“The fear of losing again.” The quiet addition to his confession was not missed— though it surprised him. He had never considered the fear of more loss; his fears had morphed into vengeance, rage, destruction, and eventual exodus. And here, in Helovia, he had not felt the fear of losing again; at least, not yet. Though after the Isles, after seeing Rexanna’s broken face before him, hurt my himself… He could begin to understand the beginnings of that fear.

Ears twitch at the dull repetition of his own words, eyes studying this man’s speckled face, trying to understand what was churning behind the bright blue eyes. More anguish? More fear? Despite his own inner turmoil, he felt relief wash through him as some sort of clarity returned to their once anguish-dazed depths. There was still so much more (mountains, eons, miles) of healing to do, but perhaps this, two hurting souls atop the gods’ forsaken rock, was a small victory against the pain. Perhaps.

Navy eyes finally feel comfortable enough to leave Mauja’s blue-lit form, following his glance to the broken shrines. He finally took the time to study the dilapidated statues, confusion once again rising at the state of such a holy place when the gods were alive and well— wouldn't they demand this be repaired? The idle thoughts were swept far back into the recesses of his mind as the thick, tear-quieted tenor of his friend voiced once again.

And the Elephant, in the face of all this exhausting anguish, found mild humor in the Frozen’s statement, as the slimmest of smiles turned up the corners of once-pursed lips, “I have been accused of many things, good and bad, in my past life. But a ‘god’ has never been one of them.” The smile spread a little wider in amusement at the idea— to those of Dorobo he was a devil long before he would ever be a god. And he was glad, immensely so, to see the ghost of a smile cross the shadowed muzzle of his old king.

At the suggestion of returning home (another wave of relief that Mauja still referred to the Edge as ‘home’), his eyes coasted to the general direction of the black tongue of rock he had clanged across to reach these shrines. “Home sounds like a godsend,” he rotated as he spoke, so that he might stand aside his friend rather than facing him. Gently leaning towards him, his great shoulder sought to press one last comforting, strengthening, touch against the silken coat.

And then great strides begin to sweep away this time of heartache, of soulache, leading the tan and white duo back home.