Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

She mirrored the movement of his head, rising up, but beyond that it was as if she disconnected. Her blue eyes locked onto his again, and he let her, though the wariness in his soul remained; they were so, devoted, hungry, almost like she was devouring every miniscule twitch on his body. And, bit by bit, second by second, they filled up with emotion, her breath trembling as it came out. He could feel his own heart pick up pace, running in his chest, and he wanted to slick his ears to his neck as if it could somehow make him not hear what she was about to say. He did not want to hear. He did not want to think, listen, comprehend. He shouldn't have come, gone to her, at all. He should've stayed away. Alone. Nothing good would come of this, he could feel it, in the barely noticeable spaces between each beat of his heart, lurking there, twining its dark fingers among his arteries. He did not want to hear, but he was frozen stiff, half-turned away as if on the verge of fleeing.

"Mauja, I-I-I've loved you for a while now...."

Within, a voice roared WHAT?!, but outside his features melted away into blank surprise. Incredible, the shallowness of souls, the dreams of mortals. He barely heard the rest of what she said, her rejection of the probability that he, the fabled Ice King, somehow held emotions. Stunned by her confession, but in hindsight not surprised, he did not know how to react; this hadn't been as bad as what he'd expected, whatever that had been, but it had been a bit like a kick to the head. Dazed, his wide eyes had frozen, and the air in his lungs too, and he kept staring at her with that expression. In his chest, his heart had resumed its normal pace, and its deep thuds were the only sounds in his head.

Fool, he wanted to tell her, do not love me. She didn't know him. She loved nothing but a dream, a fancy, a fantasy, the shadow of who she saw, and not who he was, within — she did not know him. She did not know that she was playing with fire, that he was capable of stealing her heart and ruining it. He could smile, brightly, say that it was what he had always wanted to hear. Play her for a fool, abuse her, and leave her in the dust; he could, he was capable of it, and for one horrifying instant, he was tempted to ruin her life just to take his mind off his own problems.

But he wouldn't. The bottom line was that he wouldn't, for more reasons than he cared to rattle off to himself.

"Hate you?" he echoed, his voice and expression still distant and frozen. It felt like speaking with your mouth full of cold, sluggish water. "No. I won't hate you." For the first time in many long seconds he blinked, feeling the thankfulness of his corneas as they were shielded from the dry, cold air and coated with moisture again. Slowly his face thawed, growing less blank, more familiar, softer. "Neither can I love you, Leyra. I'm sorry." It felt awkward, and he wanted to leave, walk away and leave her with his verdict and her disappointment, but part of him thought it would be terribly rude of him. He had just told her he didn't love her — could he just walk away from her, then? Leave her alone with her shattered dreams and dashed hopes?