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02-11-2014, 04:36 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
He wasn't sure why he kept answering. He wasn't sure he ever had answered anyone this openly when asked things—nor so willingly. He had his doubts, some words died on his tongue before he breathed life into them, and some things he still would not speak of, but what he shared, he shared of his own accord. But why? What did it matter?
It didn't. And the only thing that was happening, was that someone, one unlucky mare in Helovia, would know a great deal more of the Frostheart's mind than anyone else. And she was a stranger. Did she deserve it? Did her curiosity need satisfying? What did he care? He knew nothing of her. Nothing at all, and yet he told her bits and pieces when she asked, sorted through his thoughts for what was safe and what wasn't, gave as he never had before. It was foolish and stupid and outright odd, yet he did it, allowed her to lure those words from his mouth. And sometimes, words put things into perspective. It can be easier to sort through your thoughts when you speak them out aloud.. when someone reacted to them.
So while that might be half the truth, he wasn't sure it was the whole truth. He didn't feel cynical enough to abuse her curiosity just to help himself, not at that moment, when worrying for d'Artagnan and thinking about his past so keenly drew the sorrow to the surface. Still, half an answer was better than no answer. He'd be fine, as long was he remained vigilant and didn't spit out too much.
"Did you win?" she blurted out in the middle of his answer; he raised a 'brow and eyed her with a look that said do you think I'd still be alive if we hadn't? Because in all honesty, he wouldn't be. They'd trapped themselves with the enemy, and if they hadn't been the ones to come out victorious, they likely wouldn't have come out of that valley at all. The Magnar would've feasted on their flesh to regain the strength and energy spent on slaughtering them.
Surprisingly, she believed him—but naively. Every soldier fighting for peace? No. He knew too keenly that not everyone did. Some did it for glory. Wealth, of some kind. Renown. Or just because they enjoyed the power over life and death; they were gods in their own bloodied rights, until someone had enough of their terrorizing and shoved a horn in their back. Silently he shook his head. Only the good-hearted would fight only for peace, and they were far too few. And even good-hearted soldiers could be commanded by misled, greedy lords and ladies, and be too loyal to refuse the order to conquer and lay the world to waste. So they killed themselves along with their enemy, burying their own moral compass so deep they sometimes never found it again—something he knew all too well how to do.
"What of the children? Have you ever aimed your horn at a foal?" Her words, more than her voice, jolted him out of his thoughts, a twitch running down his withers and back, a noticeable jerk of his head as he turned slightly to stare openly at her. Children? She really wasn't going to leave any stone unturned, and the only question was if she knew what was good for herself—or maybe, if she would leave him be if he refused to answer something. "You're morbidly curious for a good girl," he replied darkly, voice stern and smooth like the coldest marble, buying himself some time to think. Had he ever? Aside from accidentally impaling Prometheus? But he didn't count, he was already dead, and the only thing that came to mind was Aylin's brother. He'd never laid hands on him, but had entertained the idea of ridding the world of another sun-worshiping equine before it grew into its prime. Slowly, Mauja turned his entire body to face her head on, something dark and heavy in his pale blue eyes, there in the autumn sunlight. "What do you want, Nyx?" he asked her, almost tiredly. If she hadn't considered what she was after, maybe it was time she did now. She should learn not to play with fire—and he should not encourage it.
Others might not take as kindly to it.
It didn't. And the only thing that was happening, was that someone, one unlucky mare in Helovia, would know a great deal more of the Frostheart's mind than anyone else. And she was a stranger. Did she deserve it? Did her curiosity need satisfying? What did he care? He knew nothing of her. Nothing at all, and yet he told her bits and pieces when she asked, sorted through his thoughts for what was safe and what wasn't, gave as he never had before. It was foolish and stupid and outright odd, yet he did it, allowed her to lure those words from his mouth. And sometimes, words put things into perspective. It can be easier to sort through your thoughts when you speak them out aloud.. when someone reacted to them.
So while that might be half the truth, he wasn't sure it was the whole truth. He didn't feel cynical enough to abuse her curiosity just to help himself, not at that moment, when worrying for d'Artagnan and thinking about his past so keenly drew the sorrow to the surface. Still, half an answer was better than no answer. He'd be fine, as long was he remained vigilant and didn't spit out too much.
"Did you win?" she blurted out in the middle of his answer; he raised a 'brow and eyed her with a look that said do you think I'd still be alive if we hadn't? Because in all honesty, he wouldn't be. They'd trapped themselves with the enemy, and if they hadn't been the ones to come out victorious, they likely wouldn't have come out of that valley at all. The Magnar would've feasted on their flesh to regain the strength and energy spent on slaughtering them.
Surprisingly, she believed him—but naively. Every soldier fighting for peace? No. He knew too keenly that not everyone did. Some did it for glory. Wealth, of some kind. Renown. Or just because they enjoyed the power over life and death; they were gods in their own bloodied rights, until someone had enough of their terrorizing and shoved a horn in their back. Silently he shook his head. Only the good-hearted would fight only for peace, and they were far too few. And even good-hearted soldiers could be commanded by misled, greedy lords and ladies, and be too loyal to refuse the order to conquer and lay the world to waste. So they killed themselves along with their enemy, burying their own moral compass so deep they sometimes never found it again—something he knew all too well how to do.
"What of the children? Have you ever aimed your horn at a foal?" Her words, more than her voice, jolted him out of his thoughts, a twitch running down his withers and back, a noticeable jerk of his head as he turned slightly to stare openly at her. Children? She really wasn't going to leave any stone unturned, and the only question was if she knew what was good for herself—or maybe, if she would leave him be if he refused to answer something. "You're morbidly curious for a good girl," he replied darkly, voice stern and smooth like the coldest marble, buying himself some time to think. Had he ever? Aside from accidentally impaling Prometheus? But he didn't count, he was already dead, and the only thing that came to mind was Aylin's brother. He'd never laid hands on him, but had entertained the idea of ridding the world of another sun-worshiping equine before it grew into its prime. Slowly, Mauja turned his entire body to face her head on, something dark and heavy in his pale blue eyes, there in the autumn sunlight. "What do you want, Nyx?" he asked her, almost tiredly. If she hadn't considered what she was after, maybe it was time she did now. She should learn not to play with fire—and he should not encourage it.
Others might not take as kindly to it.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
