i am the vanguard of your destruction

Conviction, and crusades, are like that—brief bonfires that flare in the darkness of the night, burning hot and bright, until they've consumed everything.. and leave you as tired and empty as before, nothing but ashes and faintly glowing embers left on the ground.

And he felt like he had burned up in the furnace of his own emotions, rocketed skywards for a moment, borne by revelation until the air grew too thin and he fell back down again. He hadn't meant for that to happen—he hadn't meant to think about it, to.. admit something to himself. It was the kind of honesty that, once you had consciously allowed yourself to acknowledge it, just wouldn't go away. Rather, by acknowledging it, it grabbed him by the neck and began tossing him about, setting some kind of fire in his veins and burning up his carefully hoarded energy reserves.

"Shit," he spat into the foggy night, something hoarse in his voice. He hadn't meant for it to end up this way, and it.. he wasn't angry with himself, more like, disappointed. Hadn't he known that he would need to control it? To, carefully, hold on to it? Because he knew how it went, fire-bright and hot? He had come so far.. he had come so far out of his pitch-dark hole, carefully climbed the mountain towards the open sky, careful to stop and rest, and then—wham. There he was, lying somewhere on those treacherous slopes, winded and tired and staring at the stars and thinking that, really, it would be nice to just.. topple over the side.. fall back down into the cushioning, soul-sucking darkness.

All because he had been a fool and, somewhere along the road, allowed himself to think a certain thought, and then he had burned up and here he was, straying through the forest near the Edge because he didn't dare go in again. He didn't dare face her, knowing what he knew about himself. Because another reason he hadn't wanted to admit it to himself was that—he was content with what he had, with what they had. He didn't want anything to change.

But by being aware, something had changed, for better or for worse, and he knew nothing and it could.. it could drive them apart.

He felt older than his years, worn, stretched thin, as if someone had pulled him taut and then he'd snapped and now it was all loose ends and fragments, nothing coherent enough to form a whole.

Mauja stopped. Drew a deep breath, fog drawn into his lungs, the water droplets disappearing in the heat of his body—breathed out a cloud of white, for once shaped by something else and not the chill of his magic. Did it have to matter? Did it.. did it matter, at all? Like.. like.. what did he even want? That he already didn't have? Some foolish words, when the truth was spelled out in silent language already?

Or just confirmation—a promise to dodge the pain? To know the he wasn't just fooling himself?

He was moving again, a restless ghost in the fog, whispering "hálfviti," under his breath, and then—

"Engill," the fluid movement slowing, ceasing, until he stood grounded in the mist, just as ethereal as she but less aware of it.

For there, in the thick drapes of the fog, stood a creature with a halo of light above her delicate head.

Angel.

[ you looked lonely <3 @[Maren] ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

Stood was, he realized after a moment, a rather incorrect way of describing the situation. The delicate mare laid among the roots of an oak, cradled and sheltered (or perhaps lain up for sacrifice), but not asleep, no. The light of her halo, the thing which had drawn him, shifted only marginally as she peered at him, and whatever budding guilt his mind might've begun to develop was swept away by the gentle breeze. He had ruined nothing with his presence—perhaps tarnished some scenic perfection, cast a shadow through the fog, a shadow over a heart, but..

Wasn't all of life like that? Irrevocably altering everything you came upon—for better or for worse? And there was no way to know, no way to tell how it would fall out. The most careful of preparations could lead to the most disastrous results, and the most impulsive things could lead to the most wondrous ones.

He wonders if he'll ever get to savor that.

It was all theory, anyway, that anything could happen at any time, for any reason, with or without precursors; a giant star could fall from the sky any moment and incinerate them all.

Or he'd say some key words to a key character figuring upon the stage of his mind, and either his world would explode or.. explode, anyway, for different reasons. It was just one of those things, and the reason he was frustrated with himself—because the fragile balance had been upset, and no matter what he did now, something had to actively change. He couldn't just sink back beneath the surface and pretend to forget what he couldn't.

The fog was thickening around him. One black-rimmed ear flicked in the murky night, blue eyes sweeping an arc over the tree-lined horizon; was he being greeted, embraced by it, or hidden, told to get lost? Perhaps the angel he had found, her halo a silver-shimmer in the night, did not want company. Perhaps she desired to be alone, lying upon her cold bed of mortal soil, and contemplating whatever sin (bah) she had committed in order to get thrown out of heaven by the select, righteous few—bah, again.

Mauja was as much a fallen angel as anyone, and barely religious at all; what he knew of faiths full of angels and light and heavenly realms all reeked of hypocrisy, and something that bordered on complacent populations. The promise of "heaven" for a good life was just a thin disguise, a gold casing for the sharp-tongued whip.

Besides, there were no angels here.

Just Mauja and a mare, the fog pulling back, her voice whispering what? and he looked at her kind of blankly, wondering what she was wondering about. What he had said? (Well, what had he said?) Who he was? What he was doing here? Why he was just standing there, some other specter in the fog, and looking at her? (Because it was kinda creepy, now that he thought about it.)

Oh, and look—she had spread her wings for him all of her own accord. It curved his lips into the slightest of smiles, though for a moment it was tinged with something bitter, and dark.

What sort of idiot goes around asking little girls to spread their wings? Gods. The Mauja kind of idiot. Ever since that day he'd been suspended in some weird state of terrorizing himself with bad thoughts and it seemed like it went on even now. The smile faded into a brief grimace, visible for barely more than a heartbeat before it disappeared into the snow.

But barely did he have time to shed his own problems and intrusive thoughts that another presence broke the stillness (when had she come so close, without him noticing?). Steel-blue eyes snapped from the intriguing mare to the newcomer—spotted, just like he, just like Myrrine (can I stop thinking about her?), and what she said as she so brazenly stood next to him had him torn between the desire to play along, and the desire to smack her. That fire didn't need more fuel.

"If you were, there probably would've been some kind of noises to discourage you," he muttered under his breath instead, tail fanning out once in the night to lash against his hocks.

The serenity was ruined—that odd feeling of walking in a dream, the halo-mare less celestial, more real—and replaced with something that made him feel out of place, and uncomfortable.

The world was a cruel place.

[ @[Maren], @[Rei], Secret Garden - Nocturne ]

"I spoke in jest," in part I feel deflated by their reactions. I feel like the court jester tossed unprepared into the presence of kings and queens. I wince at the thought of saying more yet shy away from the thought of saying nothing more. I look from one face to the other with not a smile in sight; it is a stark realization that chases my own away.

This was not how I had imagined our meeting to play out. Looking back from where I came from I wonder if it would be more enjoyable to simply turn around and call this quits. But suddenly the night around us is heavy and I don't want to be out in it alone. The lightning bugs that had seemed so playful earlier now only seem to taunt me. Their little legs tug on my hair and their flashes of light seem like gaudy interruption of the night.

I pout slightly at the situation I have found myself to be in. There will be no playing matchmaker with this pair as I so love to do. I am not sure that I could even manage to slip a laugh from either's lips. Although they fail to speak Maren and the stallion seem to have stolen away my own words. My mottled lips are as tight as theirs now, and I do not like it.

"Is.." I prepare to ask my question like a cautious pup, "Is everything okay?" The hesitancy in my voice annoys me but the pair that had looked to be great friends to be are now intimidating. Even my posture as I ask my question is hesitant. My head is lowered slightly with eyes looking from those I question back to the ground and my wings are clasped so tightly against my body that I can feel my wing muscles beginning to ache. But I have to ask them; I cannot leave this spot until I am sure that everything is okay. After all, why else would they be so.. closed off towards a joke or two? Standing a little taller I try to figure out the pair that I find myself wishing that I wouldn't have stumbled upon.

@[Maren] @[Mauja]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

The air seemed heavier, weighing in around them, around him, pressing in from every direction. It was colder and thicker in his lungs, closing in around heart and mind, pregnant with the angel's irritation and the intruder's hurt—standing next to her he could practically feel the doors closing around her thoughts, and the small, twinkling flame of her mischief going out in the face of these cold beings she had found. He shifted, a creature carved from ice and marble, one pale blue eye settling on her spotted body, confidence caving in beneath ribs and flesh. Had he helped do this? She had come with, he guessed, good intentions, maybe a little lonely on this foggy night, stumbling along blindly like the rest of them, groping for the fireflies in the dark because they were the only points of light.

And she'd found an ice revenant and a sleeping angel, none of them mortal enough for her humor—but was it her fault that she had found a stranger and accidentally punched him straight in his weak spot? Was it her fault that her words had been about the only thing Mauja actually feared about himself? The one thing that whenever it happened, just happened, even against his better judgment (because let's be fair, it's pretty much always been)?

Was it her fault?

No.

She didn't know him; couldn't have known, still didn't but maybe she had a hunch, pulling back into herself as if they'd bitten her face. He felt a flash of guilt needling its way through his heart, and his head tilted, slow and steady, until both of his eyes had locked onto her through a curtain-veil of silken white hairs. She had come in, full of confidence and life, and with a single, heavy sentence he had helped to reduce her to this, black-and-white embers gone out long ago. If he breathed on them, could the fire spark back into life?

Or did they have to wait for the sun with all its heat to warm her heart again?

Why the fuck do I even care?

(Because you're Mauja, the Light of Dawn, the faux-angel whose only wings are of pure light; the shadow across the face of the sun.)

"Is everything okay?" she finally asked of them, her shy voice more in tune with the night now, a white cloud breathed into the serenity, but it's ruined for him anyway, the dream shattered in a shower of glass fragments, and the mare lying among the roots of an oak is no angel. She smelled of life, of dust and dirt and the sea's salt, of blood and flesh and feathers. Mauja's crowned head strained against the weight of the night sky, as if he could somehow escape up into it, through the fog and leaves and into the stars, abandoning this meeting and how it had gone all wrong from the get-go. Night-time rambles never ended up the way they ought, tripping over roots and hearts and scraping knees and souls. Slowly, because what use were more words now?, did he shake his large head, white hair waving with the solemn motion. No. Everything was not okay. He was tired and terrified and there was a definite vein of irritation threading through the air—and with a single sentence he had helped push the spotted mare into the dirt.

I'm sorry.

But he wasn't strong enough to spit the words out.

[ @[Maren] @[Rei] ]