It felt strange, to hear his name spoken in the soft tones of a female - not that he somehow led a herd of stallions, but... they seldom spoke his name. His rank had convinced a lot of misled horses to call him "my king" or "your grace", and when alone, there was little need to address the other by name. Or perhaps it was just the enchanting qualities of Ophelia's voice, how it was both like silver chimes and a winter wind. Faint echoes of her damning vow towards Deimos blew through his head, and he gave it a miniscule shake. It was unlikely that that day had been a good day for any of them, with, perhaps, the exception of Deimos.

Tor claimed she needed to rest, but he silently agreed with Ophelia. If she wanted to survive, she had to get up, and soon - the chill was always the worst on the floor, where it sucked the heat right out of your body and left you a cold, shivering wreck. The draft seemed determined to stay down, though, and in all honesty, he wasn't that keen on moving away from Ophelia. Miraculous, how sweeping the feverish infection from a body made you feel reborn. It even cured some of his vile mood, making him more inclined to make sure the healer made it through the night. Perhaps it was glorious to heal an exiled king? He doubted it, and even though he wanted to scream at the world and tear it apart stone by stone, he had to school himself to patience, keep dancing the dance upon the knife's edge. Besides, if he didn't stay in this cave with Tor and Ophelia, he'd just do something stupid like prance in the snow, which was quite meaningless and didn't contribute to his effort of taking over the world. So, best stay.

After no more than a couple of minutes, though, the mare seemed inclined to get up again. Mauja quickly scrambled back to give her space, watching as Ophelia rushed forth to offer her something to lean on. Was kindness an intrinsic piece of personality, something that had been hammered out of him, given only when he saw fit and usually only after consideration? What was it, that made it a person's reflex to care for others? Absently he trailed around to the mare's left side, sweeping his muzzle down her flank. Snow fell to the ground, not that it made a difference in her color anyway, white as the majority of her body was. His ears flickered, a humorless grunt of a laugh escaping him. A rebellion to start, when his tattered family was in shambles? "They've made it this far without getting infected, and I'm more concerned seeing the healer survive the night," he murmured, ears flickering. No need to respond to the stupid comment about a rebellion. He wasn't sure at all what to do - sure only of the notion that he wanted to crush the dragonwhore's head beneath his hoof. Anger, oh yes, there was much of it in him, should he but touch it, breathe life into it. But he didn't. He kept his insides calm, a castle of ice and snow. Better not lose his head.

Again, Ophelia's soft voice nearly froze his movements, nearly threw his entire world upside down. Only by focusing on his breathing did he prevent it from hitching in his throat, though he grew somewhat stiller where he stood. He'd not been raised with much kindness, and had always been the central pillar of his herd, the one who could neither falter nor waver. Weakness had not been a luxury he could afford. And when you wore a strong mask, no one stopped to ask you how you felt, if you were okay - if something bothered you. Who would presume to know a monarch's heart anyway, and dare risk his wrath by assume he might not be wholly well? He couldn't remember a time when anyone had even expressed a remote concern for his well-being, and hearing it now... A greedy, selfish part of him wanted to run Tor out and be alone with the more slender mare, but an equally large - or even larger - part feared it. "More than I are wounded," he spoke quietly, trying to steer his thoughts onto other things. "You would be more than welcome to practice your art on them when you energy has returned, if your kindness would allow it. Should you feel unsafe walking among my kin, as it is true that not all of them look favorably upon the hornless, I would not mind escorting you."

With the natural cool of his body, the smoothness of his tongue had returned - and the clarity of his mind, the ease for schemes, though his eyes and voice expressed nothing but gentle concern and shy warmth.

Mauja Frosthjärta