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

[ I don't mind people coming to the sidelines etc, but I'd prefer to keep the mist-barrier so they will not be disturbed <3 I'm treating Mauja as not entirely healed (more like 75%-85% healed), due to the fact that his burns were very severe. ]

(There's scars in his mind—)

—they are lines of fire, knife-fine slits in the dark fabric of his thoughts, leaking light and weeping flame.

Each time he closed his eyes he felt haunted, as if there was something there, just around the corner; something with a hot, harsh breath, ready to close its sharp-fanged mouth around his bones and set his marrow aflame. His thoughts, which had always spun in cold darkness and shades of blue, were infected with an insidious orange glow, and the same beast with a rotten breath of near-fire made a hot and acrid wind blow. In his dreams, the world burned—trees, fields, animals, sometimes even the air itself... In his dreams, he burned, and sleep, that which had always been his sanctuary, had become a torment. Mauja was not used to having nightmares.

His ice had been shattered, and there was no peace to be found; awake, he drifted, aching and dispirited, through the mist-bound realm, and when asleep, he tossed and turned to the tune of the flames. Gray sweat darkened his flanks, and a certain kind of darkness clung to the depths of his pale eyes—a burden of some kind, one spelled out in the mess of his left side, but one he pulled close, close to his heart.

(So one wonders how heavy that heart is, if the eyes are so haunted.)

No matter what he did, he hurt—a bone-deep, slowly pulsating ache, eating away at his patience, at his mind, at his dreams, at his hopes, at his very fucking desire to live. He fell asleep in pain; he woke in pain. The tender skin, black and bared, glared at the world from his left flank, such a stark contrast to the white coat he normally bore—but that had been charred away, and what few blisters remained failed to convey just how damaged he had been (—when they had found him, those healers, when they had found out what untempered, raw emotion could do to those who were not cautious enough).

And in spite of how he suffered, in spite of how he wished to stop eating, stop sleeping, stop breathing he could not find it in his heart to blame Tembovu. After all—he had once done exactly the same thing. The only difference was that Mauja had lived, while Torasin had died.

He had been dozing, for dozing was about the only worthwhile way to spend his days while he recovered. Eating was a painful necessity requiring movement, requiring stretching of that fragile, dry skin, and as a result—combined, of course, with the onset of winter and the fact that he froze a lot more with a large portion of his hair melted off—Mauja looked considerably thinner than usual.

"Mauja.."

The starlight whispered in his ears, the night wind touched his cold body with oddly tender hands, and in the dark his pale eyes cracked slowly open. The absence of snow left the world darker than it should've been, but he had to admit it was nice to not have to browse for something edible through a layer of snow. Still, he missed it—it would've been nice with something familiar.

At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him. Vaguely, he thought he had heard his own name, but the silence of the night-forest was deep and profound, like things tended to be in winter sleep. Nothing stirred; there were no sounds of hoof-beats, of wings or of breathing, voices, anything. It was just him and the silence, and the owls sleeping in a nearby tree, calm and content, and he envied them their peace. Black-rimmed ears flickered for a few moments, but there was nothing more—just silence, heavy with things he wished to forget.

"Mauja..." This time, there was no mistaking it: it was a voice, light and ethereal, calling for him, slipping through his ears into his mind, running with his blood through his muscles, seeping through every part of him and urging him until he moved. The deep, throbbing ache sprung into life as he moved from his spot, frozen hooves falling among fragile flowers of ice. They made a crisp, light sound beneath his weight, and with the otherworldly voice spinning in his memory—Mauja, Mauja, Mauja...—he followed the trail of blossoms, trying not to think much at all.

Because, even though he told himself it did not have to be that way, who could it be who called him with such power, if not the Moon? She had warned him, after all, but time had passed and he had thought she had forgotten—or, more likely, simply decided that he was far too pathetic for her and lost interest.

The last thing he wanted to feel, after burning again, was her dark powers circling around his mind and dragging every fear and every doubt up to the surface.

But pain dulled his fear, and the barrier of fog pulled back to admit the Ice King; tired, worn, half-healed. His once-long mane hung in uneven clumps, and his dark lips curved into a small, bitter smile. Surely, now that she saw who she had called forth, she would change her mind about whatever it was she wished to speak of.

"Moon," he greeted her quietly, his voice a little rough with disuse. Despite their many clashes, and despite his wariness of her, he had to admit that she looked lovely tonight—it was something about the way she held herself, the way she seemed relaxed in the silver wash of moonlight. For a moment, he almost wondered if she was pregnant, but as far as he knew Mesec hadn't died, so .. probably not ... Wary and aching, Mauja came to a halt, watching her in silence, waiting for what she would do—probably make some scathing remark about his inability to keep himself out of trouble.

Mauja

the white queen

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

"Well that won't do.."

No, he agreed, fighting his urge to bristle, to pull his head up and let his ears flick back (but he didn't, because he wasn't sure she had said it, or if he was just imagining things, hearing her voice like a commentary in his mind)—what was it about her, that always set him so on the defensive? He had long ago given up looking good in her eyes, knowing it to be a worthless, futile task when she had chosen his right hand, d'Artagnan, over himself. He had always ever been a pawn, a handsome knight in shining armor, but his heart was cold and loveless, undesirable, locked away in its metal cage behind rusty, bloodied bars. And then, well, it was just the way he never could amount to anything, or please anyone, or stay true to himself; Spark had spirited him away and then spat on him, and over the years, the Lady Moon had embedded her little barbs in his skin and injected him with her poison.

Why didn't I help you against the Qian? Why did I kill your friend? Why did I dare save your world? Mind your manners—

Was it so strange that he had given up? Given in? She was a fucking God—how could he ever expect to understand her machinations, and divine what she wanted from him? She called, he answered, and of course, she found something to fault him for.

But he was used to that, too. He was used to never living up to expectations. In his youth, he had built this image of Mauja—a Titan made of ice.

And then, he had never lived up to it. He came back from his jaunt in time, broken and crying. Prometheus chewed him out for .. being real—having emotions, doubts, fucking nightmares about that she-witch who refused to stay dead. He killed by accident. His friends and family died around him, and he couldn't save them. They left and he couldn't stop them. He went to comfort Tembovu, to take the sharp edge off his isolating grief and rage, but he fucked up and got thrown to hell and back.

So was it strange that he saw her as just another reminder of how he had never lived up to the promise he had once shown? Was it strange that her greeting, despite the sympathy in her eyes and the softness of her voice, made him turn his head aside, ears flickering back in a gesture of grief. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? What could he have done, to please her with his arrival? He felt like a child in her presence, lost and scolded but unsure of why—like someone had forgotten to tell him a fundamental rule of existing and he kept on breaking it.

He supposed the correct way to mind his manners would be to apologize for his ragged appearance (apologize for her summoning him at a bad time—) but he never got that.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a glow.

Starlight swam over his injured skin, bright and pale, like snow almost; it touched him lightly, and his skin tingled with the ethereal warmth. What..? Tired muscles itched with healing, and beneath the blanket of brilliant light the black of his skin was covered by white fur like a gentle snowfall. She was—she was healing him. She was putting the finishing touches on what the healers in the Deep Forest had started, speeding his body along to recovery and allowing his smooth, silken coat to grow out.

Was I that ugly..? he wondered to himself, a faint thread of humor weaving through it. Not that it really mattered—what mattered was the pain, and he waited, one second, two seconds, and on the third second it tapered off like a question mark, as if his nerves wondered why there suddenly was no more pain. He held his breath for a moment as the stars pulled back their glow and she said, "Better."

Yes, he supposed it was better—pain is an awfully exhausting thing to feel, robbing your body of its vigor and your mind of its keenness.

And keenness was one thing you needed when dealing with gods.

Not that he felt particularly keen anyway.. just nodding mutely in agreement. It was better, but he had not asked for it, so he did not say thank you—he doubted she had wanted to bait him into feeling like he owed her something, because whatever she wanted, she would get. It was that simple. She was a God, he was a mortal. He could drag his feet all he wanted, pout and bark and whimper and growl, but one way or another she would be the one to win. Gods could die, but it had taken all of Helovia united to bring the ones from the Rift down—in a battle between Mauja and the Moon, it was all too easy to know who would live and who would die.

"I didn't forget about you Mauja." Well—was that good or bad? He didn't know, so he simply listened on in attentive silence, standing in a blooming puddle of flowers. They were like stars that had fallen from the skies...

.. and horribly distracting for his tired mind. She asked him what it felt like, pausing for a breath, then asking if it felt like anything had changed. Slowly, his pale gaze flicked to hers. Did she really want an answer? She was looking at him as if she expected one, and she had sounded sincere enough, but.. it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if she cut him off after one word and laughed at him for being naive enough to think she would care.

And besides, what was she even asking? Change? What would have changed? The only thing that was different was that while he no longer felt like he was drowning in his duties and ambitions, he instead felt listless and apathetic, useless. She was a God for fuck's sake—would she care about something so trivial as the existential woes of one of her subjects? Somehow, he doubted it. Not her—not the Moon. Earth, maybe. But she? So cold, so distant, so unattainable and callous and sly...

So, so lovely in the moonlight, so lovely with the softness of her eyes tonight.

He frowned unhappily, and let his gaze fall. "Forgive me," he replied quietly, "But I do not understand what it is that you ask me."

And I don't want to bore you with the inconsequential chatter of mortals.

Mauja

the white queen

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

"Forget it."

And it hurt—a pain both savage and refined, like a sharp knife's blade twisting just a little to ruin the perfect cut. Still, he swallowed both the sigh and the sorrow, locking it away with all the other dirty little moments in which he had disappointed the world.

It wasn't even that she sounded angry or something, because she didn't; her voice was soft and smooth, in perfect harmony with her mellow appearance. The biting, scathing cold-hearted Moon was shining with her absence tonight, replaced with something sincere, something .. something that had, for the briefest of moments, hovered on the border of mortality, humanity. A door, usually under heavy lock and key, had been inched open, but as always, he had not noticed until he heard the soft, unmistakable sound of it easing shut again. She had been offering him something, something beautiful and rare, a glimpse into her own mind, but too muddled, too afraid and too fucking wary, the opportunity had slipped him by and he was old enough to know he couldn't throw himself after it and try to get it back.

So he was left with a deep, lingering sense of disappointment in himself, a keen pain reminding him of every other similar occurrence in his past. His curiosity had flared, and its sudden death left him feeling nauseated. Forget it, she had said—but how could he ever? Mauja was not one who forgot.

As subtly as she closed the book on her private self he fell deeper into his grief; the soft blue of his eyes grew even softer, his head drooped a notch and he averted his gaze, ears flicked back.

I'm sorry for being an eternal failure and disappointment. The words played upon his tongue, bitter and stinging; it wasn't pride that held them back, merely the knowledge that they were as pathetic as he, and he doubted she would take kindly to his self-loathing. That wasn't, after all, why she was here.

(Why is she here?)

"You have endured much."

Endured. It took effort to swallow the bitter laughter. That she chose to use the word endure... He had not accomplished, he had not overcome, he had not done anything: he had simply endured. He had clung to his wretched life with fervor and fear, refusing to follow his long line of comrades and enemies into the oblivion in which they sought refuge one by one. He survived, but he did not live. He had endured much, and for this, he would be rewarded.

"It is not an apology or an excuse, merely an acknowledgement of those you have lost. What you have sacrificed. What has been asked of you."

Those he had lost. What he had sacrificed. (What had he sacrificed? Pieces of his heart, with each death? His position as King, when the Qian had come? Sacrifice was a noble word—Mauja was not noble. He was a weakling and a coward.) What had been asked of him.

If they had asked, they had asked in silence; he had never borne the weight of their gruesome, harrowing tasks. Without knowing why or how he had just kept on existing in Helovia, drifting this way and that, breaking and ruining and destroying—

You are pitiful, Irma whispered in his mind, the dry amusement tinged with sorrow—for she could see what others saw, sometimes, but she wondered if they would keep seeing it if they had ever known of the deep, dark seas in which he drowned while appearing so steadfast, so resolute.

"Touch it, and you shall see."

Touch what?

And then he realized something had been going on in front of his nose, except he had been looking somewhere else, blinking a little too often to keep the tide of helpless anger away from his eyes. Slowly, his head rose from its bowed position, looking at her for a moment. Untouchable once more. Mauja swallowed, and let his gaze fall on the object she had summoned between them. Darkness still swirled about its shape, the edges fuzzy, as if it needed something mortal to pull it into this realm. Touch it, she had said—a gift for his .. enduring .. half a lifetime in Helovia.

So in a weighted silence, he reached out. His plush muzzle bumped against something solid and smooth; it was cold and hard, and for a moment, resisted his gentle push.

Then it began to fall—

—and he had it in his teeth without noticing, holding it. The balance was off because of his grip, but not by enough to make him drop it. Wordlessly, his gaze slid along the crystalline edge, drawn in by the sharp, cold glint of moonlight along the curved edge of a blade.

She had given him a fucking scythe and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry or be amazed.

Had she known? Was this—did it mean something, or was it just coincidence?

Did it matter?

No, not really. But it did matter because he was Mauja and the day he stopped thinking too hard about everything was the day he was dead.

His head twisted sideways, planting the staff's butt amidst the frozen flowers and letting go of it; it slid down his neck to rest against his shoulder, a thoughtless move betraying his familiarity with the weapon. The blade's tip rested flatly against his flank.

Puzzled, he turned to look at her again. You have endured much—

And giving him a weapon hardly made his future look brighter, right? But.. his teeth ground together, once, twice, white tail flicking. She had startled him with this gift, snapped him out of his self-loathing, but he did still not understand—nor did he understand what she had asked him earlier either. He supposed it was just one of those moments when she thought she had been clear as day and he still couldn't comprehend her. It happened sometimes. (It happened, but it still left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.)

"Thank you?" he hedged mildly, not sure what was the appropriate thing to say when .. acknowledged as a depressive constant in Helovia's ever-changing history. "Though it hardly leaves me hopeful about the future." His dark lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, heart stumbling in his chest before falling into a fast-paced racing—was he trying to joke with a god? What if she took offense? What if she.. ugh, he didn't know. There were a thousand things that could go wrong, or he could be wrong about, and everything, anything. Miserable, he said no more.

Mauja

the white queen

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

How many times before hadn't he stood like this? A shaft's end buried in churned ground, its burden resting against his side—cold and wet and leaving smears of red along his pristine white flank. The weight against the groove between shoulder and neck was familiar, both comforting and terrifying all at once, bringing up memories of fire. The acrid smell flared through his memories, whispering about hypocrisy and death and angels—

But Mauja had never been an angel. He had never been merciful, a creature of the light, of hope and kindness. He had ever been a death-bringer, and even in these peaceful days his shoulders were devoid of wings. His withers twitched, as if something would sprout and carry him away, but nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened. She had given him a scythe, and a boot in the ass to shove him down memory lane—she hadn't given him wings. She hadn't said anything about angels. That was just a spark of his past, a whisper following the white one's wake as he swept through the countryside, moonlight glinting along a scythe' blade. They had called him angel because he had been a light among shadows, carrying cursed spirits away.

"Ahhh, yes. The future." Would the future be his past? A cruel reprise of a blood-drenched episode? Would she invade his mind, place her dark tendrils deep within, drive him out of himself and go to war against Helovia's mortals once more? He doubted it. She had done that once before. If he suddenly showed up murdering people, they would suspect something was off.

Well, maybe that was his free ticket to go on a killing spree, but he hardly wanted that. So he snorted to himself as the owls came flying; Diego settled on his back while Irma perched nonchalantly upon the scythe blade. She was light enough to not topple it, but it wasn't the best perch, and he felt her frustrated pride seeping through the bond. It sucked to sit on but she couldn't let anyone know that.

But he didn't have time for that, now. She—Moon—was doing something, again. Well, at least she hadn't murdered him for his stupid joke, and so far he had dodged another unpleasant encounter with her mind magics.. but the longer she remained, the greater the risk, right? And if her mere presence wasn't enough to set him slightly on edge, she had to do that thing which mares so often did and it still freaked him out—the sway of her gait as she approached, the sleek ripple of muscle (power) beneath a moon-drenched hide... She was ethereal. She was beautiful. He would never, ever deny that—he had always thought she was, though once he had loathed to see her lavender wings attached to her shoulders. Now, he envied her them.

His heart was beating too fast, racing again, but still out of fear. She was a prowler, a huntress, a predator: feline in her grace, the bright night-lights of her eyes fixed on him.

And he was a deer in the headlights.

His stiff neck hoisted his head up higher, frozen eyes tracking her progress warily as black-rimmed ears flicked to catch the sweet purr of her voice. And of course she had to bring up her asshole of a brother—the first, deep crack in the ice heart nestled in his chest. His little jaunt through time had exhausted him more than he would've suspected, and he didn't know whether this was an indirect threat, or just her trying to point out that she, after all, wasn't her brother.

(No, you just went on a slaughter spree instead—)

If he was supposed to understand why the Gods did some of the things they did, well, then he was dumb. The pattern of their actions lurked far beyond his comprehension. Perhaps he saw things too closely, looked at them from a mortal, selfish perspective—or perhaps they were part of a scheme that stretched on for eons, dating to times far before his knowledge and ending in the infinity of stars.

She finished her rounds, and his cold gaze followed her dutifully. That she would want—well, that she would want that from him—it seemed foreign and alien and very, very distant, so he should not have to be afraid.. and yet he stood there, unable to trust her, unable to trust that he was safe from sexual advances. Her wink didn't exactly help either.

But maybe Gods got lonely sometimes?

Stop it, he chided himself, shaking Irma from the scythe and taking a few steps after her—uninvited, bold, claiming a few yards but pausing out of reach. He didn't even know why he did. "You may secure your own tonight, or the life of the progeny which is to follow." The future—the one he was not hopeful of. And she told him to pick immortality or blessed progeny. Scythe in mouth, he stood silent, and for a moment the only thing he could think was I need to rebuild my jaw strength if I'm to be any good with this again.

But seriously—immortality? To go on and on and on forever, while his beloved ones left, or died? To.. not be able to die... Or children, but he was done with both sex and offspring. To have some guarantee of.. blessed children.. it would be a free ticket to return to his irresponsible days. If he some day decided the effort was worth it to bring forth yet another new life (while so many foals went motherless, unloved, lost—) he would rather go to Father Earth and ask him to bless the child with good health. Plus, it had the added bonus of making sure he really wanted to have another child, because he doubted such a blessing would come for free.

"Uhm," he said after setting the staff down again, taking another moment of silence to peer at the surrounding fog. Stalling. Thinking. "I'd.. like to know more." Because, oh, yes. Here is the Moon tonight, all lovely and kind and patient, she gives you a gift and then tries to give you yet another gift (all for free), one of immense consequence and.. stuff. So why not test her patience with 53837693 questions?! Good job.

But it was his future, and it could potentially be a long one. He didn't want to jump into anything he would regret.

"This.. immortality. If you are the sole ruler of my fate—can I trust you not to take my life out of spite? If I came to you and wanted to die, would you let me? And—how does it work? What happens if I get stabbed in the heart? Cut to pieces? Incinerated? Fell into the Heart? Or—am I magically immune to lethal injuries? If someone binds me to stone and throws me into the sea, would I rot? Do I not need to breathe anymore? And, uh, if someone did that, you know, threw me into the sea, would you come rescue me? I'd be kind of fucked for eternity otherwise..." His tail flicked, once. "My eventual future children, if I chose them—would it be a guarantee for their good health, or.. what do you mean, with 'blessed'?"

And there was something else—perhaps the most important thing of all.

"If I choose immortality—will my owls be immortal, too?" For I cannot live without them.

[ Mauja uses Question Barrage. ]

Mauja

the white queen

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

And, of course, he did it again. With each stubborn word falling from his dark lips the temperature in their part of the world dropped, turning his blood to ice in his rime-crusted veins. He felt it, he saw it, and he could not keep the tide from flowing out of his mouth—he would not be cowed. Had she expected him to act in blind faith? Had she, for one moment, thought that he would barter his life away without some meat on his bones? Mauja was not one who trusted, and least of all did he trust her. She asked a lot of him, after all, when she offered him immortality. If she didn't want to answer his questions, why give him the choice at all? The easy way out, the faithless way, was to simply take a blessing for all his unborn children—miring those already born further in the shit he'd let them come into. What good would it do Glacia, if her highly hypothetical younger siblings were 'blessed'?

For one as Mauja, the gift was about as useful as a virility charm, though less obnoxious in its results. That is to say—it did not interest him in the slightest.

And yet, the care with which he liked to see to his own goddamn fucking life irked her, turning her serene eyes to cold hard ice, and her voice bit back in a way which told him he was dangerously close to not minding his manners again. Had he expected anything else? No, not truly—he had hoped for more, had hoped she would've grown in this time, but what was one or two mortal years to an infinite being? So he swallowed his sigh, nostrils set in an expression of contained irritation. He was a bad acolyte for a divine, sly, totalitarian bitch—and he sincerely hoped she wasn't in his head to hear that one, or that hypothetically very long future might turn to an incredibly short one.

Like the life of a mayfly in the eyes of a goddess: brief, insignificant. He could hardly believe she offered him immortality because she wanted to bicker with him for all eternity. So why did she? As, ah, compensation for what he had gone through? Unlikely. Because she liked watching him suffer? More likely. If her laugh was anything to go by, she would rather enjoy watching him rolled over by waves for centuries, unable to get out of his predicament.

What are you after? he wanted to ask her as he sat through her answers, gaze turning hard each time she berated him for his inquisitive nature and softening with thought each time she gave him an answer. What do you want of me?

"I have always acted in the best interests of Helovia - only those motivations guide me."

Then why offer me this? How could Mauja, whether in himself or simply by virtue of his blood and seed, be in the best interest of Helovia? He was a god-damned failure! He had been some kind of racist force threatening Helovia and now he was just some sad derp having a constant identity crisis. How could he offer Helovia anything? Why not offer immortality to Tembovu, who at least was still capable of achieving things? And for a moment, Mauja's gaze flitted to the wall of fog, where he knew he had seen the gargantuan King, but the clouds had thickened and the starlight glowed upon water droplets, masking all beyond their little cozy corner.

He looked back to Moon. She seemed to run out of anger towards the end of her answers, offering more facts and less bite. "Your life force bleeds into them." "Oh," he said, the sound slipping out between breaths; truth to be told, he hadn't seen any companions die of old age, but how long had he been in Helovia? Six years, give or take—hardly enough for an animal to die, and he wasn't sure he had known anyone but maybe d'Artagnan, Deimos and Ophelia for that long, and.. d'Artagnan had a dog, and Ophelia had a fucking dragon. But—if their life force bled into their bonded animals, did that mean their own life was shortened? Would having two companions kill you quicker?

The questions danced upon his tongue, but he forced them down again. They weren't relevant, not right now.

"Choose now Mauja, or I will rescind my offer." "Thank you," he murmured quietly, looking back to the wall of fog again. She was burned into his mind, the spitting image of a bird settling her ruffled feathers back into place—expecting him to behave now, perhaps, the threat of her powers fresh in his mortal mind, her warnings delivered clearly enough. He wondered what would happen if he asked once more, if she would lose her patience and simply leave him, or if she would strike him down before leaving. That, too, was oddly alluring—to test her mettle once and for all, to see what she was truly made of.

If she killed him, he supposed he hadn't been all that important to Helovia after all. The thought made him smile, bitterly.

He couldn't stall any longer. He couldn't keep chasing the tail ends of his smoke-like thoughts, and dance about questions like what scheme she had in mind, how he fit in, what the world was coming to, what 'Helovia' meant to her (the lands, or the current inhabitants?), if she could be moved to compassion and kindness at all...

He had to think about himself.

About his future.

Could he do it? Could he live, forever and ever? Could he watch Erthë and Naerys grow to adulthood, perhaps find suitable mates and procreate, grow old, wither away, and die? Could he handle watching the cycle of life, over and over—would he lose his ability for compassion, for empathy, once he saw the same cruelty over and over again? Would he grow apathetic, listless, weary of trying to save a world hellbent on destroying itself? Would he still value his friendships, knowing they were finite—would he miss them, for ever and ever, as new graves were dug in haphazard rows in his heart?

Was love finite? Would he run out of it, one day? —would that be the day he knew it was time to die?

Yet to walk the earth forevermore, a shepherd of this world... Perhaps one of his friends, of some unknown era, would be deemed 'important' to Helovia somehow too, and join him in his ceaseless vigilance. Perhaps, he would not have to be alone forever.

You are never alone, Irma whispered in his mind. Her cold voice sent shivers down his spine. Brother, Diego said after a moment. He rarely spoke.

Their warmth swelled in his heart; a golden tide flooding his frozen veins. He still could not fathom what she wanted from him, but perhaps, one day, he would know.

"Immortality," he whispered, sealing his fate with a thundering heartbeat.

It was his utmost sacrifice: his own death.

Mauja

the white queen

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

And that was that—

No more, no less. The stakes had been higher than ever, reversed Russian roulette with only one blank—he could've backed out of it. He could've chickened out, laid the gun down, and walked out the door. He could've chosen blessed offspring, smiled politely and turned his back on the lavender tiger. Could've hoped to make it out alive, traipsing between her sharp, sharp teeth.

Because it had never been a choice between two things: it had always been the choice of whether to become immortal. His mortality had simply come in guise.

After the word, his damnation and salvation in equal parts, had left his mouth his heart trembled, like a leaf caught in a storm (—still a deer in the headlights). Was this what it was like, to gamble with your own life? He doubted his death had ever been counted into the equation here today, he doubted there had been any kind of threat to him, but it was his life all the same.

And he had chosen the long, winding road.

Gods, he was fucking stupid, and part of him expected her to burst out into a hellish cackle and ridicule him for ever having believed her. How could he, ever, be worthy of something others would classify as a gift? (It's a burden—)

But she was smiling, a delicate, sharp gesture; his heart stumbled in his chest, beating out hope and desperation all at once. The icy flowers reflected in her pale eyes, the starlight bathed her in its silver glory, and he knew that he stood face to face with a wolf: was she smiling, or simply showing off her sharp, sharp teeth?

Was she pleased with his choice, or would she rather he had opted for mortality, and left her be at some point in her endless duty? But if she would've been so opposed to his continuing, why give him a choice at all? Or perhaps she had expected him to be too much of a coward to live on...

Then again, it took a certain kind of courage to die, too.

So perhaps he was the coward after all, suffering in shameful, self-imposed martyrdom.

"Enjoy your stick, and your life."

Despite the gravity of what he had just done, despite the way he could never tell if her highest wish was to stick her pearlescent horn in his heart, her words brought a fragile smile to his dark lips. I will, he wanted to say, as if he could somehow assure her that it wasn't a wasted gift—wasted breaths—but he could not say it truthfully. Mauja had lived for twelve years. Many of them had been hell. He doubted immortality would immediately make him happy.

Yeah, imagine that—a happy Mauja, forever and ever.

Unlikely. He snorted softly, and as ever, she began to fade—growing translucent, merging with the night. One of his ears flicked as the tranquility broke. He couldn't put his hoof on it, but it was something.. the birds, perhaps? Or just the heartbeat of the forest—

"Take care," he offered her, oddly enough, before even her self-satisfied (and rather disturbing) grin dissolved in the moonlight. It wasn't like he thought being immortal made him a God and her equal: it had simply been the first farewell-I-don't-hate-you-that-much phrase to come into his mind. "Stupid," he spat into the silence she had left.

The world sighed, a breath of wind ghosting through the trees; the mist curved aside, and the moon's flowers—such a clear calling for the ice soul, a terrifying and beautiful mix of their beings—simply reflected her light. He glanced over his shoulder. Dacianna (what was she doing here?), Tembovu and Erthë stood beyond where the fog had walled them out. Had they heard what had passed between them? Could they guess? Did he want them to know?

Did he want anyone to know that his heart could never be silenced?

He wasn't sure. In silence, he picked up the scythe, and began to head out towards the edge.

[ This is now finished on Mauja's part, as it'll just fade into a private thread with Tembovu. ^^ Thank you, Mythical Admin of Great Awesome, for the lovely thread! <333 ]

Mauja

the white queen