Always, the darkness sought to overwhelm her, and always, she banished it away.

The darkness was of a different kind that that which flowed thickly through her veins. That, at least, was a kind that she controlled with an iron will. But the other darkness, the one that threatened to overtake her, was full of heat and passion and fury which, unleashed, would take over all in its path. It was anger and fear and hatred and determination and so many things all rolled into one. But with it would come rash actions, inane desires. Under the spell of this darkness, things would come to pass, things that would haunt her - and others - for many years to come. So perhaps it was not just herself that she saved by suppressing it.

Control had become a cleansing thing for the shadow-mare. She may not be able to control the chaos that lurked in her surroundings, brooding in the minds of the lesser beings (inferior and supreme alike). She accepted this; it was the way of the world. She had been no more able to save her mother from an untimely demise than she was able to change how the FrostHeart reserved himself from her now. They were out of her reach. She was the better for it. Let their deaths, their problems, let those things be theirs. She had enough in her own mind to keep reigned in. She could control her thoughts, her emotions, her actions. She could control where she went, what she did, how she did it. And this she did, and did well.

Too well, perhaps. She would never be the queen that he had once wanted her to be. Nor would she simply be the mare he wanted her to be, that she once was. Those times had passed them by, quickly enough to have been simply a leaf in the wind. This was out of her control. This was the way of the world. Even so, she found herself yearning for the way things once were, for the mutual trust - could she call it that? - that had bound them so tightly together. She wished for it back, and (dare she think it?) his love. Perhaps it was not the same love that others had shared before them; perhaps it was not the same love that more would share after them. But love it had been nonetheless, a love set to burn by their common desires, struck to light as a flint lights a fire. She had not allowed herself to think it before, and yet, there it was.

Amber eyes gazed at him perhaps a little too long, a little too emotionless - she had always shown some emotion, after all, be it a mischievous smile or and angry scowl or any number of things in between. A sense of desperation took her, and she swallowed, pushing it down, raising the mask that was her salvation. The too-sweet smile, the poisonous tones, the glittering orbs. It was all fake. She was all fake. Or was she? Perhaps the artificiality with which she lived her life was real, for her. Perhaps that was all she had to offer. Too many perhapses. She pushed against the thoughts further, forcing them down as one might force down bile in the throat. Losing control.

"You know me better than that, honey," his words had been, a silken purr that left her wanting, waiting for him to return to the way things had been. But no. I knew you better than that, she wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it at him, at herself, at everyone. Perhaps she just wanted to scream. Not here, not now. Later, perhaps. Control. The darkness, the frigid way in which he spoke to her, it returned, and perhaps it would have left one less practiced than she reeling. But not the jackal. Never her. "You wound me," she informed him with a pout. Then, grinning, she continued: "Well, as long as they are still around, I should like to make good use of them. Seeing as how you're busy and such. Would you mind, dearest?"

The mask was perfect. It never slipped. She never slipped. And yet, when one is walking on the edge of a precipice, it is only a matter of time. And this one is particularly deep.

[W/C | 731]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.