i am the vanguard of your destruction

Grafin bein grotna í jörðunni,
eins og leyndarmálin þín
sem þú hélst forðum burt frá mér.
En blóðið þyngr´en þögnin er.

He came first, and don't ask how Mauja knew who it was; he just knew. There was just something, a hint of a scent, the curling of the fog, the sick pounding of his heart and the tail-end of a thought fed to his brain by other owls, and then it wasn't even an owl anymore. It was this .. thing, standing on four sturdy legs, built like a tiny gray tank, and the only thing that was out of place was his really blue scorpion's tail. Really, he thought, muddled, you couldn't have picked a more inconspicuous color?

But then again, when had the damned creature itself ever been inconspicuous? Mauja (Irma) remembered the tiny form caught in sharp, feather-padded talons, its heartbeat a wicked rhythm pounding against her careful, damning grip, and the elation she had smelled on him, and his grin, and staring at the lion-esque guard standing stubbornly before him it suddenly made all the sense in the world that his tail was fucking blue.

Like my eyes.

What the hell did that have to do with anything?

He was off-balance even before he saw her, his heart lurching with the meaningless realization the had the same eye color as Chico's tail—like, the fuck did that have to do with anything?

But still it made his heart stampede and world spin and he actually staggered sideways for a moment, threatening to topple over—

Slowly, he righted himself; slowly, he pulled himself together, splayed legs coming in neatly beneath him, wild-eyed head rising high upon the proud arch of his neck.

By virtue of his blood he was graceful; by virtue of his heart he was a (man) broken.

“Hey,” she said, and with his heart still attempting to choke him he marveled at the vastness of the world—far up in the northlands of his home, who knew what happened? What did his brother do? Had the fragile peace broken, or had they kept their words and hopes, striving for a better, unified tomorrow? And here, in Helovia, somewhere in this misty, godforsaken forest Tembovu lurked, with stars knew which questions buried like glass shards in his lungs, and far, far away lay Gaucho and the Throat, with the tall Dragon's Blood tree spreading its branches skyward, mourning the forest which had once stood there with it—

And in this small, insignificant corner of the world—

—they met again, at last. And his heart was doing all sorts of back-flips and excuses, snatches of conversation (—memories) blurring with the silence of reality as he stared at her.

(She had touched him, in the north, bringing him home.)

She had run, when Hototo had died, and he had run after her, and witnessed the helpless fury of her grief.

He could've screamed the sky down that day on the beach, but it wouldn't have helped. Too jaded, he had kept his.. what do you even call it, when you realize something you hold dear is taken from you? It had not yet had the chance to grow into mourning, it was simply—frustration, anger, the sheer impotence of your own meaningless existence in that moment enough to drive you mad (because no matter how much you screamed, how much you loved, it made no difference).

“I missed you.”

How long had he been staring at her in silence, tracing vague parallels between their lives? Minutes? Hours? Lifetimes?

The words were hammerstrokes falling upon the nails of guilt.

Wasn't that how it always went? I missed you— (Where were you, where were you, where were you...) Would he have to weld himself to someone's side in order for them to not miss him and greet him like he'd not been away three years or ignored them on purpose?

(But maybe, this time, she's not accusing you of something—)

It was almost surprising that ice didn't flake off of his form as he began to move, a sluggish, drunken amble, bringing him closer with no regard for the manticore; perhaps, in some distant corner of his mind, he attempted to brush it aside and not merely trample it, but he wasn't sure.

"I missed you too," he said, breathed, tear-blurred eyes closing as he made to fling his head over her back and hold her.

Svikin orð, grjót í kjafti þér,
rista dýpra en nokkur sár.
Brotin bönd aldrei verða söm.
Lygar eins og nöðrubit.

[ @Roskuld ]