Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

He was healing. Slowly pulling himself together, mind and body. After the visit by Tor and Ophelia he had abandoned the cave in the Frozen Arch, once more sweeping across the tundra like a snow ghost, a mythical being pulled from another time, another place - an ice revenant from some dark story. But despite being in his element, all the time, morning to evening and through the night, there were things he disliked. Things he missed. The vast, open sky, so blue in the day and so black in the night, made him feel vulnerable. Watched. Haunted. There were no trees to shield him from sun or rain, or to block the bitter wind that bit his thick fur on the colder days. And only on the shores, and usually only in the morning, could he find fog in which to hide, to dissolve the boundary between his body and the world. But even that was a small relief, as here, the moisture clung to his skin and froze, chilling him in ways he did not quite like. Maybe, in another time, in another place, he had been used to it. He couldn't remember, if there had been fog like the Edge's in his homeland - and if he had frozen, when it nestled so close to his skin.

Of course, it was only natural for a heart to swell with bitterness, the ache of loss. He could not simply stand still and listen to the trill of birds, their songs greeting both sun and moon, or hear the rustle of branches and leaves, of vegetation, scurrying mice - sea gulls crying, waves crashing against rocks. The land here was far too wide. The ocean did not reach him when he stood at its center. There were no trees, little green save hardy shrubs, no birds to sing of the seasons changing. Only the cold sky and the vastness of snow.

It glittered under the afternoon sun, shadows lengthening as it slowly sunk towards the western horizon. Mauja stood still, watching its movements, tracing its path across the sky. He liked the snow, he liked the cold, liked Frostfall - in many ways, it felt like home. But for so long, home had been the World's Edge, a foggy forest clinging to a cliff. How could he not compare that, which had been his pride and his haven, to a place he had been forced, no matter how lovely it was? Sighing, the former King allowed his gaze to fall, settling instead on a shape that blended in just as well as he. Perhaps he would not have seen her, if not for the little black filly clinging to her side. The ghost of a smile crept onto his face, but he made no move towards her yet. He had brought them here, scattered, and then disappeared with his infected hind end to a cave. Not the best move, but now he was out again, healing, not decaying. Between his ears, Irma gave his poll a, according to her, comforting squeeze. Sharp-taloned affection. He gave a snort. Not having a fever raging through his body, or his ass about to fall off, had definitely put him in a better mood.

That, and some distance to the memory of fire burning in his very skin.

Since he had nothing better to do than watch the sun arc across the sky, and now it was near the horizon anyway, he called out to her, a deep whicker rolling across the snowy tundra. Feeling in no particular hurry he began to walk, remembering, easily, how to stride across snow. It felt so natural. It was unfair, how it cleaved his heart in two; one that longed for the Edge, another that wanted to spin in the snow, and laugh at the cold, dark skies. But I want to spin between trees, dance between their familiar trunks and watch the trail of my body through the fog.

You could never have it all.

"Kou," he greeted her, once close enough. He stopped at a yard or so out, extending his dark muzzle to bump it against hers, should she allow it. Then, he craned his neck to gaze at little Aviya, giving her a smile. "And little Aviya, of course."