Mauja Frosthjärta

He should've been ashamed, really. He could've just gone straight past Aramis, knowing all the significance and somehow forgetting to acknowledge it. The hound's bark startled him, as if he'd somehow not realized the dog was a living, breathing thing; the fight-or-flight twitch ran along his body, a ripple across the sea of white. Mauja paused mid-stride, head turning towards the beast, and he swallowed the urge to mumble sorry. He returned the greeting by lowering the point of his horn towards the ground, below the pose for threat, and gave him a fleeting glimpse of blue eyes behind a thick forelock, before turning to keep going on his merry way. Really, Mauja, he scolded himself as his hooves picked their path with ease.

In the sunlight d'Artagnan seemed more red than ever, a nearly bloody sheen outlining the curves of his muscles and back, and auburn highlights in his dark mane. He seemed surprised to turn and see Mauja there—Mauja, in all his foolish, grinning glory. But if he'd depicted some sort of grinfest reunion, he'd been wrong, maybe even forgotten the manner of interaction the pair of them usually had. Though, he was quickly reminded. "Give me one good reason not to chuck you off this ledge." One part of him wanted to laugh, heartily, to trust in his heart's voice which whispered it's all jest, but the other—older—part of him yelled things he'd rather not listen to. Instead, he somehow found the means to wipe the grin off his face, replacing it with a stern, severe mask. "Because there are far more spectacular ledges to chuck me off than this one," he said sagely, without seeming too much like he was joking. It was the best reason he'd been able to come up with at a moment's notice, because in all honesty, he didn't feel like he was enough of a reason in itself. After all this time, could he truly say that he didn't deserve to be pushed off a ledge? No, not really.

But, much to his own relief, d'Artagnan wasn't really into murdering his friends. It nearly made Mauja feel sick, how he could never quite quench that stupid, distrustful voice, silence it forever and chuck it off a ledge. d'Artagnan deserved better, though.. maybe his struggle was enough, for now? Maybe the fact that he wanted that voice to be silent, strove to kill it, was.. enough?

"Enough"?
It was the concept of losers.

But damn, seeing that smile on d'Artagnan's face was like a million bells and stars ringing in his skull, and hearing his chuckle brought Mauja's smile out of hiding again. Somehow, such a small action, a gesture that took less than a second to form—somehow, it made things easier. It was acceptance, for now. And who knows what else they might have said, or done, upon that path where the Gods probably weren't watching? (We do not know, at least. Nyx—or the Gods?—saw to that.)

The clatter of hooves had his head spinning on his neck, half his body following the turn to prepare for whatever. Violence, most likely. Some reactions and expectations were so deeply rooted, and convenient if you wanted to survive, that he doubted he'd ever get rid of them. His four hooves were suddenly planted wide in a battle-ready stance, head lowered and neck arched to prepare to impale something and withstand the impact, but all his eyes found was a steel-gray mare who seemed more panicked than murderous. Her breath was wheezing out through dark nostrils, and as she paused and heaved out a tale of Aramis, Mauja snorted. She didn't seem to be in an awfully good condition, and he felt highly judgmental, but kept his silence. It wasn't really in his nature to make barbs..or was it? He found himself looking quietly at the stranger, sampling her scents. Brine. It was like a metal-covered fist around his heart. The Edge.

It was his first contact with the place in a long, long time—anger swept into his soul, a hot flood of red rage, and for one, blinding moment, he wanted to spin on his forehand and lash out, send her reeling off the nearest edge and dream that it was Mirage's black body screaming in the pits of blue lava.

But somehow, he held back, ears pinned momentarily against his neck as his head thrust towards the sky. You don't deserve it if you're not strong enough to take it he growled at himself. d'Artagnan's voice was muffled and full of apology, not at all the rather cruel humor he'd expected. Why not give her a run for her money, pretend they were all servants of Hell and that if she didn't hop backwards thrice and then run in a figure of eight until nightfall they'd eat her soul? Not trusting his tongue—hell, not trusting himself—Mauja kept silent, neck tense and head high, but at least he'd managed to unpin his ears. They weren't too keen on flitting forward, though, and the result was that he looked rather like a sour, floppy-eared donkey.

A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.