en natt så kall och månen den var klar

He was gazing at her hair with a distant look drawn over his face, a certain stillness about him; the wind might shift his hair, his sides heave with slow breaths and lids close when he blinked—but he was glacial, a marble statue left out to weather the storms of the world. He moved to a different rhythm, harkened to a different song, and sometimes he wondered if not some shard of him was separated, embedded on some forlorn shore by another time stream. After all, there was no guarantee that Asni would've seen fit to return him whole, and it did coincide with the time when he'd begun to lose hope and soul.

Still, now was neither the time nor place to lose himself to such thoughts. The idea of cutting her hair didn't seem to appeal to Abishia. He smiled wryly. He wasn't sure he'd approve of the idea either, but he was older and wiser; he knew how it grew, like weeds, and if she would rather keep her precious hair he could leave her to her devices (and demises; there were many ways to die in this godforsaken forest). But, she was spared from some dark and gory doom. He snorted softly. He was getting good at this, saving mares, and was already eying her hair again. "I'm so fucking helpless- Oh my goodness, excuse my language..."

"Hah," he breathed, a short, harsh expelling of air. It tinted the air with white smoke, dissipating quickly in the warm spring air. The trees stood out in starker relief to him, gut growing colder. "Curse all you want. It's not I who will strike you down in this place."

Not telling who would, though. He gave his head a slight shake to dislodge the thoughts, and ignored her restless fidgeting. He had more, ah, important things to do. Gods, there was such an irony to him always having to play savior, and if it hadn't been totally out of his character he probably would've muttered about it under his breath. As it was, he remained stoic and fairly silent, breathing in the warm air and feeling it turn to snow in his lungs. Cold—it was always so cold and dark in this place, full of ice rushing through his veins and dark, dark thoughts.

Frost sprung up along her trapped mane, a rattle and a tinkle as tiny nubs of ice rose from the ground. Mauja narrowed his eyes at it. Frozen things had a way of breaking. Maybe hair would break, too. Fire would be better, though, or a sword-of-a-horn. He lowered his head to where the frost had turned it all white, winding around branches and the log itself. Irma, paler than a ghost, and Diego, her fiery shadow, alighted by his feet. It was strange to see them on the ground, strange to see them doing anything to help, but maybe they, too, knew that the sooner the girl was free, the sooner they, too, were free—of plight, to go seek a certain individual out, take on the world and rise and fall like even the mightiest of stars would do.

Detached, he raised his head again, to peer in silence at Abishia. Meanwhile, the owls began to peck and pull at the frozen strands, slowly but surely breaking their stiff fibers.

[ Note to self: don't ever write when this tired again. xD @[Abishia] tag because it was a while, sorry! ]

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