It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

Abruptly he decided that he did not want to be here. He did not want to stand belly-deep in last year's frozen grasses and with snow cooling his fetlocks, talking to a mare he shouldn't let any closer, let alone answer her prying questions. He could think of a lot of things he'd rather be doing, and a lot of others he'd rather be in the company of. This was too dangerous. It was too.. annoying, to have someone poke around in his brain, like having a blind man grope at his wounds without realizing what they were, a kick to already broken ribs. It hurt, to keep himself together, to keep all thoughts in a place where he could see them, to not think about Torasin, about.. about that half-step he'd taken forward, as if he could save Mauja from the fire and the pain. It hurt to think about the expression frozen on his face, the blood running down the spike, the tears, and the small, gentle smile that had curved his lips as he finally left this world behind.

It hurt, and Smoke stood there, asking her pointed little questions and Mauja stifled the sudden, mad urge to just whisk his head down and stab her throat. He was fairly sure he'd not get away with it twice, and instead, simply did nothing. Just stood there, breathing at the same pace as he always had, his eyes looking as they always had, guarded and pale. He wouldn't act on any impulse, let alone let her see that she was grating on his nerves.

And least of all did he want her standing there, pondering the question he'd turned back against her as rhetoric, and have her give it serious thought. He'd never felt as fidgety in his entire life as he felt standing there, waiting for her to open her mouth and say something that would just set him off further. It became an exercise in self-control, to keep everything calm, sedate, smooth and precise; his tail flicked idly, the motion slow, not at all the sharp lashing of someone irritated. Then, she began, her voice rolling off her tongue and Mauja fought to keep his eyes on her, even though word by word he wanted to yell at her to shut up.

"Irritated that such selfish actions could spark another war against the group that already ousted you once." Shove your pride and arrogance down your throat, Smoke, before I make you eat those words. If he'd been any less controlled, if he'd been a beast of another kind, he would've had his teeth in her, just to prove her wrong, while knowing that such an outburst could just prove her right. But he didn't. He was Mauja. He was Mauja, and Mauja didn't do stupid things like that; Mauja just kept breathing, blinking, listening, one black-rimmed ear flicking back momentarily to listen to something else before sweeping forward again. Like water running off the feathers of a duck, he let the words rush past him, holding her gaze steady with his own.

He had to admit he was curious about what d'Artagnan had done, but if he knew the Doctor, the reason was probably "she had no horn" (if, indeed, it had been a hornless; otherwise it was just another enemy to slay), but he was not inclined to tell Smoke that. Nor was he particularly inclined to humor her and what he perceived to be an overblown ego when she assumed he had questions for her – or a desire to listen to her stories. Again, he fought the darkness down, the cold rush of power through his veins. No. He was silent for a moment longer; he was always curious about things, but the way this had been presented made him want to snarl that she could not teach him anything.

"Why don't you just tell me?" he asked conversationally with an arched 'brow.