það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir He was still there, a wraith above the world, as cold and untouchable as the fading stars. Frosted hooves held his weight at the edge of the world, mired by the brink of a too-long fall, and his blue eyes stared out into the paling of a new day. Breath rose like white smoke towards the slowly lightening the sky, the west still inky and dark while the east shimmered with the lightness just before color returned — before pastel peach and pale yellow would claim it, heralds of the bright disc of the sun. He'd seen a thousand winter sunrises or more, felt the cold clutch as the air was the day just at dawn, yet there he stood, dangerously close to a fatal fall, black nose stretching out as if to touch it, that hazy streak of pale winter blue.

Like some fool, reaching for what he couldn't have.

In all honesty, he didn't know why he was there. It had seemed natural to climb the closest neutral territory after Ophelia bursting into fire, to see if she was still somewhere within the foothills, but he'd not caught any glimpse of her. Not that he would from up here anyway, with the blanket of clouds lying just beneath his feet, obscuring what went on below. And yet he asked himself, why hadn't he burst into the middle of their homeland, calling out for her? Showing how much he cared? How much he worried? The answer was simply and he hated it, hated both its faces; the one that whispered you're someone else, don't give the game away and the one that said, you're heartless, forget her, it's better if she died. He hated the answers as much as he hated what he had become, and somehow, that hate made him accept it, just as he kept hating himself for accepting it and feeling guilt at doing nothing — he sighed, a heavy, burdened sound, watching his breath steam towards the sky. If only getting rid of his problems would be as easy...

He gave his head a shake, recoiled from the edge, disturbing the inch-deep dusting of snow. The prints leading up to his perch had since long been erased by the night's breeze, testament to his too-long vigil of stupidity; now he left tracks as he backed off a few yards, feeling the toll of a cold, still night upon the bruising of his thigh. At least he'd done the red-nosed a favor, and he gritted his teeth, knowing the pain would fade in a few more days.. once he healed up properly.

When he stopped backing, his eyes went to the horizon again. Just the palest touch of orange and pink was visible, and he settled in at the safer distance to wait — to waste another day in his life.

[ for @[Mesec] <3 ]
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.