"You're not happy here."

For a moment longer Mauja looked out across the land far below, white shoulder propped against the deep, ancient rocks of the mountain. On the horizon, beyond the narrow pass, he could almost make out myrkdalurinn. Slowly, one black-rimmed ear flicked back, and with a sigh he turned from the watch post to look at his brother. Sarazheha was watching him with that keen, concerned look Mauja had grown terribly familiar with as of late. When had his little brother grown up to become so wise, so sensitive?
While you were busy becoming a monster.

"If the Heimasborg were a fire, you're leaning away from it, not into its warmth."
"I'm not their hero, Sara."
Soul and eyes filled up with blue... not even in the midst of the battle, the fire in his veins and the bone-shaking roar of the Magnar, had it released him. When had he become this tired old thing? Someone had stolen the heart out of his chest, and bit by bit he'd slipped into darkness, floundering, unable to find his feet. The weight of the world lay heavy across his shoulders; home was nowhere. This was home, in many ways, and yet it wasn't—had stopped to be all those years ago.
"Oh, but you are," Sara replied, his voice so warm in the cold, cold world. Dark and elegant, Mauja's little brother came closer, reaching up to tug at his white mane. "You're just not your own hero, Mauja."
Mauja grimaced, but said nothing. A moment later the faint hope in Sarazheha's eyes dulled, and the black stallion sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if you've stopped trying..."

The words were a mumble, a rush of warm air against his neck, but for all of that it felt like he'd been dunked in icy water. It tasted like betrayal—like everything else did. Slowly he clenched his jaws, drew a deep breath, and held it. Counted to ten. Released it. "No," he responded quietly, feeling, more than seeing, the way Sara hung onto his every word, how he soaked it all up for the things hidden between the lines—the things words could not convey. "I just don't know what to try anymore." And still, a small smile curved his dark lips as he watched his brother. He had no reason to care, no obligation. Mauja had left them all behind, never explaining anything, and yet here his brother was, almost revolving around him.

"You're the only family I have left," he'd said once, when they had just returned.
"Honesty, brother," was what he said now, turning his head to rest his black cheek against Mauja's neck, shoulder to shoulder with only the cold armor in-between. A moment's silence.
He felt their pulses align.

"Come," Sarazheha finally said, pulling back. "You're a ghost in these halls, haunted and haunting. It's not fair to keep you here; you've done all, and more, that we needed. They have no right to truth on top of that."
"Sara..."
"I don't need to know, brother. It was a long time ago."

---

Was it truly so simple? That just because it had happened a long time ago, it was alright? Or was it just his brother? As the gale died down around them, Mauja thought it was the latter; perhaps Sarazheha did not need the truth, but it was inevitable that the others would. He'd begun to hear the whispers, the rumors, the theories of what had happened—hopeful, hushed conversation when he was nearby, bait for him to come over and finally solve one of the many mysteries regarding his past. No one had cared much when he returned; it was only after he became their hero they did. Hero, pah. All he did was hold their plan together, and refuse to be afraid.

The last of the unnatural winds faded, their storm-crowns of white and black settling in rugged messes against sweaty necks. Eight frosted hooves stood solidly upon the ground, the sparse beginnings of the Threshold forest in full summer's glory just ahead of them—Mauja turned his head sideways, eying his brindled brother. Even if their homeland wanted to contain him, all because of some runes scribbled on his skin, they couldn't. Ever since Sarazheha had realized the wind sang in his blood he could go wherever he wanted. Reckless and dutiful. Mauja snorted softly.
"Godsblood," he said, and Sarazheha laughed—he sounded like a storm, like thunder, always did whenever he commanded the air. Irma perched on his black shoulder, smoothing out her ruffled feathers. Mauja didn't need to ask to know she him. "Then you are too, brother." Mauja snorted. "As if. There's nothing godly about me." "No, no, not at all—you just happened to save us all, you know?" "Anyone could've done that! All they needed was to stop being afraid of change." Sarazheha slowly shook his head, but let it be, for which Mauja was glad. He didn't like being the center of their attention—didn't like getting all the glory when it didn't belong to him. Really, the only thing he could take credit for was the peace treaty.

Slowly, Mauja took his eyes off Sarazheha, and onto the forest ahead. The trees, the gently rolling, soft ground of summer, were all familiar, even this far out, still on the other side. Would the sun blacken and fall out of the sky once he crossed the invisible border? Would he be plunged back into that darkness? "I'm not sure this is home, either," he said quietly, drawing in the scents. "But maybe here, I can find peace and quiet at least." Sarazheha said nothing. When Mauja raised one hoof to begin the journey into the familiar forest, he followed like a quiet black shadow, keenly remembering the circumstances of their departure, and unwilling to let his white brother go. Not when I just got your back, hryggur bróðir minn.

[ They're actually talking in Icelandic, but I'm too lazy to do the translations when it's just the two of them. xD ]