I'm a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm
and the scars that mark my body, they're silver and gold

Each beat of his own heart left a cold, gnawing feeling in his gut, like there was something wrong—something so fundamentally wrong that he ought to lie sleepless over it, until he figured it out.

But the problem was—there was no figuring it out.

He knew what it was, already.

The problem was the problem itself—that feeling, the circle closing.. the jaws closing... Slowly, his ears angled back and his face drew into one of tired defeat; what were his options, really? Running away? That wouldn't solve anything. He'd gone into this on a whim, but that didn't make him—well, okay, it sure as hell made him irresponsible to claim a position he had no clue what the fuck to do with just because he was selfish but the point was—he didn't have to be more irresponsible than he already had been.

Besides, Torleik was a fair King, and everything else aside, it was interesting to see where their awkward ship would end up. Mauja had never ruled with anyone in this sense, and least of all with someone he didn't know intimately, and, and, and—

There were about a thousand things to think, but not enough time to think them, and his thoughts ran like light itself to outpace the inevitable ohmygodmybrainistoofull but in the end, he couldn't hold it all in his mind and it shattered, and fell apart. It only made his face fall further, ears clenching to his neck as the muscles of his jaw tensed, and his eyes—they were dark, and haunted.

He needed someone. He needed.. he needed Kahlua. He couldn't vent all of this shit to Torleik, because Torleik was a stranger, and Mauja was pretty sure he sometimes had a stick hidden up his ass—but that was okay. Mauja would try to get it out of there. And maybe, one day, if their little ship didn't collapse in a storm or sailed head-first into some shitty cliff, he could vomit this out on his co-leader, because.. uhh... it mattered, right?

“…Leos?”

Let's re-wind—let's re-wind from another perspective, one not mired in awkward musings about boats and Kahlua and the past and boats and—literal boats.

Because there was this small, really small (almost edible-small) owl flapping about the Rotunda and hooting (both Irma and Diego were too dignified to hoot when they had a goddamned arsenal of other noises at their disposal (well, Irma did; Diego didn't hoot because it was better to stay silent instead of getting icy glares from Irma)) .. and for a moment, one set of arctic blue and one set of fiery amber eyes glared at the little creature through the gathering dark.

But then, something changed in those pale eyes, and Irma's head flicked to one side, then back, beak clicking once as she thought and felt, and.. and in a rustle of feathers she was up, gliding silently, and yes, there was Elding, and no lizard, so, improbable or not, it had to be—she feinted towards him, sharp talons stretched out, while Diego watched passively.

“…Leos?”

And everything changed about him; his ears flicked forward, his head snapped around, and the years drained from his shoulders as instinct kicked in and told him to be the strong one, be the shield. Because her voice, it was so tentative in some way, like, like maybe he wasn't real, just a lingering shaft of sunlight even after the sun had set—something that could be scared away.

And secondly, because the moment he laid eyes on her, the little ghost holding his heart with its cold hands was forgotten, shoved to the back of his mind.

She looked like shit.

She looked worse than he could remember having seen her, curled up on a crystal-dusted floor with tears flooding her cheeks and all sorts of gross things getting spilled on his mane.

Then, she had been ravaged by fresh loss; now, she looked like something about a week too late to its date with their grave.

"Elding?" The name slipped out of his mouth, not surprised, but more like the kind of shocked worry, the kind where you're still just standing in the same spot because you don't know what the fuck to do to solve it but all you want to do is rush over there and hope that something can be done.

Who cared that she was Ophelia's child. Who cared that Ophelia had more or less threatened him to keep his paws off of her.

Who cared that her name was actually Roskuld.

She was coming over, slow and ambling, such a stark difference from that idiotically flapping owl (Diego's appraisal of the situation, mind), and looking so rugged, so worn, so, so.. His mouth worked soundlessly before he left the comfort of his pillar, hooves clanging on the marble floor as he jogged over to her.

And what do you say? You look like shit?

No. If she'd had some kind of half-smile, maybe he would've—if she'd been covered half in thistles, maybe he would've. But she wasn't. She was covered in the filth of life, something that ate at her, and sat too deep to shake off.

What's happened to you?

And maybe, that's what you should ask, worried eyes skipping this way and that over her body, 'brows drawing closer and closer together as his heart snarled out who do I need to kill?

"What's wrong?" he breathed to her, softly, the moist night air turning his voice to a puff of translucent smoke.

What's wrong? he echoed with his heart, dark muzzle slowly reaching out to touch her cheek.

[ CHEST BUMP? I'LL D*** BUMP YOU BRO @[Roskuld] ]

lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .