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

[ A few days later . . . ]

He didn't remember much.

He didn't think much.

The world had slowed to a trickle, some water sliding between his fingers, one grain of sand per hour falling through the hourglass. He no longer knew seconds: he only knew the slow, desperate beating of his heart. It thundered out its frustration in the darkness.

It reverberated through his body, his world—a quake in the foundation of his being. A shock, a shake, a thrumming pulse—

He was not asleep, he was not awake. He was not unconscious, he was not conscious. He simply, was. The disappointment, which had tainted his mind for a few, precious seconds, had bled into the gray skies (—the gray earth, the gray clouds, the gray blood). And in that gray, nothing moved, for eons, for eternity, until it rumbled and shook to the slow beat of his cursed heart.

And then all was still again. (For eons, for eternity, until it rumbled and shook—)

Until it changed. Until, in the gray nothing between his heartbeats, there was something else. Something insistent. It pecked at his disconnected mind, bit and tugged and worried, and each time his pulse shook his mind it flared brighter, deeper, heavier—like the sunlight on his eyes, biting through the thin eyelids until the muscles contracted and squeezed them shut tighter.

His state of not-quite-dead grew darker when he did. The time between each pulse seemed shorter, somehow, and he was vaguely aware of another sound: the slow, shallow sound of breathing. It traveled roughly down a windpipe, then back up again in a drawn-out, rugged sigh. But, he realized, that was not it, either. That wasn't the tug on his body, on his mind, the rents like white lightning flashing hot against his mind.

No—it was a feeling much deeper, much starker, much .. more intimate. A sharp ravage, precise, and it was inside him, like his heart was a hatching egg, beak scratching on the walls of his ribcage—

(It was a sharp set of talons in the hole left in his chest, gently, gently digging out the moss, pulling as much of its remains out as they could, before the soft trunk of a tiny elephant (gently, gently—) pushed a new wad of salt-cleaned moss into the wreckage of his chest—)

A thunderclap, another lash of white lightning, and Mauja was awake. And the only thing he felt was the sting inside of him, his own body the crucible of his agony. It bit, deeper and deeper, and with consciousness his breathing grew harsher, shorter, as a pain he could not combat ran rampant through him.

He couldn't move.

He tried, but there was nothing which responded—he barely felt the furthest reaches of his own body, limbs trapped in a distance of disuse and exhaustion. Even his thoughts felt heavy, as if they were cumbersome and cold. (Frozen blood can't run—)

But he was not cold. Early morning sunlight filtered in through bushes (hadn't he been out in the open?) and played across his cheek and eye. Solid warmth was pressed against his back, moving slightly, slightly, like breathing, each intake disturbing him oh-so-slightly, and yet it felt like fire. One eye cracked open, but saw only branches and a thin sliver of blue sky. The owls were tucked in the crook of his throat, huddled together. He could feel their hearts.

He could feel the heart beating against his back, too, a slow, steadfast rhythm whispering life. 'Tembovu', he tried to say, but his tongue was thick and heavy and his mouth numb; the only thing coming past his dry lips was 'hnnngh'. (It could've been a sigh. And maybe, it was better this way, because what do you say..?)

The memories seemed dull, distant, bleached of all the color and emotion which had been so rich and vibrant, from the pristine white of his own fur to the startling red of his blood, the bronzed gold of Tembovu in the sunlight—the stench of his own fear, the cold touch of the ocean breeze as it rippled through the trees, tiny leaves and pine needles whispering...

All gone, all dull, reduced to snippets and snatches, idiocy and shame. He managed to swallow, faintly, nothing but dust coming down his throat. He felt weak and lethargic, in a way he had only felt once before—when he had been the last survivor lying in the blood-spattered snow, stars wheeling overhead as he figured each breath would be his last. But he hadn't died then, and he wouldn't die now, either.

So he tried again, and his voice came out paper-thin and brittle. "Forgive me."

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