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