He felt himself quaking inside, shuddering within his own skin even as he remained firm and steadfast. The tremble in his soul, the chaos in his heart and mind, did not quite reach the outside world — they remained locked up in the chamber of his secrets, just like every other facet of his life.

She closed her eyes but he kept watching, kept seeing, tracing the contours of her pale-white face with his gaze. The world outside faded even more, fell away beyond the faint gold he had carried with them into the darkness: he could barely hear the nightmare anymore, except for the whispers which constricted his heart. Vile, something whispered, unclean, another, feeding off his every doubt and hissing them in his ears. Slowly he allowed his ears to fall back, press against his thick white neck, as if that could keep out the voices in his head. If he had been awake, he knew that he would not have heard them, would've stored them someplace and listened to them later, but here, he was at the mercy of his own mind. Mauja knew very well who, and more importantly what Ophelia was, the child of one of the stallions who had helped conquer his home, one who sought equality and had overthrown the old leadership of the Foothills to install his triumvirate. And ever since he had witnessed her silver dragon in that cave, he had known that her mother was that equine, Soleil. He could not deny it: she was a half-breed, and the notion that it was her parents' fault would only get him so far. Most of the Plague would call her a freak and gladly add her to the pile of corpses they were going to build, a funeral pyre worthy of a God's death when Helovia had been wiped clean.

He closed his own eyes, drawing in her warm breath the way a drowning man tries to push his head above water and draw in air. He clung to her scent, to the warmth of her shoulder against his; they had never stood like this in life, he had never dared, never had reason to, but in dreams his willpower eroded and was worn away, leaving a more base creature in its wake. He was too weak to not take, or give, what comfort he could in this place of darkness.

And perhaps this would be his only chance.

No matter who she was now, he doubted she would enjoy his inclination to kill hornless. He pressed his eyes shut tighter, knowing that he had brought this onto himself in every way possible, and yet unable to back out of it, unable to let go. It was a twisted martyrdom, and a path he had chosen. He could not turn back. And so, he slowly opened his eyes, meeting her gaze as she promised to bring him back. I'm not sure you'd want me back, his mind murmured but his voice said nothing. A small, hesitant smile curled his lips up. Was the Plague this loyal — did they seek a way to bring him back, or did they merely turn elsewhere for guidance? Did Psyche care? Ophelia's soft muzzle rested against his cheek, and for a moment longer he kept staring into the world beyond them, before heaving a small sigh. One golden eye slid in its socket, to look down upon the white bridge of her nose. Few had ever sought to comfort him, the product of his harsh past and a statue of ice which betrayed nothing of a living heart. Weakness, the nightmare voice whispered again, but he did not turn aside.

"Sorrow and cruelty can be overcome," he rumbled, repeatedly justifying his cause to himself in silence. Was it hypocrisy he spoke, or only the truths he knew, despite the way they defied logic? It is illogical, he reminded himself. It had always been, and would always be, just as this was illogical. "Just because it is like this, it is no reason to remain like this. Eventually the rain will stop falling." Slowly he drew his head up until he could rest his own muzzle against hers again, his whiskers and lips twitching slightly whenever they brushed against her skin. "Perhaps it was meant as a new start, and so you should not dwell in sorrow," he said quietly. Perhaps you were meant to be like me.

But the stones in his heart told him that she could never be like him — her heart was too great for that.