það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir He had thought that he was alone, the only foolish soul shivering the night away under cold stars and waiting breathlessly for the even colder dawn. He had thought that he was alone, but he had been wrong. Dark movement at the corner of his eye had his head turning, a rather soft motion, followed by the silken shadow of his mane – and his eyes found something surprising. Larger than last he'd seen him, but still a leggy youth, black forelock flopping over his face. d'Artagnan's boy, still hale and whole, was timidly picking his way over frozen grass and wilted flowers, as if shy of the older stallion. Mauja resisted the urge to arch his 'brows, wondering instead what had happened to him, to drive him away.. to make him approach so hesitantly, as if Mauja was a rabid beast about to take a swipe at him. Was it something he had done, though? Had he ever treated the boy as a lesser being? The slightest frown creased his face, a wrinkling at the corners of his eye. He thought he had always been kind to the boy, at least never hostile, but with both wings and a horn.. well, he wasn't so sure the rest of the Basin had been kind. Realizing Mesec had been gone had been somewhat of a gradual thing, as he'd never been too bold in their mountain home, but one day he'd simply realized he was too scarce for it to make sense.

And as with everything, he'd not gone looking. He'd never had the time to go looking. Always something to do, always some hare-brained quest, and always the wash of guilt in the aftermath. Some part of him had to operate based on the notion that those who left weren't coming back, and chasing down every soul who departed the Basin never to return would consume too much time better spent on protecting those who stayed – but Mesec was the child of the moon, damnit. In what age and time would he leave Helovia? Mauja should've gone to find him, should've seen what was up, not just let him go. He was obviously still alive, still well, bony like all young creatures but covered in a layer of healthy flesh and thin, gleaming fur. The caution was the only thing indicating not all might be well, but who was Mauja to blame him, really?

Hell. He shouldn't blame only himself for losing the boy – d'Artagnan was as much to blame, but he knew how the Doctor both loved and hated his first son. And Mauja couldn't blame him, either. He could only blame himself. He was (had been?) the Lord of the Basin. The herd was his responsibility, even if he thought fathers should care for their children.

Even ones that looked like Mesec.

Mesec's voice was at odds with his timid approach, and for a moment Mauja simply looked at him, a slight dip of his head his only answer to the question of his identity. Mauja, the Frostheart. What else did Helovia call him? That title he had taken and made his, but did they whisper of him, weave stories to frighten children and secure the next generation of anti-racists? Or did they simply treat him as a failed Outcast? He felt like both, when he thought of what he should be doing – when he thought of Prometheus' scathing words. "Do you ever feel like a weight as heavy as the world rests on your shoulders, Mesec?" he asked quietly, not knowing what else to say – answer a question with a question, because he didn't know why he sighed, other than that everything seemed hopeless and stupid, and he the most hopeless and stupid of all.
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.