Mauja Frosthjärta

And here he was again, in the middle of nowhere, the middle of everything, halfway between the Throat and the Threshold – a white shadow in the night, a frost-wraith drifting over the carpet of snow. Pale light threw him into stark relief, his shadow crisp against the pale backdrop, and like something from another world he glowed silver, edges both blurred and sharp at the same time. Irma was a quiet ghost above him, soaring on the winds, his eyes against the horizon when his own grew heavy with brooding. He was barely looking at where he went, trusting her to keep him safe; tall grasses lay bowed under the snow, ice lacing the few stubborn strands that stilled defied winter, and these were the things he saw as he walked, head bowed and heavy. White smoke rose from his nose, testament of life where his impassive face and guarded eyes otherwise betrayed none.

Day by day it felt like he was getting farther from his goal, despite being closer than ever, and day by day he spent more and more time away, knowing that time only increased the risks – and yet he wasn't ready to leap, to tumble headfirst down the abyss and land wherever he may. Things were about to change, either a lot, or not much at all. He only needed to keep to the shadows, and then pull the trigger, release the flame, the spark.

If caution was a flaw, then he was damnably flawed. He was treading the thin line between where caution was justified, and where it was simply cowardice.

Irma tumbled into his mind, a jumble of images and colors and smells, and the wind picked up, a cold finger sending shivers down his spine as it flowed past. Mauja's movements stumbled to a halt, head thrown up, nostrils wide; his heart quivered in his chest, the owl's frantic transmissions confusing him more than they shed lights on things.

Are you alright? he cried into their bond, scanning the rapidly darkening skies for signs of her – and there she was, ruffled and pale, righting herself from some tumble through the air, swept back by some unseen force. He released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, heartbeat steadying, and she banked left to face the way she had come from again. The sky offered her a vantage point he could never get, and he saw the shimmer of something, and Asni beside it, almost as if bracing.. Irma hovered where she was, and together they watched, transfixed, as one by the gods appeared...

.. and his own eyes saw something else, a white shape further off, one that sent his heart tumbling and mind reeling. Ophelia! He would know her anywhere, from the red of her fringes to her stance, her long legs, the horn upon her brow – his heart knew her even if his mind wouldn't, and before he had the time to reflect over what he was doing he was rushing her way, even as the skies fell dark.

Somehow he split his vision, one eye on the ground, one eye in the air; he saw the Gods flicker and return, saw them disappear into that something, wind whipping tails and wings and manes around, roaring in his ears and deafening even the faint crush of brittle grass under his weight. He was noiseless, only because the gale drowned him out, insignificant and brief as he was in these times of trouble.

And then, Asni followed his brothers and sister into the void, and abruptly things seemed to return to almost normal; the storm lessened, the sense of suppressed, thrumming power vanished, but the world was so dark and.. and.. and...

He felt weightless. As if something was suddenly not there anymore. As if his blood ran warm and light, as if something he had not quite been aware of had disappeared...

His run had slowed to a walk, confusion written plainly on his otherwise closed face, and Irma crashed down from the calm, but so dark, skies to land upon his withers. The tight grip of talons, the spill of desaturated blood in the darkness, was her gesture of comfort, and he found himself clinging to her soul the way a dying man clung to whatever was closest – the way he wanted to run up to Ophelia and hug her, hold her close, for if everything ended now, he wanted to be with her.

"Ophelia," he said, but it came more like a hushed whisper, uncertainty playing across both face and voice. Tentatively he reached out, to brush his muzzle against her neck, as if unsure of if what he was seeing was real.. and some part of him expected her to shatter at his touch, to fall like ice to the floor and merge with the snow. For if the Gods went.. would it not make sense that they took everything of beauty with them?