It was that thing again—the boundary between what he ought to feel, and what he actually felt. The distance between heart, and mind; too logical a beast, and too selfish. His mind hummed with the fortunate turn of events for him, numbing him to all else, to Kahlua's dashed expectations, to the fact that he did feel happiness, for her—something he simply couldn't express, because he would realize it too late, tonight, tomorrow, and what good would it do them then? And so it was that he was only so much broken glass in a bloodied fist, as unaware of what he was, what he did, as the glass was. Because it was the way he had always been, always remembering that he had a heart too late, when the moment had passed.. flown by like they all did.

Selfish. Bitter. The two things he wanted to be the least, was what he always was, justifying it with twisted, convoluted logic—or was it illogic? A perversion of logic, lies whispered to soothe the bruised self, to convince himself it was alright. That he was kind, and just, and not hypocritical at all. He spoke of ruling as a privilege, yet thirsted for the position of power—for self-fulfillment.

You cannot help those who do not want help. You cannot lead those who do not want to be led. And what right did he have to it, anyway?

As he stood there, gazing at the mare who had promised so much on a whim, he felt the darkness swell around him; a carrion bird spreading its wings, only to embrace him, and drive its beak through his chest, into his heart, whispering its venom into his blood. Even in the face of something he should celebrate his mind turned to the shadows, to the selfish relief of Mirage's disappearance, and that old, old vindictive bitterness. Even in the face of the Sunshower did the storm clouds gather.

Could you break your own heart?

“Mauja, come home with me,” she was saying, going on, the Edge, for good, where you belong, and the blue of his eyes nearly turned pained. What did she know of him? What did she know of the demons in his soul, of his restless feet, of where he belonged? Could he do what she asked—go with her, live a life in peace? Could he truly quench the restlessness of his soul, and live his life until he died of old age, and not of some vengeance or fight?

What did you do with life, anyway? What would he do with his heart, with Ophelia—she was as restless as he, he thought, but less inclined to violence. Would she have a place in the Edge, too?

Did she even want to be around him, after all the times he'd come and gone, after all the things he had actually done, and after hearing all the things Mauja wanted to say?

And what if everything went wrong? What if he couldn't stay put, but grew frustrated by the remnants of the Qian? What if they woke the devil in him, the restless beast who scorned their pacifism and naivety and narrow minds—what if he ended it all in bloodshed, clawing and kicking his way to the top until he breathed the free night air and Helovia once again knew him as nothing but the Ice King, the enemy they could unite against..?

What if he took this Kaj and tossed him off the Edge like a broken toy, simply because he could?

He could play at peace as much as he liked; but he couldn't blunt his own fangs. There was a difference between death and death, between accident and anger, fear and self-righteous rage... It was, he thought sadly, as he'd said to himself some time ago in the past season: just because he no longer believed in unicorn supremacy, he wouldn't stop hating idiots. Just because he didn't force himself to initially judge someone upon their appearance it didn't mean he would be nice until the end of his days. There was too much fire in him—and at the same time, he was so tired of it all.

So he stood before the Queen of the Edge, his face a closed book as always, but with something soft and sad in his eyes as she spoke of the trial, of Kaj, and looked at him keenly, happily, until her smile began to fade.. as if she understood the futility of it all.

She didn't know what he knew; that the one crime they wanted to put him on trial for was the one crime he didn't commit. That he was no foreigner to the act of murder. That even with a trial, maybe for his life, he still had that damnable part of him which, somehow, believed he had a right to cleanse the world of idiots—something so at odds with everything else he felt, that he sometimes truly wondered if there were not two Maujas in his body. One, the snow-soft and rather kind who dreamed of a world where he would not have to be so restless and so morbidly impulsive and violent; and the other, which sought to make the world such, by whatever means possibly.

One, endless, struggle for dominance. And a deep, certain plunge into despair.

"Kahlua," he said softly to her fading smile. Who was he? What did he want? He didn't even know—he'd wanted some sort of peace, to stop looking over his shoulder for Midas and Gaucho to descend and haul him to the Edge and the stupid Qian.. wanted to finally end that chapter of his life, for himself, but not for the truth. He was tired, of most things, he wanted to simply live, but the darkness was always there, and sometimes he wondered if he actually wanted to be rid of it or not. "Remember what I said that first time? About not blaming yourself if they will not listen?" He took a step forward, to reach out and brush his muzzle against her neck, wondering which side of him it was that spoke now. Did it come from the heart, or the twisted pipes of lies running through his mind? He manipulated himself, sometimes not even knowing it. "You do not have to do this," or am I just trying to back out?

[ Derrrrp alllll the wonderful conflict that makes up Mauja ]