don't tell the gods I left a mess
I can't undo what has been done
let's run for cover

what if I'm the only hero left?
you better fire off your gun
once and forever

He was getting used to chasing ghosts.

He was less used to catching them.

It had been a kind of heart-stopping surprise to find Snö there, lurking on the outskirts of the meeting, the snow-coat she'd inherited from him blending well with the backdrop—and she hadn't said anything, done anything, offered anything up, and he'd been left wondering why she was back.

If she had known he ruled the Edge again. If.. if it mattered to her.

And he thought all those other thoughts, too. He wondered how she'd been, where she'd gone, how she'd handled Psyche's death (I should've been there for all that but I lost her, I lost her—), what.. what she saw in his eyes each time he looked at her. Because, Roskuld had opened his eyes to something, and—and the idea that his own fear and failures stared out of him, at her, as if it was her fault—it scared him to the bones.

It had never, ever been what he'd wanted her to see, what he'd wanted her to feel, and.. he didn't have a clue. He had no idea what he'd been showing her all this while—if anything.

If his love for her ever shone through the fucking blizzard eating up his life.

So it was with his heart pounding, lithe and shallow, in his mouth that he left the meeting to follow a lonely trail into a lonely forest. Snow was beginning to claim the world, but he moved over it with ease, long tail trailing on the ground.

Where are you going, little bird?

But then he found her, by a wall that was so pale now that it could've been made out of ice—she was walking along it, and he wondered if she contemplated leaving.

Hadn't—gods, no, that was Kou he'd dragged back from those thoughts.

Kou, who had chided him from playing cat-and-mouse with Deimos' magic. Kou, who.. was so frustrated with him and his lack of care for himself. Kou, who was just as dead as Psyche, making Aviya and all her siblings just as motherless as Snö.

"I thought I saw you there," he said into the winter air, his voice like light and his breath like smoke; his ears had flicked forward as he tried to catch up properly simply by virtue of his longer legs.

And, gods, but that fear was eating holes in his gut, because he couldn't know—couldn't feel—what was in his eyes, could barely hear what was in his voice (all that warmth, all that warmth he kept trying to shove at her, loving her when she defied loving, and just hoping that one day it'd go through her thick, stupid skull that he always had, and always would, love her).

[ @[Snö] ]

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 . . .