The sun was setting, spreading fire and blood across the sky. Navy ink crept closer to the west, stars peeking out like diamonds hidden in velvet folds. Slowly their reign advanced, chasing the sun and his fiery splendor away, into the abyss. Mauja stood poised at the meadow's northern edge, with the safety of the trees at his back, guarding him; he felt safer next to them, safer so close to the Edge, though he refused to think of that place, that time, now. Orange slowly faded to purple at the edges, until the only signs of the sun was a horizon of red, and a few clouds against the dark backdrop still blazed with light from beneath. The sounds of the day faded into silence, and cold, a lapse towards winter before the full warmth of summer set in. There would be no frost, but dew and fog. Slowly he lowered his head to nip at the lush spring grass, pulling a few blades from the moist earth and chewing them in thoughtful silence. A carpet of purple thistle spread out before him, muted to gray in the light of the moon.

How could things have changed so drastically, in such a short while? How could he have changed? Once an ice monarch, strong for his kin even when defeated, and now he felt like nothing but a shadow in this world, to be winked out like a candleflame at the merest puff of breath. His ears fell back against his neck, and for anyone that had known him, it was a startling display of emotion as pain drew his 'brows together. He did not want to be this weak creature, who fought to not flinch at shadows and sounds, who fought to stay asleep, who fought to remain smooth and calm around others. He wanted, desperately, to run away and heal in the solitude of the snow, but he couldn't. Couldn't. Duty kept him bound to the Basin, bade him to stay and he could not refuse. Not for his people. As long as he could pretend he was strong and make them believe it he would stay, even if it felt as if his heart was shattering in his chest. His pale eyes slid shut, and he sighed into the gathering mist. All he did, he did for them. All he had ever done, he had done for them.

Would it be the death of him?

No, he thought, and gave his head a shake, before setting out across the Meadow under the rising silver moon. She painted everything cold and blue, silver, and drained the color from every thing, and lent an ethereal shimmer to the curves of his body. White, it always glowed in the night. It made him an easy target, but he feared few predators in the sea of lavender. Only a few hundred paces in did he stop again, turning his head to stare at the dark forests looming at his back. The fog was thickening, drifting gently in the faint breeze, and somewhere his owl barked.

For Delinne.
And before someone says, "owl? bark? wtf?", snowy owls have a distinct sound which does not sound like your regular hoot, and is most often described as "a bark".

night-fate-stock -- dreamofsandman -- deirdre-T -- deviantart.com // i-mi.deviantart.com