In so many ways, Mauja was ruled by his icy demeanor, his cold, calculating mind and the ruthless, feral cunning that operated the cogs of his plots and schemes. If he asked himself who he was, he found that he had no real idea where the individual ended and the glacial monarch began. After a fashion, his indifference and cold was him, an integral part of him, but at the same time it was something he kept carefully maintained, hardening his heart to not ever flinch or balk at a task. But whenever his heart got the better of him, when it eradicated the cunning creature and tore down the walls of ice, it was like being a stranger within his own skin - a slave to the whim of his emotions and the painful togs of his conflicted heart. Even when he was soft as snow, smiling fondly to his herd mates or playing with Snö, there was a trace of the Ice King, the FrostHeart who ruled the Edge, a thin, transparent protection of ice laying around him like a second skin. Always ready to wipe the warmth off his face and replace it with something neutral and cold. It was who he was. But now? This was not who he was - disarrayed, haphazard, floundering and scared of Kou leaving. This was not Mauja. This was some stupid, unschooled boy who didn't have enough wits to keep his emotions locked away.

And at the same time, it was Mauja. They were in the same body, shared the same spotted skin, the same icy blue eyes; they were one and the same, simply two sides of the same coin, and this side was rarely out in the sunlight. Mauja did not lose his grip over any something.

Despite the guarded tone, he felt as if she was taunting, mocking him, as if her lip would curl up in a distasteful grin. But she didn't, wasn't, and as the words sunk through his exposed skin he simply stared back, wondering when sweet, happy Kou had turned into this - what he'd done, to make her so. "King Mauja." That shattered the silence, tore the lock from his jaws. "Oh please," he growled. "I thought we were past the unnecessary use of titles." One of his trademark traits as a King was his distaste for being called by his titles, or given such flourishing things as bows. He preferred the brutal, honest camaraderie of soldiers, and not the fawning whimpering of scheming courtiers. Above all else, he was a warrior. But after his small outburst he fell silent again, and something so seldom seen upon his face washed in in its wake; uncertainty, anxiety, painted on his face as clear as the day itself. He probably would've disbelieved it if he'd seen it himself. "I- I would've asked you to, to stay." And his tail flicked against his hocks, restless and uncertain, as he frowned ever so slightly, wondering what she would do - what she would say.