i am the vanguard of your destruction

walked when i shoulda run
ran when i shoulda walked

The world was dark—as it ought to be, a particular kind of darkness swept across the cloudy sky, deepening every shadow and staining souls pitch black. Like old, dried blood; the kind of night that made a solid manifestation of each festering wound, of each scar laid bare and open again. The kind of night you ought to spend in good company, keeping family and friends close, loving and remembering and dreaming of a future you hoped to not be robbed of, but you never knew what kind of wolves that lurked around the corner. What kind of.. trouble.. was brewing, like a storm on the horizon; what kind of trouble would come with sick Gods and .. fuck—he couldn't even blame it on them.

They had had a choice. They could've stayed at home, ignored the tug in their bones, ignored the little tether stuck to their souls whispering come, come this way, come come, the fabric of the world is torn open—

Mauja shuffled his hooves on the cliff's blue-lit edge, little rocks clattering about as he stood weaving slightly on the spot. Somewhere, far above those clouds, the stars shone, or at least, he supposed they did. Only a Pegasus would know, really.

Or an owl—but they were sitting along his spine, eyes pale in the darkness and talons stained black with blood.

His blood.

But in the monochromatic light, it seemed just another spot of his, a black star in his white sky; and his mind was so numbed to the special kind of pain they inflicted on him, love bites, and the salty kiss of cold night air on muscle laid bare. Irma's head turned, feathers whispering with the movement. Her perceptions shifted. The world was something new, seen from a different angle; the sounds all different, her keen hearing picking apart the world and painting it in fragments in her mind. The constant roar of the ocean. The dull thumping of water lapping at the blue rock. Mauja, drenched in blue, closed his eyes.

He hadn't come to the Veins in a very, very long time, and he had never been a frequent visitor. The last time .. he had been here with Roskuld, shouting about a flood—the time before that.. he had been looking for Ophelia, and lain crying on the land-bridge as the storm threatened to tear him off the face of the earth. Ayelet, the glass mare, had lain beside him.

Before that, he'd been here with d'Artagnan, and Nyx. With Ophelia. Seen the Moon Goddess come down. Gone here with d'Artagnan to receive knowledge of poison—back then, at the start of everything.

Before everything.

Slow and silent tears seeped from closed eyes; the wind tossed his hair about, and his skull rocked from side to side along with his body. This was not a place of hope, and faith—not for him. It was a place of heartache and heartbreak, every shadow filled up with a time of when he had adored a porcelain queen from both near and afar, and every shadow carried traces of his scent, his sardonic laughter... Swallowing, Mauja opened his eyes, and peered out over the waves.

No. This was not a place for him—not a place of rest and peace. It was a place full of glass memory shards being rubbed into his skin, and with a sigh, he took a single step back from the edge, preparing to melt back into the night.

[ @Tembovu <3 ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

It was a new sound, a deep and regular rhythm—steadfast like the ocean itself, slower than the wild keening of the wind. Familiar, like a second heartbeat, a shadow to his pulse, rocketing through his veins in a way that made him only twitch his ears. Both owls were turning their heads, this way, that way, until his movement was mapped, marked out with precision, and partially it was their lack of alarm that had him rooted at the spot, unable to turn.

He couldn't remember how it had been when he'd found d'Artagnan here—who had been standing at the edge? Who had been sneaking up on the other? He felt like he had been the one to find the Red, but still, their steps had rang here on the rocks and their voices had mingled with the ocean and the Doctor had threatened to push him off the very ledge he had stood teetering on—

And now it was Tembovu who materialized out of the darkness, sand to the blood red cherry bay, ebony instead of glass for horns .. Mauja's eyes closed again, trying in vain to hold back more tears. He was mourning his friend as much as his daughter.

d'Artagnan wasn't even dead.

But he had left. He had left Mauja. And while he understood—fuck, how he understood, hadn't he walked out on his own life as well?—sometimes.. sometimes it was just a sledgehammer to the face, a soul-crushing kind of realization, so deep it made his heart vibrate: d'Artagnan had left him.

d'Artagnan had fucking left him.

Mauja had disappeared many times, but he had always come back—had always intended to come back, to everyone, to .. him.

But they both knew d'Artagnan wasn't coming back from this. He was gone, and Mauja didn't know whether he should've left with him or not. Part of him wanted to, because .. what was he, without the Red Doctor? And part of him just felt betrayed, let down, worthless. Because why else would he have left?

Besides, the world was vast. Who knew where he was now?
(And don't tell me love will prevail—)

And then, Tembovu was there, warmth radiating from his skin just inches away, and Diego's wings opened, the softest brush of feathers along Tembovu's sandy hip. “My friend, I am sorry…”

"For what?" he managed to get out, voice like gravel and a knife in his throat; what did Tembovu have to be sorry for? It wasn't his fault—none of it was his fault. He breathed in deep. "This isn't the—" The last thing he needed was to think of what it had been like almost losing Irma, but there he was, thinking about that exact thing. "—f-first... first time you're here, cleaning up the mess the Gods left of me." His eyes opened for a moment, flickering blue, darkened by the night. "Or apologizing when the world is a dumb, silent place with no voice." And they closed again, because it was easier that way, even though the blue kept seeping in through the edges.

"It's not your fault," he managed after a moment, spitting it out through clenched teeth and a sob; the burning in the back of his throat was worse, defying words, so he lowered his head and carefully, cautiously, sought comfort in the heat of a sand-colored shoulder against his cheek.

Bliss was such a fragile thing.

[ @Tembovu ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

Who are we? (Just souls searching the darkness for light—)

What are we? (Lost, so impossibly lost, because that light is nowhere to be found—)

It was dark behind his closed eyelids, darker than the world outside; no stars were reflected in the inky seas, no moonlight breaking through the thick cover of clouds. But behind his eyelids he was alone with his thoughts, with his darkness—his shadows. No matter which way he turned it spread from horizon to horizon, and the whipping wind tore at his hair and it lashed against his eyes and forced them shut so that no matter where he went he could not look for a way out—

Frosted hooves shuffled in the relative stillness of the night, feeling once for the edge. It wouldn't surprise him if he grew blinded enough by his grief to actually stumble off of it one day. It would be a bittersweet death.

“It may not be the first,” Tembovu was saying, his voice gentle as his gargantuan frame pressed lightly into Mauja's touch; idly he wondered if all capable of speaking so tenderly had been broken once. How else would they have learned the need for gentleness? Tembovu had come from a land in ruins—that was all he knew, and all he needed to know to know that there lay a dark path behind him. Salvation and retribution came in many different forms.

“But remember that it will not be the last.”

Mauja didn't want there to be another time.

He didn't want to have to stand here at all, head bowed and heart broken, taking comfort in a man as pale as the sands d'Artagnan had loathed—in some ways, he even wanted to be angry with Tembovu for daring to exist, for daring to comfort him when another man had ripped his heart out and walked away—

As if pushing him away would make anything easier. As if telling him the whole fucked-up story of how he had cared so deeply for someone and then failed to spend half his lifetime with him would fix anything, other than let him be alone with his scalding tears; they were pouring out of his eyes again, breath hitching in his throat, because it was fucking beautiful. Grief had tumbled him down, shattered his walls and his defenses, and in his defeat he was too weak to be the coward and turn Tembovu away.

He was too tired to resist, too tired to know anything but to be struck by his words, by the gesture—by the warmth standing solid next to him, radiant like a fucking sunrise, promising to be there the next time the world fell apart around him.

Had anyone ever dared to do it before? Had anyone ever had the courage to not tiptoe around it with curses and sarcasm?

“Just because it is not my fault does not mean I do not feel sorrow for your loss, Mauja. The death of a child is…” And somewhere between there and the end of Tembovu's words, Mauja was laughing, bitterly, brokenly, eyes squeezed shut against the guilt and the pain—a burden not even the warm air against his forelock could lift. Because here he stood, mourning someone who wasn't even dead while his child lay cold in the ground.

"It's just so fucked up," he whispered, babbled, through the stream of uncontrolled emotion—still half-sobbing, half-laughing, the sound too bitter and dark. "Snö's dead and—" He gulped in air, staggering drunkenly to the side, away from Tembovu, teetering dangerously close to the edge again; wild-eyed, he watched his friend, unable to stop it, yet wishing he could, because.. because what if it was so fucked up that Tembovu would actually walk away? Mauja couldn't tell anymore. "And—that's it! SHE'S JUST DEAD!" He was shaking his head now, white hair whipping everywhere, rocks clattering down the side to their watery grave far below; he was trembling, trying to back away from the drop into the sea, but his legs wouldn't obey so all he ended up doing was half-sitting and shaking. "She's just dead, she's dead, she won't come back, she didn't choose to go, she died! But he—" His hind legs gave out all the way and he tumbled down on hocks and ass, barely noticing what happened as his gaze fixed on nothing somewhere halfway between his nose and the horizon. "He left, and in the middle of this fucked up story of children dying it's just—it's just this thing—this fucking thing burning in my head like .. why?" His eyes were burning again but there were no tears to put the fire out, and his head turned, and he stared up at Tembovu from the bottom of his ruin—whispering, so hesitantly, so shakily. "Why did he leave me?"

[ He probably can reach him like that; horses can do this after all ^^ ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

[ Three years later . . . ]

The abyss just beyond the edge was inviting—it appealed to something dull within him, something that threw itself about restlessly, looking for life. Something that was willing to seize the reckless flight, jump into a dark storm and never rise again just for a brief moment of flying.

He did not want to jump to die; he wanted to jump to feel alive.

But the rationality that lay like thick, cold ice at his core prevailed—at it always did, checking impulses, filtering emotions, reducing him to a creature unable of action because he had no right. It destroyed him as much as it protected him: it devoured every aspect of his soul until there was nothing left but that eternal, logical winter. Even in this moment of grief, when his mind tried to shred itself, it still ruled him.

He had something akin to one, last look at the darkness of the world beyond, one, last look at that chance of feeling anything before gravity destroyed him, before what he saw grew sandy and pale. Tembovu stood between him and the death that was not death but a life-hunt, albeit a fatal one at that; for a moment, Mauja felt the anger creeping back. If he wanted to destroy himself—who was Tembovu to stop him? If he wanted to follow up on the impulse twitching along his hind legs and making his tail sweep erratically over the dusty ground—why should Tembovu keep him safe?

Because you ought to know better, Irma whispered in his mind, cold and deadly. He shivered, as he always did, whenever he heard the frigid whisper of her word-voice. It was just like white feathers brushing over frost, sharp talons glittering in the sterling moonlight. But you don't—but he does.

Because friendship was looking out for one another, when you couldn't do it yourself. Because—because maybe he saw some kind of worth in the broken pile of horse sitting in front of him, staring up at him into his eyes from the bottom of his ruin.

The way up, to that place where Tembovu stood, was endless, and dark. It seemed oddly straight, but so far away, and Mauja despaired of ever getting back up there.

“Who left you, my friend?”

And he nearly didn't hear, because he was floating away in a river of anguish, carried by black waters that were strangely serene yet refusing to yield him—it was only after a moment that the words registered. Who left you, Mauja?

Who did you leave, yourself?

"d'Artagnan," he whispered, gaze falling. d'Artagnan, whom he had shared so much with, and yet not enough; d'Artagnan, who had always been there, even if the years had separated them. d'Artagnan, the mad plague doctor, admitted murderer and generally crazy. Fuck, they had even killed someone together—the Plague had torn her down with Mauja's sanction, but without his participation, ending her with the blissful release of sleep and turning her to Hellhound dinner. And despite of how much Mauja had changed since, d'Artagnan had not abandoned him—not then, when he spoke of not being able to hate anymore, of living .. peacefully ... "He was a broken man after Kou died. Then... when Aviya died... He just couldn't take it any more..." Exhaustion robbed the pain of its edge, and with a sigh of defeat Mauja twisted sideways, hauling himself up again. The tears had begun falling again, but they were quieter, soft and sad in the blue darkness. "He just—he just left. Said he wouldn't return to the mountains.. and walked away."

The words were upon his tongue, but he tried to swallow them; tried to, and choked on them, so they burst out anyway, messed up by the burning ache in the back of his throat and the hitch in his breathing. "From me. He—he just left me in this hellhole, to go on alone." Still staggering he made it further away from the edge, pale shoulder seeking support on the Time God's split shrine. A soft, black nose rested against the cool and lifeless stone, leaving a wet stain.

"It felt like he tore my heart out," he whispered to the emptiness of the night.

i am the vanguard of your destruction

He was a feral, unbound force—a broken creature made out of sharp edges, knives and shattered glass, with haunted, burning eyes. Which way he ever turned, he knocked something over, cut someone, something, like a slow-spinning storm of swords. It was a long, long time since he had been the cold god seeing everything, everyone, and gracing them with his warm smile and thoughtful words. Now.. now, he just hurt everyone with his unchecked, rampant emotions—his thoughtless, selfish grief. It was probably for the better that Tembovu had never managed to say what he thought, what he felt, or who knows what that final shard of glass might've done when pushed into his heart?

Mauja was just a ghost in the darkness, a white wraith leaning against a deity's shrine; the wind buffeted him, tore at his long mane and long tail, at his heart, but it couldn't reach it. Tembovu stood in the way, darkness around his eyes, and had Mauja turned, what would he have seen? Would he have seen anything at all?

The blur of his tears left the world oddly anonymous, every shape indistinct, unimportant. It was only the smell of it, the feel of it, the sound of their breathing mingling with the low roar of the ocean, and the wail of the wind as it raced along the isthmus. “He did,” Tembovu was saying, tripping his heart up again. He wanted to stumble along with it, fall onto his white knees, bury his head against the base of the shrine and cry—

Because it was easier to fall, than to face the future.

To face some kind of eternity (—alone), knowing how you had failed to hold on to something beautiful. Something important. And now, it was too late, and that hurt just as fucking much. Guilt, shame, regret—it burned in his mind, in his soul, his heart, and the words tumbling out of the giant's mouth were gentle blows bruising his aching skin. They were oddly tender yet burned where they fell, driving him deeper into his grief and guilt while trying to drag him out of it at the same time.

He felt trapped, between the monster he had created, and the angel he tried to be. Of course it was logical. Of course it made sense. He wasn't so dumb that he couldn't see that.

It was just, he had no idea how to stop it. How to stop pulling back. How to stop gorging on his grief and living in the past. How to stop driving others away, the ones he could love now, just because he had lost those he could've loved. “And, while solitude may feel safer or less vulnerable, in the end it will leave you more empty and desolate than you feel now.” And at the same time, some part of him wanted to scream—to tell everyone to shut the fuck up and stop trying to tell him how to mourn. It was the part of him that had lain dormant for so long, buried deep, that now he had no idea what to do with it—with all these things he felt.

"I know," he was sobbing uselessly into Spark's shrine, and something told him he'd been saying those two words over and over for a little while. He just couldn't recall for how long, or why, or if he'd said anything else or just .. said them like it could somehow make things right, make him less stupid, less cruel. "It's just—I don't know," but if the quiet fear edging into his voice had any effect he didn't know. Tembovu was bearing down on him, but Mauja barely noticed, "—I never mean to—"

His words were cut short by the sudden warmth of having the giant so close again, thick neck slung over Mauja's back, holding him close to the broad chest in which a strong, scarred heart beat so valiantly. Mauja was sure that he had lost, too—but what? Was there a gaping void in his soul, a blackness sucking at his thoughts and at his dreams? And how did he go on, living with it?

The tears still fell, slow and serene, burning his eyes. He didn't know what this was—what it meant—he just knew the steadfast pounding of Tembovu's pulse was soothing, pushing something into his mind. Slowly, he melted under the touch, under the pressure, neck shifting to press the flat of his cheek into whatever part of Tembovu was nearest.

"It's just, I'm afraid," he whispered, there in the darkness.

[ Mau: I CAN'T LIFE. /flails ]

i am the vanguard of your destruction

Waking up every time alone—

(Not like you ever woke up beside anyone, anyway.)

It was more the concept of being alone (—you're never alone), the fact that a future was lost to him: the echoing, resounding finality of loss. Facing the world when your heart was a hurt beast beating in a cage of ice, and when you all too keenly remembered the pain that bound it, was what alone promised to be. In the howling darkness of his soul, in its crags and bitter, razor-sharp ice winds, it was the pain, and fear, of loss which drove him into hiding so deep that even he forgot where he was.

But here, now, beside this bastion of strength and light, the darkness was less daunting, the fangs less sharp, and the future maybe just a little better—brighter. Because even if he fell again, even if everyone fell again, there would be Tembovu, nestled in his heart long before the world had come to an end.

But what if Tembovu was the one who fell?

Who would pick him up, dust him off, set him back on his feet with a hug and let him know that life went on? If Tembovu was his courage, if Tembovu was his assurance that he could go on, find the altered future, how.. the logical reassurance embedded in his memory would never be enough; what he needed was this, the steady touch, pressing his cheek into a warm shoulder and listening to the rhythmic, low roar of a pulse.

But it was pain he feared—it had always been pain he feared, loathed, avoided. It was what had driven him to straining for physical perfection, it was what drove him deep into the ice and the dark, and what kept him down with heavy weights to prevent him from ever risking it again. It was the voice whispering in the back of his head, that loving and caring was just opening yourself up for it, so he shouldn't do it.

Yet Tembovu told him, in all ways that he could, silent and verbal, that life without compassion and friendship was not life, and Mauja knew that—but pain is pain and fear is fear, and like a burnt beast he felt himself fighting the chains pulling him closer to the forge.

“I, too, have lost, Mauja. I have buried the burned bodies of my love—my life— and my son— my future,” a quiet confession there in the blue-lit, stormy darkness, words only for them, their ears and their hearts, as the cruel wind snatched them up and shred them. Fire is a life-killer he thought dully, feeling the sparrows spark within his chest; and a single, tiny spark flicked in the air for just half a second before fading. There just wasn't enough in him to sustain anything, and besides, who the hell needed fire? The burned bodies . . . And in his mind, he saw the blue eyes of Tembovu grow dark, his face closed off, lips taut, body unyielding as Mauja danced around him. No wonder being burned had brought such an agonized darkness out in him.

So perhaps loss was just like any other wound: scabbing over, but never quite scarring, just waiting to ripped open and bleed anew.

"The fear of losing again," he added quietly, his voice thick through the calmed tears. His spirit had quieted with the touch, the presence, the soothing motion of Tembovu's plush muzzle stroking along his snowy spine—and the moment the dark nose rose he missed it, and blinked a few times. The world had come into better focus, the storm clouds beyond his friend's sandy head no longer just a dark blur but individuals. Still, he did not have eyes for them, watching instead (his King's?) quiet face. "Reasons," he repeated dully, something in him threatening to break again at the sound of his own name—at the sound of the pain he caused with his own. Uncertainly, he shifted his weight, once. He suspected that the right answer to the question was not to hide his own sorrow, but the last thing he wanted was to drag Tembovu down with him.

"I wonder why I came here," he said, glancing at the desolate shrines. His voice was still thick, but gentle and soft, quiet. "But—perhaps it was not so foolish after all... I don't know, fumbling at straws, a faith long dead, yet here we are. Either you are a god, or they sent you, or it is just coincidence anyway." A hesitant smile ghosted across his face, fleeing almost as quick as it had come; his head ached and his heart ached and his soul ached, a surreal throb in his whole body. There were questions, and thoughts, and answers, but all for another time—he was not sure he could hear Tembovu's tale now and make anything useful of it.

He wasn't sure he could make anything useful out of anything, so he glanced at the shrines again, and at the ocean, and then back to Tembovu. They ought to call him "the Miracle-Worker" or something. "We should go home," he ventured tentatively, as if unsure he could have any ideas, much less any good ideas, and at the same time craving the feeling of being protected so badly—to be taken by his small, trembling hand and led home by this safe, safe man.