“Mauja.”

Sunlight glinted in Sacre's fur, a ripple of red and navy across his black fur, bronze and gold on his crimson markings. In some backwards way, it felt fitting. Mauja's heart had become a dark and lonesome place, a cold, dead thing, and he had grown into more of a ghost than he had ever been before. White-washed, shimmering in the moonlight, he drifted in with the fog, a specter haunting the Edge but never quite coming close enough to touch.

And that was why he stood in the shadows, as if they could swallow him, take him away now that his duty was fulfilled: he had been the guide, he had led Sacre home, into the light. What more would he need of him?

But his name, softly spoken, was a spell to keep him in place, a tether to keep him from running somewhere with his heavy heart and aching mind. Blue eyes spun in their sockets, focusing upon the dark child. Sunlight suited him. “I am not him.” The muscles in his jaws clenched, black-rimmed ears flicking backwards once. I know, he wanted to say, but the words lodged painfully in his throat, and he found that he couldn't spit them out.

He knew that—as much as his eyes knew that d'Artagnan had been a cherry bay and this young stallion was definitely black almost all over. He knew that, because d'Artagnan had a hound, and this one was followed by two foxes. He knew that, because d'Artagnan had been a grumpy old codger, a poison-brewing master who liked to be mean. Sacre .. Sacre was a dreamy-eyed youth lost in the red eyes of a young mare, an exuberant colt watching his first egg hatch, welcoming a fox kit into the world.

Beyond that, he didn't know Sacre, but there was something unrefined to him, from the way words seemed to be blurted out to the way he watched the world, as if he simply said what came to his mind. In a way, it was ..refreshing.

But then he asked him to forget d'Artagnan, and Mauja's heart grew dark and angry, and his ears fell all the way back into his white mane. Forget him? No. Never. How could he forget him? How could Sacre ask him to erase so many years of his life, just for his own comfort? It wasn't just stupid to think Mauja could ever forget the Nightshade, but it was cruel and selfish to ask, as well. What would he say, if Mauja asked him to forget Kou? Or Roux? Or Aviya?

Fury blazed in his pale eyes as he looked away, listening to Sacre's innocent question of what the herd had become. "I know you are not him," he finally said, voice dispassionate, flat, and cold. "And I expect nothing of you. But do not ever again ask me to forget him," and it was, perhaps, the first time in a long, long time that a growl marred his light voice as he spoke.

He let it hang in the air for a while, staring into the distance—or as much of a "distance" as you ever get in the Edge, because there's trees blocking your view. He couldn't even put a name on what he was feeling, but all he wanted to do was to bite Sacre and run away. Which, would not be very nice, so after a moment he heaved a heavy sigh. The rigid line of his neck grew softer, and behind him, his long white tail flicked once.

"The Edge is ruled by King Tembovu and Queen Elsa. It is a place of acceptance and peace, or some such shit. I don't know. I haven't spoken to anyone in a while."

[ yaas <3 @Sacre ]