but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Once upon a time, a tall, pearly white unicorn stallion came to the lands known as the World's Edge. His mind was a fortress, and his heart was a dark and lonely place. Ambition ran through his veins rather than blood. He dreamed, big and dark dreams, of a glorious, blood-steeped future. And one day, the God of the Moon descended from the heavens, and placed upon his brow her crown, and thus, the one known as the Frostheart became King of the World's Edge.

Parts of his life would make for good stories—but the whole of it? No. What kind of story featured a villain who turned nice all on his own? Or, if it meant that he was supposed to be a misled hero, what kind of hero just tripped facefirst into a deep, dark puddle and then stayed down? Was he just missing his sidekick, some quirky fellow who was supposed to drag him back up on his feet and then they'd go off together to save—or conquer—the world?

So—if there was one thing to be certain of, it was this: real lives in their full, unaltered truth, did not make good stories.

He snorted, white breath mingling with the fog. Getting old certainly had its downsides, and among them was the sheer amount of things you had gone through. He could probably spend hours just thinking back on his life, reflecting on useless shit, having some revelations and connecting events in a way which had previously eluded him, but.. why? He could get lost in his own past, and thinking about it—how he had changed, how far he had come—made him uncomfortable at times. The difference in him now, to when he was three, five, six.. it was stark. It was almost like he had become someone else, time and time again, yet they all wore the same black-spotted skin. And all those Maujas which had been before, where had they gone? And the Mauja he was now, where would it go?

Who would he become?

Like shedding skins, but he shed values, morals, beliefs. And what made up a person, anyway? Their mannerisms, traits, creed..? But all of those could be changed—was there anything within which would not change? Which couldn't be changed?

What made him Mauja? Was it just the spots on his white coat, the frost on his horn, the blue of his eyes?

He didn't know. He didn't have the single, slightest clue what made him, him, or who he even was. He was a blizzard, a gentle snowfall, sunlight and blood—a storm, ever-changing, a river, ever-flowing. He was going too fast, too fast, thundering past without being able to stop, or even notice what was going on around him.

A sigh drifted lazily from his dark nostrils, and his lips twitched as the fog made his whiskers heavy with droplets. It was the kind of stupid thing he could think about for forever, and sadly, he had forever to think about it, too. Maybe that was what he would do when he grew tired of being alive? Go into stasis, and meditate on his past life and all the philosophical questions of the world. Stay like that for a few centuries. Perhaps some kindly God (hah) could freeze him over, so he'd be nothing but an oddity, a landmark, a statue of unmelting ice?

The fog swirled about his legs as he moved, ghosting deeper into the darkest parts of the land. He had walked these paths so many times, drifted between the ancient trunks, gone where his feet had taken him—ran into a future in which so few of his past had made it.

And then—the outline of a horse in the fog caught his attention. Without noticing it he had drifted closer, a pale wraith there in the shadows, blue eyes focusing on the stranger. He was short, sturdy, fuzzy, striped in a way Mauja had never really seen before. Pausing, still half-concealed by fog, he simply stood there and watched, wondering who the bone-clad stranger was.

(Wondering, when his herd had become strangers.)

[ @Imani | I asked Sarah "how do I start this post?" and she said "Once upon a time", so.. :P ]

Mauja

the white queen