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

“It is past that.”

The words settled like a delayed slap over his face, little stones pressing in between his ribs—grit in his lungs, pushing deeper with each breath. And still, nothing happened; his ears remained forward, the wind ruffling his long forelock a little, and his eyes barely shifted. There wasn't even a hitch in his breathing to betray the depth of the something opening up in his chest—

(It felt a bit like drowning; something rushing in over his head, a shadow looming tall and blotting out the sun before pressing into his nose, his mouth, choking as it settled in his lungs like a cold, black weight. And still, he somehow breathed, but each breath was painful as it fought against the smothering wetness, struggling and struggling and struggling until it felt like his lungs would burst.)

“It is past that.” Past what? he wanted to ask (beg), to come close and peer into those navy eyes (his own blue, reflecting sorrow—) but only his even breathing left his lungs, and his eyes were deceptively calm and level.

And he hated himself for it. He hated himself for the questions burning under his skin (is it past good? or past morning?), for that thing in his lungs and his heart (heartbreak), but most of all—he hated himself for the composed way he watched Tembovu. He felt the way his eyes strained, taking up that intense, shallow gaze he used to mask his fractured, fragile psyche. He felt it, he knew the evenness of his mouth, and he hated it because it felt like lying.

It was like lying, and Tembovu was still so damn beautiful in the slanting sunlight—

“How does immortality treat you?”

It kept cutting to the bone, a sharp, fine knife flaying the skin from his flesh and carving deeper, hunting for that precious part of his anatomy shielded by ribs. That voice, so harsh; it made the question sound bitter in his ears, and, for once, evoked a visible response in him. His eyes shattered for a moment, and he glanced down, then away; his ears had fallen back in uncertainty. And he realized that he didn't have the slightest idea what Tembovu was feeling.

Or what Tembovu had ever felt, or who he was, who he had been, who he was becoming, here upon the Edge's dusty, dark throne. Mauja swallowed. It was nearly painful, a lump burning in his throat. "Immortality," he whispered bitterly, his voice hoarse, but he knew that Tembovu wouldn't hear him. Not from here. But getting up... It seemed a long way to his usual cold, lofty perch, and his legs felt weak. Was it worth trying, if he was just going to fall back down again?

Would the chasm between them stretch wider, if he didn't?

He fumbled with the buckles of the leather satchel; his teeth chattered against the metal for a moment. (When did I start shaking?) Then it released its hold, and when he lifted himself out of the shrubs it remained on the ground, along with the crystal length of the staff.

The world seemed different from up here—the shadows were darker, deeper, colder, and shaking disconcertingly.

(No, that's just you trembling—)

His heart was roaring in his ears. He felt light and weak and his jaw muscles kept spasming, bringing his teeth together with an indistinct, uneven clicking. Slowly—drunkenly—he staggered over to Tembovu.

(He was more afraid than he had ever been before.)

The blue of his eyes had gone from the peace of a winter sky to fractures and chaos, the whites visible around them; the world had morphed, the sunshine was gone, and all he could see was some dark twin shadow overlapping with Tembovu.

"Immortality does nothing to you," he heard someone say, as if at a great distance; vaguely, he was aware of his mouth working, shaping words that fell a bit too slowly from his dark lips. "What I do, I do to myself."

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same