He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at his own reflection through the mineral steam rising from the surface. Thoughts spun like shadows within his skull, forming, morphing, dissipating, and only their heartbeats counted the time passing. His, slow and steadfast despite his troubles, and hers, light and fleet, as the heartbeats of all owls were. He was grateful that he was left alone, perhaps because he was nearly out of sight? But what he knew, was that this daze was like a soothing balm across his mind, to simply detach, disconnect, and let the wheels of his mind spin unhindered. Like the sheets of sky-fire overhead, they moved slowly, flaring, dulling, rippling and reforming. Irma remained seated on him, watching the night with impassive blue eyes.

Neither of them noticed the soft sound of breathing, the light shuffle of hooves over loose rocks, the faint warmth in the night breeze — when a voice spoke out of the darkness beside him, he flinched so hard he slammed into the cliff face beside him, bruising both his shoulder and hip as he tried to scramble around to face the unknown, unseen threat. His eyes, which had been staring into the pools with a troubled look, were wide, nearly more white than wintery; his nostrils were wide, his breath fast and heavy, and his heart had accelerated from 'slow' to 'panicked' in less than a second. It hammered in his chest, seeking to run out of his throat or at least deafen his ears. Voices did not belong in thin air, voices did not see, speak, exist like that. Quivering, trapped against the wall by something unseen, he waited for the voice to continue, to mock him, for believing, for being mad, for flinching, for displaying such blatant weakness. Anything; upon his shoulder fresh blood ran as Irma's thick talons had split his skin to keep her balance, but he barely felt it even as she gripped his flesh. Her head kept turning from side to side, trying to locate what it was, but he was too far gone to realize that she, for once, did not know what was up. She had always been so sure of herself and the situation when they were gone.

Whatever he had expected, it was not for the darkness to pull back and reveal .. Faelene.

He barely registered her voice. It took him several moments, several shaking breaths, to even realize that he knew her face, from the tip of her gnarled horn to the red, grayed-out mess across her neck. Trembling, both from the shock and the adrenaline seeping out of him, he finally brought his gaze to her eyes. If this had been before.. would he have started so? Would he have thrown himself against a cliff wall in blind panic and surprise? He had no way of knowing, and the only thing he knew was that he had to be careful. Very careful. The surprising had always bothered him in ways that nothing he could ever remotely predict did, and this had been very surprising. Trying to gulp down cold air and collect himself he closed his eyes for a moment. Damn...

Could he threaten her into silence? Or should he just act as if nothing had happened?
As if he even could convince her of that.

Slowly his heart's frantic pace lessened to something more natural, and the tight knot of his thoughts — anger at being taken unaware, anger at his unworthy reaction, anger at his weakness, weakness from the shock — relaxed and unwound. Other thoughts, perhaps more important, trickled in like water starting to break an old dam's wall.

Did she ask, because she was curious? Did she care? Was she worried? Was he bothered, that she could read his face, when he thought he was alone? Slowly his eyes opened again, normal in size, but as she had already taken him so unawares he found no will to mask most of what he felt. Instead of the inscrutable, mysterious depth of ice, he allowed other emotions in; wariness, exhaustion, something that seemed more alive than cold and stoic. Human, if you will, but for the fact it was in the eyes of a horse. "Faelene," he said in a tired voice, still leaning slightly against the cliff. Pushing off it with a small shake he righted himself, before giving her a sour sort of smile. "Don't do that again, will you?"

He might not wear his mask, his second skin of finely fitted ice, but he would not spill his guts to her just because he was unprotected.

Mauja Frosthjärta