His sleep did not follow patterns, was not ruled by night or day. When his body asked for it, he slept. When it was done, he woke. He ran on the demands of his internal clock, and so, it was, to him, not strange at all to walk his land in the gloom of predawn. The familiar mist swirled around his legs, pressed against his alabaster body, left little droplets of water on the tips of his hairs. The sound of his hoofbeats were muted, the fog thickening around his face each time he exhaled. When the sun rose, the world would shimmer with the glow of the dew. A content smile spread across the King's face, something absentminded in his blue gaze. There were few things as peaceful as walking ones home when most of the herd slept, passing their shapes slumbering peacefully in twos and threes, sides rising and falling to a steady, relaxed pace, breath pooling around their muzzles. And he, he was their vigilant guardian, the guide in their life. It brought a proud sense of purpose to him. To him, his Kingship was not about power and arrogance; it was about being a servant to your own people. A hard task with much toiling in the dirt when no one looked, but one that brought at least him great satisfaction. The World's Edge was a haven, something he had desired and they had agreed to - and now, it was their desire too, and thus it remained like it was. The game he played gave them this safety, but he had no doubts that it was a temporary thing. He knew the way the rest of Helovia watched him - with suspicious, dark eyes. As if they could smell the racism on his coat.

The alluring scent of Lotus drifted into his nostrils, and the familiar sense of affection entered his mind - coupled with a recoiling dislike, disgust and fear. Mauja turned in a different direction, not wanting to face the miasma of emotions. It reminded him of acrid woodsmoke, and Keahi cast into stark relief by flames. It reminded him of all the things gone wrong, of Tamlin, who he loved no less for his mother's sins, and of Snö, doing like her mother and running off.

You said you didn't like her. And yet you did the same thing.

He came across his son's trail instead, the scent of his flanks hanging upon branches and lying across the ground. Orangemoon was leaving the trees bare, and had it been a colder night, it would be frost upon the leaves, not dew. For lack of a better occupation, he followed Tamlin's trail as it lead, alone, towards the Edge. Surely he'd not fathered a colt stupid enough to walk off the Edge to his death? He tried to suppress the worry, yet it is in a parent's blood to worry - what if he'd been frightened, and run off in the dark? And when the Edge came in sight he saw nothing but the fog and the ocean, the trail leading to it and going cold. "Tamlin!" he cried out, worried; where was the damn child? Casting about, he walked this length of the edge a few times, before finding the path which led down. It seemed his foolish child had decided to go on an adventure without a supervisor. The colt was a few notches too proud of his own good, and no matter how high he held his little head, he was no match for a bear or a cougar. Damn it all. That gene surely came from Lotus.

Sure-footed, something that had come with age he guessed, he made his way down the narrow path. At least Tamlin was smaller and would've had more space on it. Grunting, the King hugged the mountainside, trying to avoid patches of loose rocks and gravel in order to not be chucked off. Each time the path turned back on itself he had to nearly break his ribs to turn around without falling to his death. Grumbling under his breath about stupid colts he finally made it onto the sand, fog still blanketing the world. Through it, he heard voices; Tamlin's, and... Psyche's.

Well, at least his son hadn't fallen to his death, but talking to a jackal...

He could see his son's proud stance silhouetted through the fog, knew the arrogance of his tone too well. Mauja growled for a moment before slipping closer, thankful that his white coat masked him fairly well in the mist. "You need to learn to temper your tongue, son," he told him sternly, aiming a sharp nip towards his haunches once he came up beside them. "A great King is not arrogant, but humble."

His blue gaze moved on, to Psyche - she looked just like he remembered her, feathers and teeth woven into her mane, a sleek creature of midnight black with a few white markings to break it up. The woman who had worked on stealing his heart, who had promised to help him cleanse the world, who said she was different.. and then she'd run off, taking their daughter with her. His heart hardened, gut coiling itself, body preparing to protect from harm - emotional harm. He doubted she'd leap at him for whatever reasons. "Psyche." Had she not been gone for so long, taking Snö with her... mayhaps he would've greeted her as of old, calling her Sir, but now her name was just a stone falling from his mouth. Too much had changed since she disappeared in the early summer. He didn't even know who he himself was anymore, even less who she was.

Maybe she was just the same.

night-fate-stock -- dreamofsandman -- deirdre-T -- deviantart.com // i-mi.deviantart.com