that was a burning in your throat and eyes, it made him want to clench his ears and spit at her and storm off—but all he did was stare serenely out across the waves...

He found that he could not answer her, because the only words upon his tongue were laced with both pain and anger, forming meanings like do you want me to be the grime-rot skull-face of death and ruin instead? and other things (he doesn't know where they come from—that's a lie, he does, because it hurts when someone steps on your fragile attempts at healing, and changing, and being happy, so fuck you shadow of night, fuck you and your barbed comment), but even in the face of that he was not cruel. One black-rimmed ear flicked, and he channeled the hurt anger masking up the pain into the bird, forcing it further down her body, away from her poor fucking ears.

Who gave a fuck about her ears when she had stepped on his soul.

[ Here @[Shadow], have an over-sensitive Mau <: ]

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,

So he had a thing for silence—and a way with it, too. It came easily, naturally, to him, eons of nothing but breathing and heartbeats to the backdrop soundscape of the world. Feather-light.

But he wasn't at peace now. He wasn't sure what he was, because he wasn't exactly angry, nor was he terribly sad, he was just.. hurt. That was the best word he had for it. He was hurt, and it made him slightly vindictive, so even as he stared out over the calming seas he felt weighted, heavy, his presence pressing on the silence like a thumb on a sore spot. He didn't want to be good company anymore. He didn't want to expose his fragile self to someone who had such careless and sharp elbows.

He didn't care if she had meant to hurt him or not; what good were intentions if you toppled something anyway? Whether it was a mistake or no was irrelevant when something laid in shambles in the end anyway.

And he didn't care if it affected her. He didn't care if the icy silence bothered her. He had saved her—for now—and if that wouldn't be enough for her, she could go fuck herself and drown.

Still, her movement drew his attention, blue eyes slipping off the horizon to glance down at her. Was she expecting him to do something? Lift the bird higher? Or was she just taking her chances with setting herself on fire? The darkness in him wanted to do the opposite, to force the hawk a little lower, just to watch her cringe.. and wince.. and to hear the crackle of it taking a bite, sinking into flesh, and gnawing it clean off her blackened bones—

Shut up shut up shut up.

He hadn't come down here to save her, only to rob her of hope and leave her in a darkness so absolute she would never re-surface from it. But still—part of him wanted to step on her fragile wings until they broke, and leave her in the cold arms of the sea.

"You," he answered her bluntly, amazed that he had not yet set her on fire. He still wanted to, even if the worst of the sting was fading; he could even talk now, without his voice locking up. It sounded rougher, and colder, than before, as if something had happened within—and something had, but he wasn't about to tell her. He would probably never see her again and good fucking riddance. He wasn't strong enough to handle the kind of company that stuck its claws in him like that. "I saw you fall."

Went to see if you'd washed up,
turns out you had,
but I kinda wish you hadn't.

"How are you feeling now?"

Angel, oh angel, what if they knew about that darkness in your heart?

It's so hard to imagine when you're acting like that.

[ @[Shadow] ]