Loneliness. He wasn't sure what it was, really. Mauja had never been the kind to grow lonely, to want for company, had always been content with himself and his own thoughts—just as he had always appreciated the companionship of another, their thoughts. And since that strange morning through the wormhole, he'd never been truly alone. Even now, cut off from everything, almost everyone, he did not feel lonely, at least not by the definition he assumed the word had. The thin layer of apathy lay like a lid across his soul, numbing his heart and the things he knew roiled beneath the bone-white of his skull. Somehow half-alive and half-dead, caught between rebirth and sinking back beneath the waves. Isolated by choice, and true, there were faces he longed to see again.. some more than others. He knew that d'Artagnan was as well as a mad doctor can be, but nearly all he'd met since had been strangers. They knew nothing of him, nothing of his past, and perhaps enough time had passed that he'd stopped being whispered of as the scourge of Helovia, it's evil King and The One You All Should Hate And Want To Kill. Or at least, bring to his knees.

Mauja's sedated pace wound to a halt, the surf reaching up to tickle his fetlocks with cold hands when the gentle waves rolled in. Moonlight painted a silver trail across the waters, and outlined him in its faint glow; somewhere in the region towards the inner sides of his eyes was another glow, a constant light-source that threatened to blind him at distance at night. He sighed. There had been something..charming, about the way things had been. A sense of security, of courage and confidence, knowing who he was, what he wanted, that he had those who followed him, and believed in him. Justification in attacking those who prowled across his borders, a sense of superiority in the power of fear, of ambition, the respect it garnered when they did not know where he stood, or how to handle him. And now, he'd fallen from the political heights. The question which remained was, did he want to climb up again?

Not for the same old cause. He couldn't, really. It had become tainted in his mind, almost like an allergy to years wasted—but if he showed up with some other idea, some other army, who would believe him? Who would have faith in his faith? Maybe his moment had come, and gone, his chances burned just like his bridges.

His heart rung hollowly between his ribs.

It's not easy, being lost in life. His heart pulsed dully, but the blood was like ash in his veins—lifeless. When he'd fallen from his throne, he'd fallen further than just to his knees, so deep into the darkness he couldn't tell which way the stars were anymore. Mauja was a creature of ambition, of dreams and schemes, of purpose: yet there he stood by the ocean's edge, with nowhere to go, no plan, nothing but himself and his owl. His heartbeat was the throb of a wound, not of something grand and victorious. Somewhere along the way he had laid down his arms, and given in against himself. And now, only the hollowness of his self-wrought defeat remained, honesty preventing him from fighting his way back into his old life, retaking his old goals and claiming the world as his. Did he even want to rule the world?

But he was a soldier, a wolf; restless, with an itching mind and itching feet. Could he live a peaceful, quiet life in some backwater corner of the world? Grow old and die not because someone pierced his heart, but because his heart gave out?

Even in his listlessness, such a future struck no chord.

Shuffling steps caught his attention, one ear flicking back before the rest of his head followed around. A thick-set horse was descending the silvery pale dunes, awkwardly working its way across the treacherous terrain. Mauja watched her with a subdued sense of curiosity, wondering if he looked as bumbling whenever he traversed the sands. She didn't seem quite at ease, but determined anyway, coming his way. It wasn't that surprising. Take cover with a white horse, then ditch them when the wolves came; or just come over out of curiosity. He watched her in silence, the only sounds the whispering of the ocean, and the dull thuds of her steps. Her hips gleamed like he did, but the rest of her was matted, muted, washed-out brown lined with a faint silver sheen whenever the moon struck the hairs right. She was heavier than most he'd met in a while, and his gaze dropped to her feet. Surely it'd be a pain to get all the sand out of her feathers.

It surprised him, vaguely, that he was still present enough to contemplate such useless facts. Maybe he wasn't all dead beneath the thick, woolly layer separating his mind from the rest of himself and the world. It brought a small, humorless smile to his face, a twist of black lips towards one side—a fleeting expression quickly washed away by the constant tides.

She came closer and closer, and now he could see the deadly curve of the bony weapon growing out of her skull. The moonlight edged it coldly, all along its sinister bend; he nearly shivered. Was it sharp, along the edges? Or was it only the tip? He didn't want to imagine it laying cold against his throat, to feel his pulse ricochet against its smooth surface—he'd be too mortal in such a moment. We are deadly by virtue of our birth. Deadly, but no better. Finally the red-gray mare stopped, looking at him with a face he surely was hallucinating. Her eyes seemed too open, too curious, her smile almost dreamy, as if she was gazing upon something.. something amazing, and not just a broken old stallion. "Who are you? she asked, and Yes, who am I? he wondered, too.

But more, he wondered who this white-faced woman saw standing there in his stead.

"Mauja," he said; his name was but a name, a legend and a rumor and a reputation attached to it. But his name was not he. Or, rather.. it need not be he. Or he could say something else. Like.. Dreven. But he didn't. "I am.. nothing in particular." His voice turned low, a murmur ending in a sigh as his blue eyes turned away again, back to sea. Once I was something; by the definition of my rank and my purpose? Have I grown so hollow since, that I am nothing, merely because I dream of nothing? His white tail flicked against his hocks, just another sound in the backdrop of the night. "And you?"