Your heart's a mess,
you won't admit to it, it makes no sense.

And you, you can't live like this.

The water clung to the memory of a summer sun's scorching rays, tried so desperately to hold out against the cold of the darkness, but bit by bit it slowly let go. Steam rose from the restless surface, so faint he could barely make it out against the navy backdrop of the sky. The steam which rose in front of his face was harder to miss. With each steady exhalation it rose, betraying his ghastly presence to be solid—mortal—and not simply some phantom come to haunt the shore, a lonely, lost sailor's soul tugged under by the sea. His steps glowed, touched by the opalescent moonlight, until the warmth of the water melted the lingering frost and left his path dull, and darkened.

Earlier that night, he'd often stopped to peer over his shoulder, to watch the lonely set of prints he'd left behind, to marvel at the dull thud of his heart, and its whispering voice, saying there should be a second set there, all lined with frost, too. But Sarazheha had returned north. There was only Mauja and the night wind, and the owl riding so far above, a quiet spectator—only Mauja, and his heart full of secrets.

Truly, not that much had changed, but a shift in his awareness. He was still who he was, or at least, he hoped so. Surely he wouldn't start hating yellow just because he'd made up his mind to stop lying to himself? Or had his like for the color yellow always been a lie?

It was at times like these, in the moonlit hours of the night, that he felt like flipping down face-first and burying himself in the wet sand. He wasn't getting anywhere, only anguishing about the same things over and over. How long had he been back? Not even a season. How many old faces had he run into, to test his mettle, to see his reflection in their eyes and actions? Aside from Kou and Frost Fyre that day in the Threshold, a grand total of one: d'Artagnan. Strangers? Uhm, about two or three, maybe. Useless.

He wasn't sure why he was so obsessed with "figuring himself out" or "getting somewhere", but whatever the reason, what he was doing now wasn't helping with either.

So, he kept going. Not much else to do. The waterline lapped at his feet and pulled back, as if burned by his cold touch, and his mind settled into the dull rhythm of walking, toying with the memory of Sarazheha's rather magnificent arrival at the Throat shore half a year before. The wind had whipped itself into a frenzy, formed a wedge powerful enough to strike Mauja down onto the restless, bucking ground, and, thankfully, kept the Pegasus warriors grounded, unable to follow as he swam out to sea. I miss you.

He didn't know where his obsession with his brother came from, either.
Maybe it was just a pleasant distraction, or suppressed wishful thinking for a savior. Maybe, after all this time, he was the one who needed a hero.

The taste and scent of brine was familiar. Once, it had been his daily companion in the Edge, but that had been so long ago.. he barely remembered it. The bitterness was giving in to time, to defeat. He sighed, smoke rising to the sky, and he watched it with blue eyes, wishing he, too, could rise like that. And when it faded, his gaze shifted its focus, found something else. Outlined against the starry horizon stood a young horse, still not fleshed out enough for her skeleton, with wings folded against her sides. Something smaller, canine-like, walked with her; Irma swept in lower, broad wings flared wide to catch the night air. It was a mare, maybe a year old or so, with lighter spots dappling her chest and neck. The dog was some kind of hound, obviously close to her. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Irma's vision swept on, wheeled further out; this was a stallion, an adult, compact of build and pearly bright in the moonlight. He, too, had a dog.

Mauja's hooves had stopped moving, and he stood motionless, a marble statue awash with silver light: simply breathing, heart just beating, waiting.

You will never come alive from the sidelines.