A scream split the world, and split his skull. As the haze of agony slowly cleared, the first thing he thought was, but I didn't scream. One by one the senses returned to him: he could smell the metallic, salty tang of blood lying under the stench of his own shoulder.. and he could see Torasin, poised as if about to take a step his way, but frozen. Red blood spiraled slowly down the sharp edge of an ice spike, the tip hidden in the golden man's chest cavity as it had punched its way in there, through ribs and lungs.

The world was silent. He could hear nothing except the pulse roaring in his ears, as if his frantic heart could somehow support the body failing just in front of him. "No!" The rugged, half-choked scream tore out of his throat, and despite the way every single movement lanced pain through his body, Mauja hauled himself forward, covering the yards that still separated them — red ran down his frontleg, staining the thin layer of snow where he stumbled forward, thinking of nothing but to reach him in time, before it was too late..

The world, it was blurred. He didn't even know that he, too, was crying, but suddenly he was there, as Torasin's green eyes closed for the last time. In some kind of desperation Mauja threw his head out, as if to cradle him, as if anything he could do could reverse these moments and stop the blood flowing out of his chest — heal the gaping wound, right the wrongs.

But nothing could.

With his head draped across Torasin's neck he let himself be dragged down as the golden gentleman tumbled to the frozen ground, knees bending painfully before crashing to the floor; the dying stallion lay sprawled on the thin snow, neck across Mauja's legs. Each breath Mauja took was a gasp, dragged in and spit out again, but even through that, and his pulse, signs of life, he heard the last words Torasin ever spoke: "I'm sorry."

They say hearing is the last sense to leave you, and as Mauja ignored the pain and dragged his soft muzzle to those golden ears, he put all his faith in that. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered as he lay there beside the fallen stallion and his loyal, overprotective dragon. Tears still leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he closed them — tried to breathe deeply, but bunched up like this, each movement tore through his shoulder and nearly dragged him into oblivion. Giving in to the pain he draped his neck across Torasin's again, and lay still and silent, mind reeling.

It had all happened too fast. He hadn't been ready. A year ago, in a damned war, he'd introduced Torasin to those same spikes, but a year ago, the gilded gentleman had avoided them. Tonight, Mauja's terror had been too great, and Torasin, just a tad too slow. Love, pain, blind instinct, and two souls lay dead on the newly fallen snow, blood painting it red.

There were a lot of things he could've said. Could've done. Could've thought.
Some part of him argued that he should've meant to — that he shouldn't lie here, weeping over someone who was an enemy. That he should rejoice, and not let the dead lie under the cover of his snowy neck. That he should get up, go home, wash the blood off his hands and square his shoulders, smile and be proud.

But it had happened too quickly. He hadn't had the time to dredge any feelings of anger, or hate, up.
Since when had he ever mourned the death of an equine?

Prometheus voice, seconded by d'Artagnan, echoed through his skull. Torasin should be his redemption, it should've been murder, but it was an accident, and the snow that fell in soft, soft flakes covered them both. An accident. Bewildered, exhausted, agonized, Mauja hugged the slowly cooling body closer, and Irma came down through the branches to alight softly upon the bloody curve of Torasin's barrel. One wing extended gently to brush her white feathers across Kiba's still frame, then her blue eyes settled on Mauja — a silent urging for him to rise, to get out of here, before someone found him with the body and jumped to all the wrong conclusions.. the conclusion that should be right, but weren't, because he had a heart.

Forcing ragged breaths in through the pain, Mauja's front hooves scrabbled against the ground before finding purchase. He heaved himself to his feet, but cried out softly and nearly fell again as the pain blossomed up, threatening to devour his every nerve; ten seconds passed and he found himself still standing, albeit swaying in the slowly increasing snowfall.

Ignoring wisdom, ignoring everything, Mauja tugged at the magic in his veins. But this time, it was not the chaos of attack, the frenzy meant to destroy, not a thing to rise quickly, but rather.. something else. He bade it rise slowly, nudging and dragging at it here, and there, until it rose to become a crude, thick-trunked tree of crystalline ice. There were no leaves upon the bare branches stretching out towards the sky; Mauja was not an artist wielding harmless power, but rather, a warrior seeking to manipulate his magic into something it wasn't. Expelling a great deal of power he anchored it to the snow and the cold, a monument for the fallen, to stand at the spot where Torasin fell until it was either destroyed, or spring's warmer air claimed it.

It was foolish to leave something of his own magic behind, but sooner or later, someone would figure it out anyway. Sooner or later, the world would know the truth, and no one would believe him when he said it was an accident anyway. Slowly he let his gaze fall again. His own tears were freezing upon Torasin's golden neck, blood of his own marking the spot where he had lain, but soon the snow would cover that, too.. a pristine white blanket hiding the gruesome carpet of blood.

Mauja swallowed his tears, whispered "Goodbye, Torasin," and began to limp away west, his track slowly being obliterated by the falling snow and the wind which tugged at Torasin's pale locks.

[ those who wish to find his body etc. are welcome now. :) ]