en natt så kall och månen den var klar

Well, clearly he'd misunderstood her question. His mind was never quite where it ought to be, running too deep, or not deep enough at all; this time, his cynicism had dribbled through his teeth and filled the minutes with his dispassionate ranting. "That answer was too complicated and irrelevant to my question, Mauja." One of his ears flicked backwards in a display that could only be called "the most lazy way to express that you think your conversation partner is being stupid". She'd asked what they were, and he'd answered her question—was it his fault if she hadn't asked it properly, if she'd wanted some other kind of answer? Apparently it was. Whatever. What difference did the reason his eyes were cold make, when they were cold all the same?

Not that it discouraged her. Blue came in many shades, and through the veil of his silken hair he let her stare—and stared right back, cold and empty. Because he had nothing to fill himself up with but bitterness and old aches.

"What are we, King?"

King. So long since anyone had called him that, except for Delinne's venomous words of the Ice King in the presence of Circuta: King, King Mauja the Frostheart, King of World's Edge, King of.. the world. He'd never been Lord of the Basin: he'd never, ever been less than a king. Sovereign. Somewhere in him still lived that frigid monarch, who paced through his trees with the fog swirling dramatically around his legs, who listened to the birds and the winds, and kept his borders safe. But you couldn't be a King when you couldn't even govern yourself. If his life lay in shatters, how could he ever reclaim the title that was his, and somehow find purpose—and balance—in this chaotic world? The game board had changed, the rules had changed, his resources had changed. He needed conflict, but didn't want to cause it, and no one else seemed strong enough to do it (not even he).

But none of that answered her question, and his silence made her go on, questioning out loud. Enemies? Maybe; he'd tormented her rather cruelly after all, hadn't he? Friends? Maybe once they could've been, but as her ruler he had been both distant and available, warm, but detached underneath.

He didn't know. He didn't know how to figure out either, when he didn't even know why he did what he did, and felt what he felt, or even what he felt and thought. How could he possibly answer that kind of question, when they'd barely met for two years, and each time had been full of tears, hurt, anger, and furious words? She'd hurled insults at him and he'd done his best to cause her pain, and yet.. here she stood, saying friendship as if it was a possibility.

If it was—would he want it?

"What a rude, little cat."

Said rude cat was disappearing deeper into the trees, leaving them to head away, and Mauja knew enough of bondmates to know that she'd left with some parting comment for Delinne. "Yes, and no," he replied with vague amusement, glad to let the other question lie for now. "They have their moments." Just like he'd had his earlier. "What's her name?"

It felt too normal, like.. like, he didn't know what; he didn't even know if he wanted to be where he was. He didn't even know if he wanted to keep talking to Delinne, yet he did.

Because after all—what did he have to offer her?

Nothing.

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