Mauja Frosthjärta

He held his breath, finding stability in the frigidity of his heart, freezing the signs of life. Freezing the pounding of his heart, and the heat of his blood seeping through veins beneath the marble skin; every beat brought them one step closer to something, one step deeper into the darkness. Don't you want to turn back before it's too late? There were many things—too many things—he could confess to, out there where the Gods had left them to their own devices, things he was sure she didn't want to know. The older parts of his mind whispered, if you tell her too much she needs to die, just another death piled on top of his sagging back, but he bit the thought down. Did she deserve his honesty? Did she deserve to hear him damn himself, and listen to whatever of his darkest deeds she asked about?

But she's asking. She's only got herself to blame.

She couldn't blame him for being decent and answering her questions, really.

"Killed someone," she finished her question, finding some steel in both spine and eyes again. Gone was the blabbering girl with the high-pitched voice and wide eyes, trying to find some normalcy when chatting with strangers who spoke of death as an old friend, or maybe a pastime to enjoy when bored. Mauja's stony eyes closed, a small sigh heaving itself past his lips, and his head slumped down somewhat. Was this the real Nyx? Or was she pretending to be strong, just as badly as he had?

When was the last time I killed someone? The easy answer was Torasin, but.. would the war count? A war, against something not equine, but not less alive? A war he'd fought to bring them to their knees simply to get some leverage against them? So he could bid them to rise again? Had he actually killed someone? Probably; war was mayhem and chaos, a too-long day and night drawn out in that darkened valley beneath the Heimasborg's looming shadow. He did not fight with the precision of an assassin, of the scouts who killed in utter silence, with such a talent it made you green with envy—he fought hoof and horn, thinking only to maul. To meet him and his ilk was the slow, painful end, shattered bones and concussions. Their only purpose was to overwhelm. And they had. It was the most twisted and accurate application of fighting for peace he'd ever known.

But he hadn't been able to count the corpses afterwards. No idea which were his. Surely some where. Some had to be.

When would Nyx realize that she wasn't interrogation a warlord in his prime, but a broken old fool?

"Since last winter, I fought in a war in my homeland," he said, voice still as soft as sad as before; there was grace in his sorrow, and his blue eyes cracked open to the world again. If she wanted to meet his eyes, he would not look away. "Our traditional enemy is not equine—but no less alive." And how much could you tell, before you had to tell it all? A faint wind brushed against his face. Was there even a point in admitting to engineering that plan? That the sole hope he'd had was to bring peace between them? Did it somehow justify anything? Would she think he was just inventing it as a convenient excuse? Did he even want to redeem himself in her eyes? But why would he not want to? He kept saying he didn't want to be a monster, and yet he always drew its tattered skin over him again.

Bitterness is a slow, deadly poison.

"It's inevitable I killed someone, I think," he said after a moment's pause. What was the point of talking of a war, with no context? "You might not believe me, but.. we fought to bring peace between us."

To make up for old mistakes, make sure old deaths were not in vain.

He fell silent, awaiting her judgment—or her curiosity.

A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.