en natt så kall och månen den var klar

He'd never been any good at this. He always broke everything he came near, smashing and shattering with all the blind elegance of a bull, bruising hearts with his thoughtlessness and keeping them raw and bloody with his random moments of care. If he only was the Frostheart idiot they called him, maybe they could let go—because there would be nothing but frigid distance to hold on to, a black, cold void stretching out beneath his skin and spanning everything that should be warm and red.

Nor had he ever borne failure well. He knew that he was awful; and having others point it out only ran the risk of provoking him into anger, because he was too weak to admit that he was stupid and lousy. "So you sired another one." "What a pleasant surprise." Their voices rose like a crescendo in his mind even as poor Sielu stirred under his touch. "I played with her once, when she was quite small." I never played enough with her. "How much of her childhood were you absent for?" Too much, too much. His gaze drifted from the fragile form of his daughter, and onto the bitter witch Snö had become. There was distance and pain in his eyes, but only silence in his mouth; he had no words, because what could he possibly say? I'm sorry? No words could make right everything he'd done wrong, and no mere words could ever change him, and all the things that were wrong within him. He just bore it quietly, broke a little more, listening to the shrill sound of fragmented ice shattering on a marble floor.

Snö walked away.
As she always did.
Always running from all the things she didn't want to see, or say; always running and Mauja never ran after, because if she left, what right did he have to bring her back? His ears flattened behind her back, but the look of pain remained. She'd grown bitter and distanced, cruel and sharp-tongued, and did she hide from all her mistakes by pushing them onto him, like he hid and pushed it onto the world?

Did she ever stop to think of the ways she had hurt him, too?

He hated what she had become, he hated what he'd made her, the bitterness and cynicism she'd inherited from him; she disgusted him and he pitied her, and he hated her—but she was his daughter, and he loved her, even if the futility of the emotion made him want to weep.

Snö had loved, once. A black, shaggy, dangerous ruffian of a unicorn and dog.

Would she ever learn to love again?

His pale eyes stared through the trees at where she had disappeared, that warrior angel with her blackened soul and dead heart. She had run from him, and she kept on running.

“Da…da..daddy..”

The weak voice belonged to his other daughter—the one who had inherited all of Faelene's sense, it seemed, even if she'd received Mauja's stupid, bull-headed inability to clearly see for herself what was good for her. If only he hadn't been so stupid that night—if only he and Faelene both had had some more sense—if only it hadn't been such a damn contrast between hot and cold, and his mind in shambles—then this neglected creature wouldn't lie by his feet, desperately and pitifully reaching for the one thing she thought could save her, when all he'd ever bring someone was pain.

But even for all of that, he could not wish her away. Just like he loved the wounded monster that was Snö, he loved the delicate, silent girl he barely knew at all.

"I'm here," he whispered, black nose pressed to her shoulder. She didn't seem injured. Just.. exhausted, and cold. His gaze came up to Illynx; for a moment, it bared all the pain and shame of his existence, before he blinked, and the level ice slipped back into place. "Are you hurt? We need to get you up, on your feet..."

His voice a mumble, his heart a mess.

Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål