He could do nothing but wait as the sun climbed the horizon — wait, and watch, as the Foothills members fell one by one before the onslaught of Paladin's two girl-children. And gradually, his adrenaline had cooled off, spending itself on pointless worrying and dancing on the spot until the pale mare had him convinced that she was not about to die from an unlucky stroke from the shadows. She handled herself well, weaving in and out like a dog of war with her pack at her heels, bringing down her foes: some he recognized, some not, and it was with a flash of glee he couldn't quite fight down that he saw Ktulu fall down on the churned earth. While Mauja had easily forgiven Ophelia her trespass, and somehow, he thought, earned forgiveness in return for Deimos near-killing of her, the Frostheart had no intentions of forgiving or forgetting Ktulu. When he had been lost in time, he had sometimes dreamed of dying, waking up with the constricting sensation which was not only imagination, but part memory. He knew what it was like to not be able to breathe, and he hated it.

Every so often, the pale stallion would wince, or prance on the spot when things seemed dangerous, but she made it through everything with only a few bloody nicks to go with her fringes. Up on a rise, he saw Mirage take flight, and sourly thought good riddance. Paladin left shortly after her, and for a moment, Mauja's eyes were drawn to his figure: he was quite impressive, objectively speaking, but he did not like him for whatever reason. Worse to think was that in age, he was closer to Paladin — that it was his young daughter tugging at Mauja's mind, causing him to twitch forwards a step each time an enemy swept in close... He'd explored the notion that he was old enough to be her dad before, but always found it so unnerving he started thinking about something else instead. He gave his head a shake to clear it, listening with his ears swept forward as Ophelia demanded the last standing defender, Locket, yield. The wavy-haired unicorn had pranced elegantly, even managing to nick Ophelia's face, but he gave up, and Mauja released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. She had won. They had won. With a mixture of pride, joy and something he didn't quite want to identify he shouted out, "Ophelia!", before throwing himself into a canter. Frosted hoof struck newly conquered ground, and he, out of consideration for Ophelia's gentler nature, avoided stepping on any of the floored contestants.

Personally, he wouldn't have minded, but, you know. Gotta keep up appearances.

Whoever that Jackal was, he was no longer worthy of being here, that much was obvious — the horses upon the ground started to stir, but Mauja didn't care. That Locket was worthier of being leader (or ex-leader) than the one who hadn't even shown up to save his own. Mauja had bled and burned beside his warriors, yet lost, but their loyalty was the reward for his pain.

Grumpily Irma told him he was stupid, but Mauja wasn't listening. He had one eye on the ground, to avoid trampling someone, and the other upon Ophelia. He didn't know if he should wait, in line, for all the politics to be settled, but frankly he found that he didn't care. It was just something — about being back, on a battlefield even if he hadn't fought, and seeing Ophelia again, glorious and whole... It filled him with a sense of lightness and elation, and in his soul the owl was screaming that he was no prancing pony, that if he didn't get a grip on himself he might regret it later! But for once, the connection was missed, and he found that he couldn't really care right now. He'd seen her win.

With a youthful light in his blue eyes he slowed, first to a bouncy trot, and then to a complete halt, and felt much like a stupid puppy wanting to wag its tail and prance around foolishly. Flicking his ears back, uncertain for a moment, he looked at the ones standing, the ones fallen, the flurry of activity as the dreadful reality sank in.. the smell of wounds, blood, sharp in his nose and biting his prey's mind, the notion that many of those who lay upon the grass were homeless. He didn't care about them, precisely, but he knew of their plight, and the recollection of his own long flight rang hollowly in the spaces between his heartbeats.

"Congratulations," he said after a moment, somewhat subdued and sober. Giving his ears a flick he turned his eyes back to Ophelia, and offered her a small, shy smile.