I was looking for a breath of life, for a little touch of heavenly light...

A silent smile, the curl of a dark mouth. d'Artagnan had always been off his rocker, and Mauja could only assume he lost his head far before he came to Helovia — wherever that had been. Come to think of it, he knew nothing of where the red doctor had come from. Not that it mattered, and least of all now. His blue eyes were someplace else, his mind wallowing around in the water covering the bottom of the pit he'd found himself in. It was like having earthen walls all around him, and no way up. He could only sit at the bottom and stare at the sky outside, or throw himself against the smooth sides of his prison and never climb any higher.

Perhaps he should just wait, until the water rose and carried him up.

Slowly he withdrew his muzzle, and as his head lowered, he caught sight of d'Artagnan's nearest eye for a moment.

He looked sad.

Then it was gone, swept away, and Mauja was suddenly struck by the notion that the Doctor was frustrated — with him. And, it made him feel guilty, and ashamed; he turned his head away, watching the play of shadows across the craggy walls. "You're different now." I wish I wasn't. "Are you really that weak?" I think so. "Or are you running away from the uncertainty inside you?" The faster I run, the more it consumes me. "Is it really enough..." If they don't need me, I can... What? Die? Disappear? Again? ".. surely you want more than their simple approval." He was silent for a moment, wondering if he did want more — did he want their bodies and their blood, their cries of war, the ferocity of their loyalty and pride? Sadly, he frowned for a moment, his white tail giving a small, restless flick, brushing against the dark cavern wall. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to answer. He didn't know how to tell d'Artagnan that he'd grown to doubt all he believed in, that he'd forgotten the glory of an army and the feeling of cool morning air filling out your lungs — he didn't know how to say that he'd forgotten how to hate.

He'd grown weak. d'Artagnan had guessed it, but Mauja thought neither of them wanted to believe it.

"I don't like to see you like this, broken as you are, but I must also say I know the feeling..."

If the Doctor hadn't already been saying so many things Mauja had never thought would fly out of the red's mouth, he surely would've sat down in sheer surprise at hearing such a soft, such an emotional statement coming from him. Slowly, the silent ex-King turned his head around to peer at his friend, then trail his gaze to the hellhound pup amusing himself. And like a coward, he grasped at the chance to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable revelations and realizations, and the suppressed probing of the doctor (though, he was struck by the mad urge to ask him for a cure). "What do you mean?" he asked in a low, gentle voice, as if dealing with a rabid beast, afraid that d'Artagnan would strike out.. but desperately curious to know, and, if he could, help. Perhaps then they could forget that Mauja was weak, and move on. His 'brows furrowed slightly in consternation and he tilted his head, concern in his gentle blue gaze. "What's wrong, d'Art?" If even the cold, stoic Nightshade could feel it, something, of a sorrowful nature, then surely it was nothing as petty as rock stuck in his hoof. No — if it was strong enough to make d'Artagnan feel a bit broken, it surely was no trivial matter.