a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

Things would never sleep in peace, would they? They would never fade into memory—into dust—and rest in the darkness and shadow of some empty tomb, somewhere, a mausoleum erected for all things lost and forgotten, be they stories, items, or people. Some things simply defied peace, and refused to pass on—much like Mauja, a ghost in this world, a lingering wraith too restless to go to peace. As he stood there, in a gathering where he belonged but still had no place, he wondered what it would be like to uproot himself again—move away from everything he had come to know and love, go somewhere else, start fresh, be someone else .. be who he wanted to be, and not what the world had made him.

But that could never happen—it would be a flight from all he had come to cherish, from all the chances he had been given, from all of those who still deserved his love even when he did not know how to give it. And besides, if he left, how would d'Artagnan and Kahlua ever find him again, if they ever came back to look for him? If he left, it would be to find them, but the world was so fucking vast and he might walk into a time vortex and burn all his chances of ever ending his days side-by-side with that grumpy old codger—

Why the fuck did he still hope? Why couldn't he just let go, let d'Artagnan go to the tides of the world, into that mausoleum of things lost and forgotten? Sign him away to oblivion, live happy, live.. live without him.

It was cold, in the spaces around his heart—a dread emptiness in his veins.

When he had stalled at the body of Aviya, when he had catapulted onto the soft green floor and wept the tears of bitter loss, he had lost d'Artagnan forever. He had lost that one future that had always lurked in the back of his mind—the one in which they mocked each other for the gray hairs riddling their faces, mocked each other for their failing eyesight and waddling gait as arthritis slowly claimed them .. the future of cold nights spent in silence side-by-side, sharing what sparse warmth their aging bodies could still produce.

He had lost the chance to grow old with someone he loved dearly.

And so it was that he wept, softly and quietly, into Naerys' forelock as Torleik, another thing refusing to stay put in his grave, walked through the meeting. The black rabicano moved like a King, and Mauja supposed that he was—the Bloodskald, who blared it out with pride that he was a monarch here, while Mauja had smiled demurely and then never mentioned it again. That interaction, so long ago at a different meeting, had always made Mauja think of sheep, or goats. Torleik sort of looked like a giant goat, and Mauja's scorn for those who trumpeted out their position in such a way had forever reduced his memory of it to that of bleating.

Torleik, the goat, challenging Tembovu to demote him. Mauja almost felt sorry for him. It couldn't be easy, getting something like this, a herd to cherish and protect (for Torleik had always been devoted, goat or no), and then simply .. vanishing like smoke, coming back to find that so much had changed in so little time. Mauja knew what it was like to disappear. He also knew what it was like to come back—like returning from the dead.

Maybe all those times he had left, he had died.

But Tembovu got no chance to handle the cold anger of Torleik before the Moon herself whispered into being—unaccompanied by her usual grandeur of shadows and swirling mist, rather simply phasing into their plane, as if she had been there all along but they had all just been too dumb to notice. And with the same careless disregard for mortals as she always displayed she stripped Torleik of his kingdom. Mauja watched with half a tear-stained eye, face still buried against the nape of Naerys, mind drowning in the scent of passionflowers and trying to crawl up from the darkness a future lost left in you. The Goddess chided Tembovu, then faced Elsa, bearing down her dark mists upon the poor General.

At that point, Mauja closed his eyes. She had once used those swirling mists on him, conjured up every bad memory, every bad dream, every crushed hope and lost chance, every loss and every love; she had smothered him with his own grief, haunted him with his broken life, and threatened his future all at the same time. He had been stronger then—weak, yes, but stronger than he was now. He had withstood it, he had borne it, he had been cold and enduring even though his heart beneath the ice had chased itself with terror. She could've snuffed him out so easily, just like a breath going out and never going back in again. But she hadn't.

Nor had she answered him. Divine business, he supposed, or the whole thing had just been a nightmare.

He felt small, even though he towered above his young friend; and he tried to be small, in every way that he could. The last thing he wanted was her cold and cruel attention, her sharp, silver eyes to find him, and turn her darkness upon him.

But she seemed content to ignore him. He had, after all, stepped down. Released himself from her gifts. Maybe, in her eyes, shunned her? He did not know. He did not want to know.

He just wanted to remain in the warm darkness with Naerys, and be just Mauja: no one, nothing. Insignificant. Unworthy of a deity's wrath.

you left me in the dark, in the shadow of your heart

but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

[ The thread where Neo actually switched tables several times. :o ]

Of course, he could never hide from her. It would've been stupid to think it—stupid to even hope it, wish it, and likely, the intensity of his desire to remain unnoticed screamed louder than a siren in her mind. She could probably hear his thoughts, the whispers of denial, the way he wished for her to not look his way. What kind of predator would she be, if she could not pick out the weakest in a group? What kind of murderer would she be, if she was not merciless enough to act upon it?

But he had hoped for mercy.

And he would get none.

I would speak with you. After all ... this. It was a mind-voice he had rarely heard before, if ever—sickeningly reminiscent of Irma's, but where hers was harsh and simply cold, this one was sweet, honey lacquer hiding the taste of poison. A shiver trailed down his spine, a rattle shook his darkness: the owls were staring at her. She hadn't looked their way.

And yet, she had known he was there. "Oh gods," he groaned into Naerys' poll, her hair smothering most of his voice. Was this her wicked way of playing cat-and-mouse with him? Or did she genuinely want something from him? But what? For his words to climb dangerously close to treachery, so that she could smite him, and force him, too, from his place in this realm? He was tired of being afraid, but he feared her, because she had the keys to the dark chasm of his grief—and he did not trust her not to pull every ounce of pain she could from it. The last thing he wanted to feel again was his heart being torn out.

But aside from that sickly sweet promise, she was content to ignore him, her attention pulled by Torleik and his attempts to simultaneously defend himself and leave a few remarks for them to remember, and the few other voices that chimed in. And Mauja, he wasn't at all sure what was going on; why was he so upset? Why as he blaming them? Why was he trying to crush their futures, for choosing to remain beneath this hellhound of a deity? Mauja had not returned to the Edge out of a love for her, no; he would gladly live away from her wicked influence and sinister schemes. He always returned to the Edge for what it was to him—home. The fog, the evergreens, the white cliffs and their dead-drop into the sea.. that was home to him. He did not share it now with those he had shared it with before. Things changed, but the land still remained his sanctuary.

"Torleik..." he whispered, eyelids blinking to clear his blue eyes of tears, and his head came up slightly to watch the black stallion as he, rather peacefully, raged. He called it a coup, and the all too familiar feeling of something's wrong, what is he talking about, what have I missed bubbled up along with a cold, dread weight in his belly. A coup? Had there been one? And his gaze switched to Tembovu, who watched so stonily, so coldly (—and he feared that, too).

Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps he had been wrong about everything.

And then, Torleik left, followed by the soft sigh of his fallen white queen. He asked for discussion and debate, yet left them to trade their words without him—he asked for discussion and debate, but if he had been missing, how were they supposed to have found him? Unsure of what had happened, of who had dethroned who and why, Mauja closed his eyes again. Tembovu called the meeting to a close, which did nothing for the pit of vipers crawling in his gut. After all, he had not known Tembovu for long—Mauja had seen the shadows in his eyes when he had burned him, but knew not from where they came. He had come out of the ashes of an empire, out of a place in ruins.. but what had ruined it?

You know it isn't easy, he told himself, trying to justify the hardness he had seen in the large stallion's eyes. To lead. To guide. To stand there and make the difficult decisions and bear the weight of your actions and their consequences. It isn't easy.

Mauja's sad eyes slipped open again, trailing through the gathering to the Moon Goddess. Is .. this .. over now? he thought into the silent ether between them.

Mauja

the white queen