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,

[ "We're on a mission from God!" ]

He had always loved the edge—the sheer, dead-drop fall into heaving seas, white foaming crests beating against the pale rock, spraying into the air like spittle. He had always loved the mist that hung between the trees and ghosted silently over open ground, the pearly water droplets that clung to his legs and made him shimmer in starlight.. to pace along death's rim, just a misstep from death or agony, frozen hooves hugging the safety of the ground while flirting with open air. There was something soothing about it, as it took the edge off his worries and his thoughts.

But the game always grows tiring, especially after the fifth time you nearly tumble to your death, so Mauja had abandoned his pastime and replaced it with something he was quite good at: brooding. The wind off the sea chased the sweltering heat away, and as the sun sank towards the open horizon the temperature continued to drop. It was a blessing. He had suffered through the Sun's wrathful summer in this place once before, and this tasted too much of that.

As he stood there, staring out over the ocean, it struck him how long ago it had been that he lost this place.. and how the one who had taken it from him had, in turn, abandoned it. She had not appointed Kahlua and Kaj—the moon-bitch had. Mauja had been in no state to contend for it. Mauja had been unfit to lead for a long, long time.

His heart was too dark, too hateful, and he didn't know if he could ever again rule this place without becoming a snarling beast. It was always difficult to go back to some place, either to pick up the pieces and keep going, or to just.. start something new.

But this place—he loved this place. Something about it soothed him.. made it a little easier to breathe.

Neither Irma nor Diego had lived with him in the Edge. That was how long ago it was. He had sworn, to someone, everyone, Snö, that they would live here again. That they would take it back. And he wanted to, to once again roam these forests with d'Artagnan by his side, to watch Snö grow up, Psyche and Deimos lurking in the shadows like something spawned from hell...

But things change. Irma's talons broke the skin on his withers in a comforting, blood-tinged squeeze, and upon his haunches Diego shifted uneasily. He gave the haughty owl what comfort he could before the wind brought him his name, distorted halfway but clearly, it was his name. Haunting dragon cries echoed it, and something in his heart died a little more. So much for Ophelia scarring over, if the first thing his treacherous mind whispered was I wish it was her dragon calling for me.

He blinked it from his eyes, took a few steps back from the edge and the flaming sunset, and turned to face her. He hadn't spoken with her since that day on the sky island, and hadn't seen her since the day the Gods had descended to spit fire at their sister. Much had, clearly, happened since.

And he hadn't been prepared.

Her sides were full with foal, belly round and swaying in a fashion that was much too characteristic of pregnancy to be mistaken for fatness. It lanced into his skull, into his heart, with such a merciless jolt that she could've simply punched him straight in the face instead of just gone looking for him, seemingly as happy as always.

He couldn't even label the emotions, much less gather his shattered thoughts, a glass sphere dropped on the floor and broken into a million scattered pieces. She.. he.. he stood stunned, ice crawling through his every vein and patching up every hole, every crack, trying to shore up his breaking existence and keep him from simply ceasing to function.

It wasn't.. that he'd somehow thought he had any kind of claims on her, at all—nor had he thought he'd wanted to. It was just.. the feeling of having thought that there had been, well, something, some kind of them, just a fucking feeling of something—the voice in the back of his mind whispered things of logic and rationality but he couldn't listen.

He hadn't been prepared, and now he didn't know if he'd ever felt as confused and heartbroken before.

But he looked as calm as always, safely locked away behind his ice armor; maybe his eyes were a bit more distant, as the bruised remains of his heart crawled further and further away, looking for some safe place to hide and nurse itself back to something resembling health. Only Diego reacted to the confusing storm of stumbling, stuttering emotion, giving it voice in a single harsh cry, wings spreading and beating the air before settling again.

"Kahlua," he heard himself say from afar. There was some kind of pounding in his head, a keening crescendo ringing in his ears. He felt faint, his breathing too shallow, too fast even as he tried to calm it.

He had no right to feel this way, but he still did, lying dazed on a cold hard floor somewhere, surrounded by the ruin of his life and staring vacantly at distant, merciless stars.

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 getting used to it—the fragility of joy, its beauty in the split-second moment when it is frozen into something resembling glass, and the sound of it breaking as it falls to the floor.. moments crystallizing with near-perfection, like panels in stained glass windows, burning into his mind before shattering into a thousand, or more, pieces. It hurt, and it defied any kind of putting back together, and in many ways the shock itself was enough to write an ending to whatever chapter it was that he had nosed his way into.

He could barely see her for the darkness rising in him, reducing her to a two-toned ghost lumbering his way, and as she said his name again he could barely hear her for that keening in his ears, and the wild pounding of his wounded heart. It was a beast caged in his chest, trying to outrun the pain, trying to escape the prismatic hail of shards coming down all around him as something—he didn't even know what—broke inside of him.

But you can't run from a storm when it's blowing inside of you.

It was.. “I’m so sorry. I’m the worst kind of friend,” and he could only hear her as if at a great distance, her words slow and drawn-out, devoid of meaning because he could not comprehend them at that moment. It was.. how sudden it was, he didn't love her, and—

It was just, somehow.. his mind sought for words he could not find, sought for something more tangible than emotion to shore up his existence and structure the pain, so he could return to the present, and listen to her, because her voice was sad and she did not deserve to be sad, but—

It was (partially—he doesn't want to consider what he may or may not have felt, for her), he finally realized, a feeling of having been wrong.. about them, about her, that someone who seemed so innocent and young, (naive and gullible), so much a child in a woman's body...

That she was an adult, who made her own choices. That she seemed ..pure, yes, childlike, but she was a woman grown and she had every damn right to sleep with a man if she wanted to.

It wasn't that she'd slept with someone who was't him—to be frank, it had never crossed his mind, he'd never wanted to, he wasn't.. physical like that—it was the fact that she'd slept with someone at all. It was just.. it felt like she turned out to not be who he had thought she was.

And beneath it all was another sound—a soft exhalation, rattling a little through a tired throat as it left the lungs empty.

It was the sound of a future dying.

He was used to doors closing all around him, simply because he never dared to go through them. He was used to leaning on the door frames and peering through the slowly narrowing gaps, until he heard the soft click of the lock mechanism.

He was less used to having stuck his nose halfway in, only to have it rather rapidly swing shut in his face and leave him stranded in the darkness on the other side.

Suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, she had barreled into his chest, so fiercely he grunted and had to check his balance. A roar went through his head, through his ears, heart flipping madly in his chest as a moment's sucking, nauseating vertigo rocked his world—his return, drawn from his trembling thoughts and the sea in which he had threatened to drown. And, as she asked for his forgiveness, he realized he had not heard a single word of what she had said.

But the owls had.

For a moment longer he just stood there, heart throbbing painfully in his chest and every nerve screaming as if he'd taken the worst battering of his life—just, trying to find some ounce of life again, some reason, something that was still whole in the mess of his heart. And, finally, he sighed. Shed the stone skin. Blinked the tears from the corners of his eyes and laid his head to rest upon her back. "I already have," he murmured, glad he could blame the thickness of his voice on the fact that her spine jutted into his throat. There was more he wanted to say—give me benefit of the doubt next time, how hard is it to just ask a question?, it fucking hurt you bastard—but no words found themselves on his tongue. He felt exhausted; spent. Too tired to even notice the rhythmic digging of her hoof, until she pulled away, and let the cold darkness swim back in.

He was tired of never knowing where he stood. Tired of everything shifting on a whim. He swallowed, and let his gaze drop, looking at what she did—digging, pulling up a small rock, and staring at it intently.. on top of everything else he was tired of, he was also tired of guessing what everyone did when they stared at inanimate objects, or did weird rituals, or whatever else Helovians did to pass their time, so he just watched and waited. There was nothing else he could do.

But just as he was about to give up on it as being just another quirk of her personality—staring at rocks to avoid uncomfortable conversations—it began to glow, gently at first, warm and golden, until it spread, slowly chasing the oncoming darkness of night away.

The moon was pale and cold and harsh, the same kind of distant and unforgiving light as stars, but this was a little piece of her—the sun. A small sun.. “You can have it, if you want it,” she was saying, and for a single breath he kept looking at it, its nondescript little form, and its soul-warming, marvelous glow.

You can have it.

It was beautiful. It was so simple, just a small, fucking rock emanating the most peaceful, soothing light he'd seen since forever, and she'd made it for him.

He couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle it. Tears welled in his blue eyes as his mind fell apart again, and he pushed his head against her side, low, by the crook of her elbow, and just cried.

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 didn't know what to do anymore.

He didn't know anything at all, about anyone—about himself.

It was just him, and the darkness, white lids pressed together but the tears kept on escaping, along with the shuddering breaths rattling out of his lungs. Everything else threatened to disappear, shear off and fall into the sea, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to fall down with it.. and disappear into the dark, cold waters.. just to see whatever foreign shore he washed up on, and if that sun was as warm as this one.

He was tired of living this way, of haunting himself, of hounding himself, of holding on so tight to the past that he couldn't move on—that he couldn't accept what he had become, what he had always been, that.. somehow, he always strove to return to something he had forsaken, something he had never truly been, not in his frozen heart; he was tired of running down the same empty corridors at night, and never finding neither door nor window to break out of. He was tired of the bitter, biting voice pointing out to him how weak he was, of having it written in the faces and eyes and words of everyone he met, how he had become lesser, but in what way? Because life had, finally, gotten to him, and poisoned him? Because he had abandoned the ideals of a horn meaning you are superior? Because he'd fucked everything up? Because he never did anything right? Because shit always fell apart around him?

In what way had he failed the entire goddamn world?

The tears just kept on falling, his ears slick to his neck, not wanting to listen, not wanting to hear, because.. because... Because if he said nothing, she would not understand, but he didn't want to say anything—didn't want to explain.

Could barely breathe, for the painful lump in his throat; could barely stand still, for the restless energy pushing against him, her voice a confused mess battering against an already plagued mind, and he wanted to whisper I cannot help you but he could, if he just said it... But the tears were in the way, the overwhelming sense of fucked-up emotion battling the rationality, the need to take care of her.. He dragged his head up, wet cheek rubbing against her shoulder until he bore it higher than her back again, and some ghastly, strangled moan made its way out of his throat. Not quite what he had meant to say.

"Nothing," he finally managed, trying to spit the word out but choking on it instead—gods, he was a mess, but something about it felt like.. relief. Like someone had finally cut open the swollen skin at the edge of a scar and begun to drain it of everything vile that had been allowed to fester for years. "It's just.. short-circuited..." He never could've guessed how hard it was to breathe and cry properly at the same time; it left him feeling out of breath, out of words, and his eyes slipped half-closed as he tried to just breathe. It was too loud in his ears, too loud in the forest, not quite aligning with the music around them. Feathers whispered, a hushed sound lost in the gentle hymn, and in a silent, split-second glide Diego was on the ground, wings still held wide as one taloned foot gently grasped the stone. For a moment he paused, and peered at it, then up at Kahlua, and finally, Mauja, something thoughtful in his gaze. (And when that owl looks thoughtful, you know he's up to something.)

But it was pathetic, how starved for kindness he was, if such a simple thing as this reduced him to a blubbering mess.

"It's beautiful," he went on after a moment, voice still some hybrid between a whisper and a sob, "it's just a fucking glowing stone but it's so beautiful, so simple, and, I.. I..." Had he ever been this undignified before? Disheveled, haggard, crying, rambling?

Did he care?

No.

Just slung his head over her back again, to hold her close, and to whisper "Thank you," against the softness of her skin.

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,

.. and my heart would forget it's made of glass ...

It had never actively struck him how close they were—how close they always ended up being. He never thought about it, because it felt natural, to press against her, and hold her, white neck draped over her back. In a way.. it felt more right than anything else he had known for a very, very long time. His life had derailed many years ago, and ever since he'd been adrift in a storm, tossed this way or that as much by the whims of the world as by the whims of his own self—but even that grows tiresome, and at some point, you get tired of those vast, open, dark seas, and of the wind whirling you about.

But next to Kahlua, he was grounded. Next to her, the wind didn't keen in his ears, and he didn't feel quite so lost (in some ways; in others, he felt more lost than ever). Somehow, she kept him safe from the storms blowing within him, but as he stood there with his head resting against her flank, feeling the tick of her heartbeat through their bodies, he wondered if all the sharp fragments blowing about inside of him ever cut her, too.

Hurting her was about the last thing he wanted, but it was how it went, didn't it? That sometimes you got hurt—and the more you cared, the harder it hit.

He knew that. He knew all of that very well.

But it didn't matter anymore. He had forgiven her. He would probably keep on forgiving her, the icy walls thrown up in defense of his tattered heart melted each time she came close—each time they wound up like this, tangled up in each other. The warmth of her soul outdid the heat of her skin by miles.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispered across his back, a flurry of warmth tracing its finger across his spine along with the words. Weakly, his heart protested, because he wanted to thank her, for the stone, for cracking the tears out of his hardened skull, for.. for existing. For everything she had, knowingly or not, done for him. For everything she did to him. It was huge and it was terrifying but for that moment, with her there, it felt possible—hopeful—like he could overcome it... Where it would lead him, he had no idea. “Have you ever said no to a god?”

To a.. god?

He let his eyes slip closed, and his mind wander. Many years ago, the Sun had descended from the sky in this very forest, to carelessly burn it and those who called it home—one of Mauja's first meetings with the fires of Helovia, and the beginning of the end, irrational sparks of anger being struck at the Qian intrusion.. high and mighty words that did little to soothe the burnt and raw skin of his people, or the fear of flames burning hot in their souls. Mauja's anger and condemnation of the fiery God. The dim, distant pain of the Moon's perceived betrayal, the confessions rolling off d'Artagnan's tongue. And those five raven feathers burning in the fires of Helovia's Heart, when the final nail had been struck deep into the coffin—Spark, rubbing salt into half-closed wounds and tugging them open again.

Earth, Sól, Moon-bitch and Asni. Had he ever said no to them?

Never outright. They had never asked him for anything, after all.

"Not exactly," he said after that moment—how long had it been, five seconds? ten?—tilting his head upon her back until he could peer up at the open sky. Only a sliver of blood-red remained by the horizon, otherwise the night had come rolling in with its blanket of cold, distant stars. They twinkled and shimmered, reminding him of all the things he wished he could forget. "But they've never asked anything of me, anyway. We.. don't always get along very well," it was a murmur and a small smile playing on his face, the corners of his mouth curling up. The understatement of the year—the truth was that he hated a few of them, viciously, that he had told, in his own way, at least two of them to fuck off, and on multiple occasions.. sort of.. ish. Absently, he rubbed his jaw against the curve of her ribs. "Why?"

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,

Hunger, hunger is the purest sin
It is an empty church in a crowded bin
I've wept and I've stumbled
I fought and I craved

Curiosity held him tight, almost as tight as Kahlua herself did. There, trapped in her embrace and in thrall to whatever secrets lurked just behind her teeth, he was not aware of these half-formed truths as he was later to become—did not know how the sudden insight would ravage him like a fire, leaving little but brittle bones and a hollow feeling in his lungs.. like no breath could fill up the spaces, and no sleep replenish his energy.

Until things began to turn again, steady as a wheel.

“Walk with me,” she said—asked—commanded, because no matter how soft her voice, where she pointed, he would go. Such was the loyalty of blades, after all.

He clung to her side like her shadow, her shield, something of the winter come to haunt summer, but she did not melt him, and he thought he did not freeze her, either. He simply existed in the space beside her, tears drying upon pale cheeks. The times he could remember such seamless interaction were few—and most hurt, now.

Those he had not seen for long—those he had abandoned.
Those he would never see again—because they were dead.

But he listened, heart protesting weakly that she had always had herself, that Kahlua was worth infinitely more than mere faith—that simply by existing, by virtue of being herself, she had value. That she should not give the gods credit for her deeds—for her belief—her strength—her spirit. The gods had nothing to do with her success; with her keeping peace; with anything. They had set her on the throne and left her to rot, just like they had with him. Their words were as hollow as their souls.

How strange, that he so faithless, walked beside her, when her soul was full to the brim of her strange worship. The words turned to ash in his mouth, on his tongue, scalded his throat as he tried to breathe them—he wanted to rob her of her faith, to tell her that they had nothing to do with anything, that she had done everything by herself, and by her own strength.

That all the gods had ever given him was pain—
But even that is a lie.

Earth and Moon had healed his wounded Edge after the Sun had burnt it.
And the Sun... the Sun had healed his shoulder, after Torasin's dragon had scorched it.

So they had given to him twice, but taken so much more.

"But maybe Kaj was right when he said I was just being selfish, and a child…"

The trees opened up to the sunset and the cliffs he had so recently abandoned, and her words spiraled into silence. Mauja walked beside her, neck ramrod stiff and straight up, his gait that of an angry cat—and if he had been feline, his tail would've whisked angrily from side to side. "Kaj," he spat out, a rough growl, "can bend over and see if he can't pull that stick out of his arse."

But then he breathed in, drew the salty, cool air deep into his lungs. Why did Kaj anger him so much? Simply by virtue of existing? Because, from the tentative hum to her words, it was clear that he had hurt her?

Righteous anger? You-belong-to-me?

Am I creating a devil, where there is none?

Maybe it had been like Mauja—just concern. Just a desire for her to be bold, and strong, secure in herself, without leaning on the crutch of gods.

He breathed out.

"Your life is your own," he said—too tangled up in her misery to be floored by the realization that a, it was a god's child she carried and b, it meant that she hadn't gone and slept with.. some mortal. "And ultimately, it's what you want that matters. And anyone who says differently can take a long walk off a short cliff." He snorted, still agitated from the mention of this Kaj, drawing up next to her and pressing himself against her in silence, trying to meld into her.. trying to soothe her and ask for her forgiveness all at once, something hot and harsh in the rims of his eyes and he felt that the look buried deep in them was that dangerous look of adoration.

"What anyone else would've done in that situation doesn't matter," he went on after a moment, voice quieter; calmer. "They can be high and mighty and condescending all they want, but unless they have stood face to face with a God and denied them it's just words and lies. Besides," and there was something in his voice, in his eyes as they slid sideways to peer at her, in the way his lips curled into a mischievous little smile, "if it was Earth coming to me and asking me to have his child, I don't think I would've said no, either."

And then we'd better shut off Mauja's brain because he decided to have wayyy too much fun thinking about that.