"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
It is harder than he anticipated trying to gain the upper hand in the conversation once more.
Now that the mask has slipped and he is without his devices, he finds that he struggles to gain his footing once more. He struggles to find that apathetic armor. To find some semblance of control, but no matter how he grabs for it, it continues to slip from his grasp—again and again. It leaves him feel like a raw nerve, entirely exposed before her, his sullen mouth pulling into a frown, his golden eyes darkening.
At her insult, he just scowls further, the corners of his mouth deepening, something almost dangerous flashing across his usually neutral expression. It hints at the temper that he has inherited from his father, not just the sarcasm used to deflect, and although he shrugs off her words, they still sting.
“You can still socialize and be alone,” is all he says, because for everything he has said, he has never spurned all company altogether. He has rather enjoyed the company of women. Has liked to flirt and liked to charm. Has liked to dazzle and make others laugh—and has liked to slip away at the first sign of them wanting to know him just a little more. Remembering this sparks enough in him that he clings to it desperately as the only protection that he knows, attempting to turn the conversation on his head.
His smile goes sly, ignoring the accusation of his cowardice outright.
“Is that why you found me again?” His voice is a touch huskier, and he wonders if he can get under her skin this way too. If he can throw her off balance. “Did you want the pleasure of my company?”
He pauses for a moment as he takes a step forward.
“You need only ask.”
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
She rolls her eyes at his simple response to her tirade. Mazikeen doesn’t call him an idiot again but she’s sure thinking it - thinking that he must be socializing wrong if he’s still alone while he’s doing it. What was so wrong about forming connections, about having someone know you?
When Firion’s smile goes sly, Mazikeen’s eyes narrow. His voice has changed, the husky words sending prickles down her skin like she had just touched cold seaweed. It’s a surprise when he steps forward and she’s sure she doesn’t cover it fast enough, but then her eyes burn with annoyance.
She lifts her black-tipped leg to step back and regain space between them but even that small admittance that he was having such an effect on her sits uneasily in her stomach so she places it back down and stands her ground. “Don’t.” She whispers in a harsh note and hopes he does not notice the slightest tremor in her voice. She tells herself it’s just the anger (and maybe it is, maybe she’s not uncomfortable - just pissed). She hates that she had wanted to be his friend once, hates that he’s dangling that truth like a taunt before her. “You made your views on my company clear enough when we were young. I don’t want to play this game.”
It’s not a game she knows how to play - and that (though she'll never admit it) is something that does frighten her.
Even if it’s all just a joke to him, she's sure there's no way he could actually think she found his company a pleasure, she focuses on shooting back words that don’t allow the narrative of their meeting today to change. “And I didn’t seek out your company. I was looking for someone to share in some fun. I would not have come over here if I knew it was you.”
that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
His smile goes quicksilver when he sees the surprise in her eyes. When he sees the barest hint of her lifting a leg only to plant it, when he can see the way that she has to fight the slightest tremor in her voice. It gives him the feeling of having an edge again and he thinks if he cannot manage to protect himself with apathy then he will protect himself with this. He will push whatever advantage he may have on her.
“Game?” he echoes, that husky note not leaving his voice, his eyes slanted as his gaze drops to her mouth and then rises slowly to her own orange eyes. He lets all of the anger, the confusion, the frustration, the fear that is his life implode in his chest and turn to heat—channelling all of it in this new endeavor.
If she could easily tear out his throat for the impertinence, then it only adds something exciting.
Another step to her, his jaguar body as feline as the markings that spot it. “Maybe you didn’t seek me out intentionally,” he growls, low and slow, wondering if he hates her for pushing his buttons. Wondering if she felt as rattled by him now as he had felt just moments before. “Funny how that works.”
They are so close that he can hear her breathing, can feel the heat of her.
The strength of her is harder to miss this close. The natural athleticism. The way that she has clearly seen battle far more than he. Were it not for his sharpened teeth, his inherit strength, his acute senses, he is sure that she would not even need to shift to overpower him. But he is no pushover like this. Not when the sun hangs high above them and the shadows cross over them. Not when the muffled sound of the crowds are so far away and it is just the two of them. “I think you would have come,” he whispers this, lower.
He flicks his eyes up, catches her gaze again.
“I think you can’t bear to turn away from a challenge.”
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
How had this conversation gotten away from her so completely? Mazikeen has the ability to shift her form but whatever emotions are boiling within her she’s never been particularly good at compartmentalizing. If she wasn’t reacting so violently to his new personality, would he abandon it?
It’s difficult to get her anger under control when he steps closer again, and his eyes shift to her mouth that snarls in response. She does not shift entirely but she uses the trick she had once used with Sabal - her teeth elongate and there’s a deep, predatory growl that crawls up her throat and out of her in a warning for him to not come any closer as her tail flicks in irritation behind her. Mazikeen hates this, hates that she feels she is on the defensive suddenly. That he has the power in this exchange and that she has no idea what he’s getting at.
Or why he’s moving closer when his presence is sending her skin crawling. Because she’s sure the loathing is mutual between them. Sure that even though he acts like she doesn’t know what she means by a game, he’s playing at something. Deflecting to avoid whatever it is he had been feeling beneath the mask.
It’s working, which is the most annoying part, and it feeds her anger and frustration. He’s right too - she hates losing a challenge. But that, at least, she’s determined to not let him see. “You’re not a challenge.” And she’s relieved to hear no tremble there even though her fury is evident. It drips from every word as she snaps those sharp canines in his direction. “A mystery and pathetic, sure, but not a challenge.” She focuses her orange gaze on him, filling it with every ounce of anger, annoyance, aggravation she can. Then a flicker of fire surrounds her as her fire aura becomes a physical manifestation of everything burning inside her.
It only lasts a short moment, but it’s enough for the fire to reflect in her eyes as they continue burn on their own.
that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
There is a part of him—some piece of his rational brain—that wishes he had the common sense to be afraid of her. That had the common sense to know that when she peels her lips back from her teeth that it is a warning she should listen to. But all he feels is a heady sense of control, knowing that he was able to illicit such a reaction from her, that he had successfully turned the conversation on its head.
And if the tension feels like it might tear him apart, then it’s better than what he had felt before.
“Of course I’m a challenge,” he says, his golden eyes nearly molten as they hold onto her. As he fixes her with that piercing gaze, his quicksilver smile still tugging at the edges of his handsome mouth. If only he could only feel like this, he thinks. If only he could live his life in control. If only he could pretend that this was no different than all the other times that he has crooked a finger at a strange woman.
Of course, the latter would imply that all the other times they didn’t threaten to rip his head off.
Or burst into flames when he got too close.
This time, he doesn’t let his eyes widen in surprise when some piece of her power erupts. He feels the warmth flicker and then bathe him—the promise of how it might scald just seconds behind. It is not enough to push him back though. Merely adds kindling to the fire he has already started.
“Does it feel good to lie to yourself?” he asks, still predatory as he takes another step, wondering if this will be when she lashes out for good. If this will be when sinks teeth into his flesh. He counts his blessings that he has some gift to heal himself. He’s close enough now that she might feel the warmth of his breath, sweet with life now that the ash of night has been swept from his tongue.
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
His incredibly hypocritical question, paired with his step, the feeling of his breath on her skin, ignites her. Mazikeen explodes with a feral cry and a flash of feathers. As a large, pale harpy eagle she rises from her spot. They are close enough that her large wings could hit him in the heartbeat where she's almost floating there, though in a move she will undoubtedly regret she keeps her talons curled to her body. She angles to the side and past him and then - against all logic - she does not leave. Not yet.
She lands behind him so he would need to turn right around to look at her. She shifts back into herself but keeps the wings, large and striped with white and black as they remain half-folded at her side. Feathers quite literally ruffled.
Those wings beat the air at her side, as though she needed something else to grab his attention. Their size fills up the space around the pair of them. Closes them off from the world.
And now she steps towards him.
Crowding him.
Pushing back.
The shift had cleared her head somewhat. All that anger is still churning within her but she is the eye in the centre of the flames. There’s something colder in her eyes as they re-focus on him. There’s still a bite to her words (how could there not be?) but with ice rather than fire now. “Well, it’s no wonder no one sticks around for a second conversation. Feels good, does it, knowing you’re making me uncomfortable? Anything to pretend you're in control, right?” She gets as close as she can without touching him and then whispers into the space between them. She doesn’t need volume to get this point across. “You’re not a challenge, Firion.” His name falls from her lips like a curse. “You’re just an asshole.”
that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
He smiles when she shifts this time—his golden gaze unreadable as he takes in the eagle she becomes. The fact that she is provoked into such action is a win, he knows, and he tucks that small victory away as he continues to watch her, his unscarred lips curling into a small smile. When she flies behind him, he does not need to be tricked into turning to keep his attention on her. She was the star of the show, after all.
Firion gladly curls around so that he can better see her, watching as she shifts and holds onto her wings.
Tilting his head, his eyes only widen just a little when she is the one to take the step toward him. When she pushes back, but even this feels like a victory and he is not keen on giving up control so easily. So he doesn’t yield. Instead he takes a step toward her, closing the distance even further, noting that her eyes blaze and then cool, turning into something cold and polished. He prefers the heat.
If her words sting, if the truth of them bites, he gives no clue. He just continues to smile, his golden eyes still tracing her face, feeling that strange flare in his belly. “Maybe,” he concedes, although the way that he says it does not indicate much shame with the label. Finally, he reaches forward and presses his golden lips to her pale cheek. “But I don’t think I’m in control at all, Mazikeen,” he whispers her name, elongating it in his mouth so that it becomes softened, cherished. “I rather like being out of control.”
An absolute lie wedged into the truth, but who is he to argue the details?
“At least with you.”
A pause, his mouth still hovering over her cheek.
“And part of you must like it too. You’re still here after all.”
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
She had hoped to throw him off balance, but whatever mask is in place now she cannot shake and her frustration grows. No sign that her words mean anything to him, though she’s sure they’re the truth. He’s just play-acting at being brave. At being able to stand her presence.
Mazikeen does not give away ground after she had moved towards him even though she’s enraged by him moving closer again.
And then he touches her.
By all accounts, it’s a simple touch. Golden lips upon a snow cheek. It should be a simple thing.
And yet. He’s the first to ever touch her like this and even though it cannot possibly mean anything to him, she’s fractured by how much it means to her. To hear her name spoke in a cherished way but know it’s all just a lie, a tease. That this callous, horrid creature feigns at an affection Mazikeen has never experienced before just to torture her. Just to win.
Both the chill and the fire in her splinter for a quick moment, revealing this pain. This heartache. This stolen first.
They are close enough that he would be able to see it, the way her orange eyes shimmer for that very small moment, but then the hurricane begins to spin again and Mazikeen loses herself to the rage utterly and completely. Suddenly it does not matter whether he gained the upper hand in their conversation so long as she can tear flesh from bone. If she cannot win one way, she’ll win another.
Mazikeen is not one who enjoys violence for the sake of it, but she’s sure anyone would understand why this is the exception.
“I’ll show you out of control.” She hisses before her mouth elongates and she bites at his face with canine teeth. The rest of her body follows suit until she is a lithe, powerful wolf.
She flickers between shapes in a silent frenzy, never settling, always moving, every heartbeat something new as her shapeshifting taps into her fury for power and her hurt in an attempt to dull and drown it out so she cannot even feel it anymore. Every shape clawed or sharp-toothed or with strong gripping fingers as she tries to tear through him.
that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
They are playing with fire, he knows, even though nothing about this feels like play. He can’t decide exactly what edge of the knife he is dancing on, but he knows that it’s going to cleave him in half one day. Whether he cuts to the quick with desire or burns the candle at both ends with rage, the end result will be the end. He’s not even certain he can make heads or tails of how he feels anymore, anyway.
What started as an attempt to disarm here has swiftly turned against him.
So that when he sees the fury finally consume her, he’s nearly relieved.
He doesn’t fight back, not really. He bares his teeth as she shifts, again, and again—but the pain is a welcome distraction. It feels right. Cleansing. A balm. He soaks it in, this ability to feel this vividly. To see colors this bright—to know something so acute. He wants to throw his head back and laugh, to soak in the true madness, but the sound does not come through the wheezing breath, the groan, the cry.
Finally, when he’s had enough, he shoves her away with his last ounce of strength—relying on his gift of super strength to overcome her enough to push her off of him. He takes a stumbling step back, bleeding from so many wounds he is certain that he cannot count. There is blood pooling in his mouth and he spits, feeling something solid dislodge as a tooth hits the ground and rolls. It startles a broken laugh out of him.
Glancing up through eyelids that are nearly torn to ribbons, he gives her a bloodied, shattered smile.
“What a show,” he manages, something like humor tinging his voice.
He can already feel his healing begin to weave through him and part of him wishes that he could stop it. Wishes his body would like him soak in this pain for a little longer, but he could no more stop his body from repairing himself than he could change the tides of the ocean.
So he just takes a step back, doing a small mock bow.
“I think we’ve proven our points.”
Blood stains his mouth as he turns to leave.
“Goodbye, Maze.”
And then he stumbles into the darkness.
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
The inside of her head is nothing but white, all-encompassing rage as she continues to shift, as she continues to cleave blood red wounds in golden skin. It’s not enough when he pushes her away with surprising strength. She’s a panther when he does, white except for four black paws and a mask of blood through which her orange eyes are burning.
If he can still speak with humour, her job is not finished. Just a short moment ago she had been delighted by the sound of his laughter, but the moment where she had stuck her tongue out at him feels like it happened to someone else a lifetime ago. Another pair that knew how to be innocent.
She’s breathing heavily from her efforts and she does not even blink as she takes in the sight of him stepping away from her. A flash of victory followed by another round of disappointment as she realizes he’s the one turning from her. Again. She should have left when she shifted into a bird the first time, should have flown away from here. Away from him.
A drop of his blood falls from her panting mouth and splashes upon the earth. When he calls her by her nickname (even though that familiarity is incredibly annoying), she begins to return to herself.
Shame, disappointment, and relief flood through her as the blinding rage recedes. He’s not fully into the shadows of the nearby forest when she shifts again - an eagle that launches above the treetops. She’s going to collapse soon from exhaustion, but so long as she can get home. So long as she can get far away from here, she doesn’t care. Passing out will be a blessing.
Now, though, she pushes herself more. She rises as high as she can, until the air pierces her lungs in cold shards, and there she releases a primal, horrid scream. It is filled to the brim with every emotion storming within her and she screams until there is nothing left within her. Until she needs to inhale in deep, gasping breaths to recover from everything she had just expelled.
And then she catches a wind that will carry her home.
