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