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.