Mauja did not exactly consider himself a pessimist—he was the product of his life, a blend created by experience, both good and bad. He'd known brotherhood, and he'd known the loss of it, not once but many times. It was inevitable in a world which was change itself. Those you were once close to you would not always be close to, because the paths you wandered might take you different ways. He'd known many of those things, lost and gained friends, and purpose, and thrown everything upside down a few times too. His feet ambled along the path through the dappled patchwork of light and shadow, heart heavy in his snowy chest. Sometimes you changed despite wanting to, or those around you did, and the once seamless interaction became full of friction. With every moment he left something behind, and knew that he did it, and couldn't stop it. Didn't want to. But that didn't stop it from hurting, an ache in his heart and a leaden weight.

At her words he shook his head, slowly. It was meant to be. It was always meant to be; by nature, they longed for others. They wanted to belong. "Just because things fall apart it is no reason to stop trying," he said softly, not sure if he spoke more to himself or her, or the trees, even. "It's more a matter of enjoying it while it lasts, and then daring to let go once you stop belonging." And was he doing that? Slowly prying his frozen fingers from its desperate grip on the one thing he'd known all his time in Helovia? It wasn't just letting go of old ideals—he'd done that a long time ago, anyway—but stepping away from everything you'd been, what you built your power and reputation on.. and trying to create something in the ashes, when that very same reputation was haunting him. Helovia had seen him as its racist king, and that stamp lingered on his hide wherever he went.

"What does it feel like to be apart of something... to feel like you belong?" A small, humorless smile curved his lips. I am not the right one to ask. Always frigid and holding the world at an arm's length to protect his fragile heart—what did he truly know of it?

Cease your bitterness.

He walked in silence for a while, mulling over the question, and the truth of it. Because what did it feel like? And how did you put words on it? The solid ground kept him steady as his mind ranged away from the present. The answer he sought to give.. was it that strange bond of simply knowing and trusting, while knowing that trust was absurd, but still doing it? Of knowing that they would protect you, as you would them? He'd been leader of bloodthirsty social outcasts, and how can you trust hungry wolves? "It's hard to put words on," he said after a long silence, walking through a larger patch of warm autumn sunlight. "It's.. just a feeling, something.. hard to define. A kind of trust; you know what you would do for them, and what they would do for you, without even asking. You have a natural place with them..." His voice trailed off into silence, and a moment later he sighed, and shook his head again. Maybe he was just a fool. Maybe there was no trust and no truth. Just cold, cynical exploitation of weaker minds—fools with hearts. Like he.