Again, she drew closer, as if pulled in by his own sorrow and voice, a comforting shadow seeking to offer what it could. She seemed so hesitant, afraid, and he wondered if it was his own uncertainty regarding her which dragged at her steps. And again, one pole reversed and repelled, her movement ceasing within range of touch. He brought his head up slightly, allowed his gaze to settle on her face — such emotions, such turmoil, and he felt himself dying inside again.. cooling off. Where she suffered at the hands of her heart he drew back, creating a void in which no emotions existed. It was easier that way, to ignore them instead of examine them. He did not need to feel.. all it did was bring such confusion, such.. chaos. He was made of frost and ice .. he had no reason to feel. No obligation.

"You cannot," he told her, blunt again. They had tried to lead him home in dreams before, but he always awoke before making it, and has since long given up trying. It only battered his heart against the wall even more, never allowing him to heal (which he couldn't anyway). It was less painful to try, easier to just stay alive.

As dreams are wont to do, it shifted suddenly. He did not find it odd, that suddenly they were running, their hooves pounding upon a grassy plain. Shoulder to shoulder, almost touching, the line of unicorns spanned the horizon as they charged, a sound like thunder and a ground-shake like an earthquake. Dust clouds rose in their wake, the tips of their sunlit horns aiming straight for their targets: in the distance, he could see them, a valiant line of others seeking to hold their ground, to calm their soldiers as the doom swept in. Why did they not flee, knowing that death was upon them? Why did they shiver yet hold? They were outnumbered five to one, a weak, pathetic attempt to save the tatters of their empire of equality, but for all their glory and pride they were powerless in the face of the unicorns.

And their blood, would water the earth today.

He saw Psyche's black shape beside him, a familiar comfort in the wave of destruction, and he thought he saw others he knew: faces from the Edge standing with him, the shapes of his enemies taking shape.. was that a hint of red highlights on a black dun? A flash of light on gold and bronze scales?

Their throats opened up in a symphony of war cries, in a promise of annihilation. The distance between them disappeared, the blood pounded thickly in his head, and with a feral roar he swung his head from side to side, the flat of his horn and cheek forcing a gap for him to force himself through.

And suddenly he knew, that they had not come to kill them, but to find what they guarded — and something about it, tied his guts into knots.

But he kept pace with the line.

Mauja Frosthjärta