He wasn't at all sure what he was doing, coming up here again; the last time he'd braved the path to Heaven was still burned into his mind, a kind of vivid clarity that had him annoyingly aware of the changes he'd undergone since. That time, he'd skirted around the Foothills, blood-madness threatening to break through his composure and resolve, angered and disgusted by the miasma of scents.. that time, he'd climbed the steep path above the clouds to seek the council of the foulest witch, terribly blinded by her beauty and by his own arrogance. She'd chosen him, and she'd dumped him. Mauja snorted. He was an idiot, alright.

This time... the clouds had drawn together overhead, snow falling softly to land upon his rugged coat. Not even the south's warm temperatures had been able to counter the clock in his body, his hairs growing longer and shaggier to keep the warmth in. His breath steamed out in clouds, and he cursed himself, blue eyes falling off the path time and again, down into the covered valley below — but it's impossible to see white on white, and despite the way his eyes yearned for a flash of red, or silver, he saw nothing.

He was still an idiot, alright.
But he had to admit he was worried, after seeing the Sun engulf her in flames and.. and what? What had he done to her?

Mauja sighed again, lowered his dark muzzle to brush it along the unbroken snow, climbing into the thick midst of the clouds where the snowfall turned to fog and the winds tugged at his long pale locks. Would the light shine on him when he stepped through? Would the sky be as clear as ever, once he made it higher? He clung to the thought, depressed by the dismal fog, the memory of a home so long ago, but when he passed the cloud line he found himself still snowed upon; there was a gap in the clouds, a layer of clear air, but above him they were gray and thick again. Mauja paused upon the rim of the fields, his body steaming faintly in the chill air.

He was not alone.

The other was shorter, younger, silver and charcoal and red. Mauja studied him in frigid silence, head tall and blue eyes unreadable; his tail brushed against his hocks, a whistle of noise in the silent, frozen world. Black-rimmed ears flickered forward, nostrils widening to pull in his scent — one 'brow arched faintly in surprise. Basin. He'd never met the young stallion himself, and doubted he would be recognized, not by scent but perhaps by hearsay? Still, he said nothing, made no move, simply remained with his frosted hooves planted upon the winter-hard grass and earth. Because, he was not at all sure he should say anything at all. He was not blind to the tension rolling off the other in waves.

[ 488 words. ]