With his strength slowly but surely returning, Mauja found himself ambling further and further from the strange, soft glowing room, his natural curiosity leading him along. That, and the hunt for whatever critters might live down here. The better he became, the less reason Irma gave him for not feeding her. And besides, she was right—she was better at warming the egg than he was. His hair might insulate it and prevent the heat from dissipating as quickly, but in the long run, he just wasn't as apt at incubating eggs. It was nothing short of a miracle it had survived its parents abandonment, and the long haul back to safety. So maybe, just maybe, whatever was in there was worthy of Irma's love. It wasn't that he was jealous, he just wasn't sure what the point was. The only thing they had was that ancient spirit's words, and for some reason Irma had put stock in them now of all times. Why change that which is not flawed, or broken? But she'd made up her mind, owned the decision which could've caused so much friction if he'd acted without her, and while Mauja thought it'd serve them right to hatch a reptile or something, she was adamant it was an owl. What kind, she had no idea.

The soft ground underhoof gradually changed to the rocky corridors of the sanctuary, the echo of his steps ringing through the tunnels. There was no way to sneak here, and he wasn't interested in sneaking anyway. .. well, maybe he was, because he did, after all, want to be left alone, but skulking about the least stealth-friendly place seemed a surer way to attract attention. So Mauja ambled along at his leisurely pace, the dull thud of his fever headache flaring at the forefront of his skull with each rhythmic shift of his body. Whoever invented illness should be dragged from their grave and murdered all over again. He hated the lethargy, the dumbness twining itself around his brain, and the weird thought patterns he took on. He hated it almost as much as the feeling of his lacerations straining against their scabs, itching and aching. It was nearly enough to drive him to roll on the floor just to soothe his nerves, but after all his painstaking hours spent rinsing the wounds, he knew that getting these small pebbles and the dirt off everyone's feet into them wouldn't be worth it.

The darkness of the corridor opened up into a prismatic cathedral, light washing through glass-like structures, shimmering and glowing softly with vibrant colors—a small touch of the upperworld, reminiscent of sunlight. After days of the murky darkness of his moist, blue-glowing abode the white light was harsh on his eyes. He squinted, white lashes filtering the relative glare, and ambled on. Most of the panels reminded him of those by the heart itself, though paler, less furnace-like; most went it pastel shades, some simply filled with light, some reflecting like sunlight on the cold snow's crust... Breathing softly Mauja strolled along, the wondrous display banishing his awareness of the headache, of his raw throat, even the itchiness of his healing wounds. Sometimes his muzzle trailed along the cold panels, either by mistake or intent; he wasn't always sure when a wall ended or began, not with the light biting his eyes and playing tricks on his mind with its dazzling display.

And so, when he was trailing his nose along one wall a space abruptly showed itself, he halted, curious. He could see it, now that he was close to it. He gauged its width. Was he slim enough to squeeze through?

I'll feed you to the owl if you get stuck.
But she was more amused than anything. Huffing to himself, glad for the abundance of affection she was showing lately (it seemed that his near-death experience and their brief separation had loosened something up in her, or maybe she just hadn't recovered enough to control herself?) he shoved his nose into the space. Ample enough room for his head, and.. he stopped. The last echo of his step died away, but the sound of hoof hitting the strange crystal floor lingered, echoing around the vast room in front of his eyes—it was hard to tell the rhythm when the sound never ceased. Curiosity tugged at his feet, though he snapped halfheartedly at the wall as it caught a scab on his flank and tore it open. A slow trickle of red blood filled it, threatened to spill over, but he paid it no heed as he emerged into something far vaster than any cavern he'd ever been in before. The ceiling stretched into the wash of white, heavenly light, dust motes danced in the air, and the walls glowed with their strange display of color. And something was in there with him.

Not on the floor. One sweep of his gaze revealed nothing standing upon the ground, and so, naturally, his eyes began to climb. Ledges, both shadowed and lit, lined the vast rotunda, and there, as light and spry as a gazelle was a young child, slowly ascending to heaven.

Mauja couldn't decide if it was the epitome of stupidity, or something beautiful.

Up, and up, and up the spry child went, carried towards the distant ceiling by the lightness of his young body—and the foolish courage of his mind and heart. Somewhere along his ascent Mauja saw the telltale shadow of wings, and some of the display started to make sense. The scrape of hoof rang lightly around the room, sometimes faded nearly into silence before striking again, and then, suddenly, the shape paused far up above. Mauja's head was tilted back, blue eyes staring up into the depths of light and shifting color, the dull ache of both body and mind buried beneath his curiosity. It seemed logical that what he would do now was take off, soar down to the floor, because what creature that young wanted to murder itself? And Mauja, he knew nothing of wings, if a foal that young was able to hold its own weight or not—simply assumed that he knew what he was doing (or that he was a sorry thing).

The echoes finally faded into as complete a silence as you could find in the caves, both child and man waiting—but for what? Courage? A gust of stale air through the glittering tunnels? Then, finally, it seemed the colt spotted his spectator from his lofty perch. His young, light voice cried out into the round cave, bouncing off the walls in a distorted choir. Watch this? But what if I'd be blind?

Oh, the assumptions of the young. His lips turned into a half-smile, yet he obeyed, blue eyes locked onto the monochrome form. From so far down below he didn't see the bunching of muscles, the steep angle of his fall, until his uneven flight brought him lower. Wings strained against air, the control not yet fine-tuned; his arc was drunk at the best, Irma's amused disdain for this ungraceful fledgling seeping like a warm wine through his veins. Not that the owl had been very graceful at first either, but isn't life about perfecting your skills, learning, becoming more than you were? What life would upon death be well-lived, if you were just the same as you were born as?

The colt touched down, unsteady as a newborn, stumbled and nearly fell. Mauja was just thankful he'd not been landed on, as it wouldn't have been very pleasant in his current state, fever-headache and healing wounds and all. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, just peered down at the child still stuck in his awkward position, legs splayed for balance he just barely had—but the silence was broken by steps coming from behind, through the crack. One black-rimmed ear angled back, listening to the sound growing louder, ricocheting around the walls as the colt found his tongue and feet again. Mauja's smile grew into a crooked grin. If he was this pleased with success.. had he expected it?

Then he was off, bucking about the room, and the approaching stranger made himself known by nearly pushing Mauja to the side. Feeling utterly polite, in an icy, irritated sort of way, Mauja took a single step to the side, slow and cautious to prevent setting off his pounding headache again. And succeeded, mostly. Then the kid was back, looking so proud of his wobbly flight, staring up with the kind of eager eyes Mauja had a hard time pushing down. You didn't pour water on the flames of youth, but praising someone for something done kind of.. awfully wasn't his forte. A short stream of good-humored laughter fled from his maw. "Of course I couldn't have," he replied amiably enough. "I don't have any wings." He tilted his head (very carefully) to the side, content to ignore the strange man for now. He didn't even know what it was he'd tried to say as he passed Mauja, some garbled nonsense and his jaws looked swollen anyway. "I'm Mauja, and.." Well, what's the best way to suggest someone shouldn't do something? Without being cruel? So it was with a conversationally warm voice he went on, ".. don't you think it's better to do it once successfully, than try for a second time and maybe fail?"

Because let's be honest, given his wobbly flight, the next time he could just as well hit a wall and break something.

[ Sorry for the wait! ]

"Sorry," the colt was saying, and the strange man was glaring, and Mauja wondered for a moment what he'd walked into (or what had walked into him, rather). In the heartbeat of silence before the colt's voice went on he felt quite confused, not at all sure what he'd done wrong to put such a damper on the boy's joy—had he said something? Then the truth came out, and, in a way, it felt like the most backward racist statement he'd ever heard. It came from consideration but came out like condemnation, and Mauja's 'brows shot upwards in a mild gesture of surprise. Rude? How could it be rude if Mauja had been the one to say it? And besides—what did it matter if he had wings or not? In all his time, he'd never met a horse discontent with his or her physical lot in life, had never met someone who sighed over not having a horn or wings, or having it, or anything like that. Granted, the majority of his friends had been unicorn supremacists, and if Deimos had walked up to him on some dark, lonely night to confess some deep sorrow over not having wings—well, he would've been quite concerned if that had happened.

"It's not rude," he managed to get out, still mulling over it. Did Kari's mother think less of those who had no wings, or did she pity them? Did Mauja pity those who had no horn? It was, he had to admit, an excellent weapon, and if you pitted a unicorn against an equine, who was the most suited to stabbing the other to death? The unicorn, of course; but it was no crown to make each and every one a King or Queen. It grew out of a skull, not a noble heart, and in a lifetime spent being superior because of it, had he ever wished those who lacked one to have one? If everyone wore a horn, what would there be to build power upon? They were old methods of thinking, patterns he'd fallen out of and revisited only out of curiosity. Besides, he had never believed in slavery—had always thought that the only way to dominate was to leave nothing else around.

".. What's that he's got in his mouth?" Good thing the colt wasn't able to tell what had been going on in Mauja's head. No one ought to know such things; his attention snapped to the short, silent stranger, who decided that such a question, repeated all around by the crystal walls, demanded an answer. And so, he wasn't silent anymore, but decided to make sure the verbal conversation included him, too. What Mauja had taken for some kind of abnormal swelling, had actually just been a horse's variant of hamster cheeks; the object he laid down on the floor was familiar, with the round perfection only nature can achieve. An egg. "It's an egg, and it's mine." Why, you're possessive. The corner of his mouth twitched into a slight, crooked grin as the rugged bay went on, explaining how he'd simply found it. Most likely it would hatch into something, if it had been left around just like that—Helovia was an odd place. In what other corner of the world did horses find an egg, and immediately think, mine!? And why did it happen here, even to those who knew nothing of the companions?

Maybe it was the slumbering companion itself, who cast about for any mind to hold on to, any soul to care for it—magic, because magic was in the very fabric of this world.

He was getting sidetracked again. Focusing was harder when sick, at least that was what he had found, and his mind liked to take long, intricate strolls, ambling away from the current situation and into contemplations and problems that nearly made him get all tangled up in himself. "But if my heart would desire the death of someone," he interjected in a mild, slow manner, his mind forming the coherent sentence only the merest moment before the words tumbled off his tongue, "Should I still do it? Just because I want to? Knowing how much grief it will cause others?" There was no accusation in his voice, nor in his eyes; the pale gaze settled upon the short stranger. If he displayed one thing in that moment, it was curiosity. "Do you want for anarchy, Rostislav? Or simply the freedom of choice, unjudged by others, within the frame of certain morals?"

[ Uhm, Mauja has a judgmental weird, okay? xD ]

It suddenly became one of those moments when Mauja's mind disengaged, and the devil crept into him. "Judgment or no, I believe we make the choices we feel we must, and our morals are.... relative." To him, that said, "I'm a right selfish bastard, and I'll do what I want if I can get away with it". And to Mauja's odd sense of justice, it was like waving the red flag in front of a bull. The archangel within him spread its glorious wings as Lucifer himself painted a target on Rostislav's back. He breathed in, deep into his chest, lungs aching with the swell—but aside from that, he did little at first. Just felt the detachment, the crystalline clarity of chill, settle in his veins. When he breathed out again, his breath turned to white smoke in the cavern, dissipating quickly before his face.

We make the choices we feel we must. What the hell did that mean, anyway? Our morals are relative. His teeth ground themselves together, listening to Kari ask about the egg, inching closer with a boy's curiosity. The only truths are morals and perspective his mind whispered, and hating it all the same. If he'd been raised to believe himself superior, of course he believed it morally just, and right. He breathed out again, another cloud of white rising towards the distant cavern roof as Rostislav answered, waiting for you, oh, was it? Mauja's mind growled.

Sometimes his penchant for mischief and trickery was harmless, simply a means to amuse himself at the expense of others—and sometimes, it was born from actual dislike, from that odd, deeply rooted sense of justice. Equality, even, between everything, some vague, half-realized dream of utopia where he wouldn't have to deal with idiots.

So when Rostislav had finished talking, Mauja's inner devil had managed to convince itself that yes, this was a good time to do something. With a blank, slightly disapproving face and eyes of coldest glacier ice Mauja moved, much like a behemoth carved from stone suddenly coming to life, yet not without grace; large, frosted hooves found their footing on the rocky floor, sliding with ease over the crystal panels. No matter what happened he would stay clear of the egg, for he had no desire to harm it.

But what he did, was arch his thick neck and turn his head slightly to the side, and simply tried to walk into Rostislav chest-first, and with the force and bulk of 17.2 hands of power shove him away from his precious egg. Bully him to the side.

Show him the beauty of the goddamned anarchy.

We make the choices we feel we must, and you'll be at the receiving end of that, you bastard.