en natt så kall och månen den var klar

There was a certain order to things—you came, you saw, you conquered. You came, you saw, you fucked up. Mauja walked in the shallow streambed, clear water rushing around his striped hooves and wetting his feathers; they clung to his fetlocks, plastered against the skin beneath. He didn't think he'd fucked up too badly this time, but hey, he was pretty sure he always fucked something up whenever he met Snö. She was still, somewhere in the dim corners of his heart, his princess: his first, his pristine, the spawn between him and Psyche.. destined for so much greatness simply by virtue of blood, yet both her parents had become so different from the time when they had made her. If he spoke his heart, it was not enough; and he was silent, she seemed to scold him for all the things he did not say. He assumed it was his own doing, because he hadn't done enough to bring her back into the fold each time she left.

But if he had done more, would she have resented him for that, too?

The fallen monarch sighed, and lowered his nose to the cold water. Its rush tickled his whiskers, and he drank for but a moment before moving on. Sielu was somewhere around, at least he thought so. The way he'd found her was every father's nightmare, but he was willing to take the blame for that, too. After all, he'd abandoned her and her mother, breaking his oaths for the sake of some futile quest to reclaim his glory—and he was paying for it yet again. The water kept streaming past his ankles. At least Sielu didn't seem to be quite as prickly as her older half-sister where Mauja's tendency to disappear was concerned. A two-faced, guilty relief.

An owl rode upon his back; not the usual white one as Helovia was accustomed to seeing him with perching on his withers. Irma was somewhere above, in the blue, but the still-smaller male had touched down for some rest. He didn't yet have the stamina to remain awing as long as Irma, but Mauja didn't mind that, either. He had a decent amount of growing left to do, but it was a relief that he was fledged and able to hunt for himself. He knew his place, too. Not even when Irma remained in the air did he dare to take her perch on his withers, but he rode further back along Mauja's spine, talons gripping fresh scars and scabs. His fiery eyes were closed, his young mind drifting through the heavy seas of sleep.

There was a certain kind of peace out on the meadow on that day, as Mauja meandered slowly further west (not strong enough to take the straight way) with the sun on his back. It sparked like sapphires along the water, and as with all too-perfect settings, he had the niggling feeling that it was going to end. Maybe just something as bothersome as a swarm of flies, but it could be spectacular, too. So he tried to enjoy it while it lasted.

Because end, it would.

It was a tree, a shadow, a shape, and a scent. All the world's darkness seemed drawn to a certain point, a fixed point upon the map, and Mauja's quiet sloshing ceased some fifteen paces away. The stillness of the air had masked her scent, but now that he was close enough to see the stripes of white cascading through her black hair, and like jagged scar-lines across her body, there was no doubt at all about it. Delinne.

Another failure, though of a different kind, and his 'brows drew together. He didn't like to think about it, about his reasons, or lack thereof, or anything he'd done in that mess—because he didn't know what he felt about it, not even now. Regret, because he'd been an ass? Or could he lie to himself and her again, and say he'd tried to do it for her own good? She hadn't exactly been kind to him last time they met, and if he'd been feeling less awful, he probably would've attacked her down in the caves just to shut her up. Because, and he was sort of ashamed to admit it in the midst of all his "starting over" nonsense, he didn't really care. He didn't care about the way she was trying to take her own flaws and push onto him, like it was somehow his fault she hadn't been strong enough to fight his verdict.

Mauja let the quietest of sighs escape him. Perhaps she was asleep. Perhaps that cat of hers was asleep. Perhaps he could just walk by unnoticed.. and so, like a memory of last season's pristine snow, Mauja began to walk again, hooves rustling quietly over the gravel streambed and water rushing, dazzling, past his hooves.

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