och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

He cherished night-time. Something in him had grown wary of the moon, not just.. distrustful but like the light from it was lackluster. In a way, he'd grown to resent it, and in the same vein, night itself—while loving stars, and the cool, the respite from the torment of day-time's wicked heat. So he loved it, and he hated it, and he hated loving it as much as he loved to hate it.

But in a way, it had grown.. old. He'd seen many nights. He'd seen many days, too, but he'd romanticized the night a lot more, finding safety and mystery in its moonlit fog and the grayed-out colors, and the shadows, and.. and in how the starlight glittered coldly upon snow-crystals, frost riming everything, and it was beautiful, but... As he stood there, staring at the near-gray thistle flowers spread about like the desecration of something beautiful, he realized that he was as tired of it was he was of himself. He doubted he'd ever forsake his love of winter for the love of some other season, but his love of night... Wasn't it time to appreciate the day, some?

With its sweltering heat, swarms of flies, and the sweat seeping out of every pore? Nothankyou. And things had a different mystery in the darkness, like you weren't exactly sure what you were seeing, and.. well, maybe that was just kidding yourself. Fooling yourself, or.. someone else, or..

So the night was full of deceit and lies and forsaken promises.

But still, he liked the way the humidity went up from the dryness of day, how the air was soothing and cold against a sun-torched skin, and how it felt wetter in his lungs.. like it was more alive, and made him more alive, and really, it wasn't until the sun went down that he moved again. Flanks rising and falling, sweat marks lining them where it had dried in the relative cold, and the mind beneath the skull sparking back into life. And that was when he realized that he'd grown to resent this time of day—hah, it felt illogical to think, but at the same time he was fairly certain it was a correct statement.

Whatever.

Someone was moving up ahead, and his slow walk ceased entirely as he stopped to peer at her. She was.. she was coming out of a brook. Dripping wet. Absolutely soaked.

It looked like a nice thing to do, and before he knew it he was ambling closer, drawn by curiosity.

[ @[Tiva] ]

och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

He was innocent, goddamnit—just a man ambling along, all silver-washed skin and moon-glow eyes, but innocent because he hadn't asked the stars to strike sparks from his gaze, or for the water to cling to the edges of his hair like stardust, shimmering and sparkling. He was innocent, because there was nothing suggestive to his walk; nothing suave in his eyes; nothing but a slow, steady pulse, and a fairly disconnected mind just coming back to life.

He was elegant, and he was beautiful because of it, but he didn't mean to.

Never meant to.

And yet it seemed to happen all the time, that tilt of a mare's hips as they snaked closer, swaying, lashes batting a tad too freely over lowered eyes, honeyed voices purring out suggestions and greetings and all sorts of improper things.

Most of the time, he didn't notice. And if he noticed, he pretended not to—but if left with no choice? In the past, he had played along, retreating into himself, shoring himself up but being who they wanted him to be.

And.. now? He wasn't so sure. Silver light ran its hands along her lissome frame, traced the contour of her neck, rolled with the hypnotizing sway of her gait, brought out her eyes, and.. there was no mistaking it, was it? No mistaking her intentions as she sauntered over, stepping back into the brook he had so eagerly come looking for?

Without realizing it, Mauja had paused, torn between his wild imagination of cold, clear water, and the sensation of being a deer in the head-lights, too startled to run away.. frozen. That heart, which had beat so calmly, was pounding, veins throbbing and bidding him to run.. run from this slender, fragile-looking creature of aether and starlight, and run from the enchanting allure of her smooth voice. It went in one ear and out the other, but the meaning had imprinted itself upon his mind, and he found no words. They had drowned in the paralysis.

"I—" But no more came out as he stared at the deer-like mare lying in the rushing water.. doing what he so desperately wanted to do.. to let it run over him in rivulets, to let it run against him with cold, bright hands, touching, soothing, cooling... He felt his heart; it kept thundering in his throat. What do you even say to that? To such brazen words coming from a mare who still had some of the slender features of youth? Shut up I'm old enough to be your grandfather?

He snorted to himself. Mauja the godforsaken, afraid of a little girl.

But then he thinks of another girl, one who spits lightning, and he knows that looks are deceiving. Small she might be, but perhaps he has every right to fear her.

"I suppose it is," he finally admitted, a vaguely tortured note in his voice and the same thing lurking around the rims of his eyes—a shadow, and little more than that. And.. really. She could do whatever she wanted, as much as she wanted; he doubted she'd be stubborn enough to keep it up for long.

But they all tended to be disappointed, anyway, despite never having had any rights to his actions.

So with a faint sigh he resumed his amble, all moon-spun silk and frozen edges, before lowering himself into the brook—not exactly beside her, just another point he was trying to drive home.

You can't melt the Frostheart.

[ aww gee, Mau attracts all the ladies ;~; @[Tiva] ]

och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

Are you afraid?

The wiring of his body was still taut in places, lines of tension holding on to muscles for a quick escape, and the ice in his eyes was impenetrable. He kept his distance, hiding away behind those frozen walls and shielding his poor, hunted self. In some ways it was a shame that she was there with him, setting him on edge, because he couldn't quite appreciate the cold run of water over his sun-baked skin. He registered it, but only in the back of his mind—too wound up to relax into it and let it carry him away.

But then she spoke again, and his moon-silvered eyes settled on her with all the weight of the snow-capped mountains. Dear lamb?

.. lamb?

Lamb?

LAMB!?

It wasn't often that words affected Mauja—more often than not he paid more attention to what they meant rather than what they actually said.

It was the first time in a very, very long time that Mauja felt both genuinely insulted and kind of disgustingly patronized. Was she the wolf, hunting little lambs?

What on earth gave her the right to call him lamb, when he could kill her on the spot?

Maybe she could kill him on the spot, too.

Maybe she was some god-damned forest witch that would eat his heart if he upset her. And maybe her name, Tiva, was some kind of trigger word for a curse (would it make his ears fall off? hair fall out? he'd suffer a cardiac arrest and die on the spot?) and she was just trying to lure him into saying it by saying it was her name?

Like gods—you make me so uncomfortable and then you insult me and marginalize my reaction and then you think your name is going to make it better?

Names were worthless anyway, and he glared flatly at her with his ears flicked back as she got out of the water and moved away. Harmless play, bah. As harmless as earthquakes and avalanches and.. he grunted to himself, deciding that he was rapidly approaching the level of annoyed where it would overtake caution and whatever slight, fantasy-induced fear he held of her unknown qualities. Heck, he'd even spit out her name in defiance if he had to.

But despite the fact that he wanted to do little else but punch her straight in the face and tell her—uhh, tell her what again?—he remained in the brook, eyeing her with a veiled kind of curiosity. First she was all about trying to seduce him and then when he actually laid down in the brook with her she just got up and out of it? Had his glare at her words upset her? Insulted her? Hurt her delicate feelings?

He kinda hoped it had, but it was an unworthy thought, and she was coming back anyway, taking up her spot in the cold rushing water again, though.. maybe she was actually a tad further away?

Night-witch, Tiva. Man-hunter (maybe mare-hunter, too, he wasn't one to judge or assume). Slight like a slip of a girl. Enjoying the cool night and staring at it, and he stared too, at the crystal clear water and the distant sky with its twinkling stars, and.. and...

There was that thing about defiance and annoyance but buried beneath all those layers of mud and filth he'd found a kernel of gold: a genuine question.

"Tell me, Tiva," he began, and saying her name didn't incinerate him on the spot, so he went on, ears forward now and something softer gleaming in his blue eyes, "what about me made you approach me that way?"

Because it's kinda a recurring problem and I've never thought to ask anyone about it before.

[ @[Tiva] ]