en natt så kall och månen den var klar

He just shrugged, a rise and fall of his pale shoulders, because he had nothing else to say. Yes; there was an edge of insanity to her laughing. It was oddly placed and borderline evil in its sound, at least to his ears, and she kept dancing as if torn between wanting to come closer, and wanting to move away. It wasn't a stable behavior, it was unhinged, deranged, demented, and if it was one thing Mauja hated, it was not knowing. And everything she did just solidified his belief that she was unpredictable. Unstable. At any moment if could be her horn she hurled at him, and not words, and he wondered why he didn't just politely excuse himself and move away. Did he think she'd follow? Maybe. And maybe that was why he remained in the stream, because going seemed pointless if it was your shadow you ran from, because your shadow followed you anyway.

But clearly, his comment provoked her, because she came bounding in. Mauja threw his head up and away, but she stopped halfway anyway, called him clever in a way he didn't like (but had made himself guilty of), and then reached in again to snap at his cheek. He let her. The pain was a sharp reminder, but of what he wasn't sure. A surge of adrenaline, a little bit of you're mortal, and gods knew what else—but the whole thing was just baffling, and he wanted her to go away. Go away, and leave him to his misery. She was the one thing in his life that made no sense, and the actions against her the ones he found no real justification for—nor any regret. He liked his things in black and white, he wanted them guilty or innocent, and he had no real trouble pinpointing what had been genuine acts, and what had been lies to keep up the charade. He knew when he'd tried to deceive, tried to be something he wasn't, but this fit none of those categories. It had just.. happened. And he'd gone with it. Felt some slight remorse, but sucked it up and those wounds had turned to hard, unyielding scars.

"A stallion from the Aurora Basin. You know, you have very clever soldiers there." Except, he didn't have anyone there; he hadn't been there for, what, a year? Year and a half? The Basin was no longer his. The Plague was no longer his. Their cause was no longer his, but she kept on talking, and it'd be rude—not to mention utterly pointless—to interject the fact that he'd been a lone wolf for a long time now. He knew about Destry, of course, but not of this Azarel, the last of Azzaron's spawn. She was smiling, but he didn't think it reached her eyes. He wasn't smiling, just looking at her with that unreadable mixture that was not quite concern, but not really something else either. "Though... I can only hope that my kids accepts this one."

His ears, which had begun to fall sideways, flipped forward again. He hadn't worried about it before Tamlin's birth, but had experienced the harsh reality of a parent who slept with others and had kids with them. Snö had run away, and nothing had every really been right between them since. For the briefest of moments he felt a sting of pity, but then it died. She'd put herself in the position. She had to reap what she sowed. They all had to.

But, as capricious as the weather, she turned around again, voice and eyes cold, and asked a question entirely unrelated to children. "How do you deal with it?"

Winter, dark, cold—and bloody, painful. The stars are out. The scents stung his nose. Too many questions amidst the consolation, what happened?, and he wouldn't tell. Never told.

And not ever really woke up from it. Not ever really recovered. His eyes grew empty but for a few traces of sadness, and he turned his head away from her. "Whatever I do, I don't do it well," he answered her glumly, squashing the streak of self-pity and shifting his weight slightly. His left hind hoof came up on its tip in the water and he hung on the other hip; his first real movement since pausing in the stream. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "You think I wasn't murderous? Who do you think fueled the Edge's secret racism? Who do you think killed those who stood in our path, or threatened to tell of what they knew? Why do you think I did it? Glory?" Despite what he was saying, his voice was not heated, just bitter and tinged with sorrow. "I hid my own failures behind the ruse that we were better anyway. But it was all a lie, and I've spent all my time running from everything I should face. I tried to heal behind it—and for a time.. I deceived even myself."

Why was he even saying all of this? And to her, of everyone? She'd made it clear she had no fear of him, and he didn't want her pity either—but if she took this weapon he offered and shoved it into his heart, was he strong enough to take the blow and just deal with it? "It's just a way to occupy the mind.. to forget everything you've seen and done," he said softly. Blinked. Looked at her. "I am crazy with it, Delinne, with all of it; I'm just good at pretending otherwise."

It was, perhaps, the most honest thing he'd ever said.

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