Mauja Frosthjärta

If the heavy weight of darkness hadn't weighed his steps and mind down, there were many things he would've thought of, and wanted to say, and explain: of what had actually happened that day in the Deep Forest, who Sarazheha was, and why he'd simply followed the dark stallion out to sea, to disappear, from Helovia and the looming trial.

Torasin was already dead. The truth could wait.

But his mind was struggling with reality, his bones aching with fire and flame. Each breath was ragged and harsh, only stubbornness and glacial will pushing him forward across the acrid terrain. He steamed in the cold darkness, the pale, white smoke rising to the distant sky. Wings flared, and Mauja's path wobbled, shying away from the motion, even if it was distant—a threat, a threat his mind whispered to each beat of his heart, but Midas remained put. Wings folded. Only the other stallion splayed his appendages out in clear warning.

So close. And yet so far. His focus was on reaching Midas, not far enough: unless he steeled himself, he'd collapse at the paint's feet, on the doorstep of salvation.

Stand still, and breathe.

Irma's harsh command rang through the dim world, spearing through the fog of his exhaustion and illness; he was close enough now, anyway, out of touch's reach, but not far enough away that they'd have to shout. Knees locked and limbs stood wide apart, black nostrils flared, ears listening to the voice ringing through the keening of the harsh, bitter wind. “Is ye infected? If not step forward as a friend to us, ye will find no war with me.” He didn't really know what he meant, to which parts of everything it pertained—just this? Or the dim hazy notion that he had lots of things to explain to Midas, if he wanted to know, and listen? That he'd spoken with Hellena and Kahlua and already set the rocks in motion?

Before he had the chance to answer Fiore stepped up beside him, speaking, commenting on the wounds dribbling out some mixture of rain and blood. Mauja couldn't quite decide if he was mocking, or honest, or if he'd not noticed until now, or if he hadn't thought about what would've happened if Mauja hadn't come to save him. Blearily, eyes weeping from the sting of the wind and the sudden, relative heat, he stared from one to the other, unsure of where to begin. His tongue felt dead and leaden, not frozen, but swollen, and his mind as if it didn't remember what words were—how to form them, or what they were for.

A dumb, sick beast.

But finally he found his tongue, voice weak and harsh, trembling, just as his heart and limbs did.

"No infection," he managed to get out, hoping it was not too soft for the distance. His eyes turned to Fiore, his company. "And someone had to save you." He knew the stallion had said more, but he couldn't recall what; he just wanted to fold up his legs down in the soft moss, and sleep, sleep, sleep. Tentatively, his eyes settled on Midas again, and he took a few, stumbling steps closer. "Midas," he simply said again, something of a question hidden in his voice, as if looking for confirmation. But of what, he didn't know himself.

[ Congratulations on over 700, Angel! :D ]

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