Someone was coming. Pitiful that his owls had more braincells to rub together than he; her black beak clicked, sharp talons poking his sensitive skin again. A shadow fell across the red backdrop of the sky, and he blinked. Sluggish, but not stupid or sick enough to not react. It was more mental anyway. Depression can bring anyone to their knees when coupled with physical ill.

"No shit," he growled in response to her statement. You didn't need eyes to notice it. He smelled of it. She seemed disapproving, as if it was his fault he was stuck out here with a burnt back. Perhaps you could argue that it was, for not standing down, but wasn't it the Gods' fault for having put him on the throne in the first place? Irma clicked her beak again, a faint thread of disapproval stretching across their bond. Either she whispered, or she yelled. They had not found a middle ground for the intensity. Now she whispered, and he felt like scowling. Did everyone disapprove of him right now?

Instead he merely kept his attention on the drafty mare. Hornless. Of course. Everyone was either hornless or stupid. Or both. Irrational anger boiled inside of him, but he was in no position to argue - no position to fight. He could probably hold his own fairly, but there was no point in starting a quarrel. His gaze, so often like secretive glaciers but now just tired and sad, dropped to her feathered hooves. Healing. Part of him wanted to snarl and run her off and leave him to his misery. He had failed anyway. Failed to protect his home, his family. Or had he? Sighing, he rubbed his temple against the cave wall. He knew that only by acting like a spoiled, shamed child would he truly fail them. He was meant to be a King, to keep his head tall, but it was hard when his neck refused to lift it. It was hard to always be strong. To do everything right. To balance between right and wrong.

He'd been shoved, and he'd cut himself. Some part of him wanted to bask in the pain and the guilt, to prick the wound each time it began to heal just to watch his own blood flow. Stupid, really.
Perhaps he just wanted someone to notice him. Few looked at you with kind, concerned eyes, asked if you were alright, when you always had your head high and did your duties diligently. When you always masked your exhaustion with a smile, and promised that you were fine.
She said that she was Tor and a healer. He felt like bashing his head against the wall.

"Mauja..." It was a soft voice, obviously someone who knew him, or at least his name and his looks. It tugged at his memories, pulled at something in his heart, and he pushed his head off from the cave wall to get a better look at her. She was as he remembered her - pristine white, like newly fallen snow, accentuated with blood. Such a contrast, it made his stomach turn. Horses weren't made for war and bloodshed. He remembered the feeling of it sliding down his face, shuddered. Was the bridge of his nose still colored faintly of rust? Maybe.

Between her ears, a pose comically mirrored by his own owl, sat a dragon. A silver dragon.
What the? How?
"Ophelia," he said, not quite a growl. He was too tired to do anything but it. So you're a mix blood. But he had never been one to blame the offspring for the sins of their parents - she was innocent of whatever damned lust had conceived her. "You're a sight for sore eyes." Pain lanced his body as he slowly moved forth a couple of steps. His voice was rugged, raw, each motion a hammer falling upon him. Amazing, how used to pain one gets.

"You can get me a new backside," he told her flatly, yet there was something - a spark in his eyes, the briefest shadow of amusement. Then it went out, faded, lost in the roar of pain. His gaze settled on Tor.
He'd never been against using the hornless for his own gains.
Would she demand something in return?

"What can you do?"

Mauja Frosthjärta

A snort, probably intended to be laughter, died as a cough. Cheeky. Had she always been like that? Or only when he couldn't lash out? Only an ass until I get a new one, his mind hummed, but suddenly, to speak it seemed like too little for the effort. He just wanted to sleep. Living in this cave hadn't been a good idea. Permafrost. Little grass. Bah. He gave his head a ginger shake, trying to rattle his thoughts - his self - into order again. One moment he thought that he was alive and focused, the next he wondered if three years had passed. It wasn't ideal. Predators could come. But not now, though. Two mares instead. Mauja gritted his teeth, charcoal-tipped ears swiveling, without command, to drink in the soft sound of her voice. Keep still? Hah. If she'd been here, she'd not want to keep still when visitors came. Kept still all day anyway. His muzzle wrinkled slightly, whiskers sweeping through the air. That she, of her own free will, stood so close to him, when he smelled of death and old sweat and dried blood. The cut across his cannons had been first to heal, shallow as it was, a mere rift through the skin. He breathed in, prepared to protest, but exhaled it in a sigh again. "I suppose so," he grunted, quenching the desire to add something stupid about burns being an excellent condition for running away.

Then Tor replied to his question, and he gave another of his croaked barks of laughter. Easier to expel it in a single rush than shudder with it. Painful. Did she really think he cared about scars? That he was a vain creature, wishing to be perfect in his pristine snow coat? "My life is built on scars. What difference will a few more do?" In all honesty, he didn't care. Scars were scars. Some faded, some didn't. You lived. They told a tale - sometimes of failure, sometimes of battle. Besides, it was easier having scars on your skin than on your soul.

Psyche? She'd met Psyche? He snorted again, preparing to say something about Psyche always been stupid or not listening to him anyway, when Ophelia's dreamy voice cut in. "One of my father's sisters." Mauja nearly choked on the air, eyes widening for a moment. "Holy hell," he croaked before he could stop himself, the rusty gears of his mind spinning uncontrollably. Psyche was Ophelia's aunt? That made him some sort of uncle in law. His daughter was her cousin. He closed his eyes for a moment, frowning. Psyche and Giselle, taunting each other. Taunting Paladin. Calling him brother. Was Paladin Ophelia's and Ktulu's father? Vadim and Varath's? Black dun, red fringes. The spitting image of Ktulu. Varath and Ophelia looked a lot like each other. Vadim like a pale version of his father.

Damn.

He opened his eyes again, intending to stare at the draft healer, but the small silver dragon between Ophelia's ears was making a racket, grabbing towards Irma. The owl, unfazed, just retreated a single step down Mauja's aching nape, large talons clinging to his mane for balance. With eyes of pale blue, so oddly like the King's own, did she stare at the dragon-unicorn pair. Clearly she had no desire to play. "No worries," the King mumbled, dragging his attention back to the Healer. "I doubt Psyche will listen to me if I try to lecture her about manners. But fine," he muttered. "I won't hurt you, should I come across you again." Whether or not he'd stick to his word remained to be seen. After all, he had professed to have no interest in neither the Throat nor the Foothills, but had nurtured intentions of backstabbing them all along.

Mauja Frosthjärta

Your side. Odd as it was, Mauja hated it when people told him of his side and their side - as if they knew anything at all about him. As if they knew about themselves. Still, he couldn't fault them for judging him based on what they saw... a cold King, willing to protect his own, taking it to the extreme at times: a herd of horned, no wing or bare forehead to be seen from horizon to horizon. Of course, those who didn't agree with that vision called it his side. Life wasn't ever that easy, though, but he didn't bother to say anything about it. When it came down to it, Giselle and Psyche were both racists, and that was what Ophelia had been saying. Apparently most of the others were too, and he didn't know whether to be glad or not. It sounded as if the Crimson King had pretty much beat it into the heads of his children to be that way - racism should never be forced upon you. You should find it within, a desire to be destined for greatness, to be part of something glorious with horns raised high towards the sky. There was no logic in racism, only passion.

It seemed that Irma's lack of desire to play upset the poor dragon, as he left them to their own devices. Mauja snorted, and Irma just clicked her beak once. She was, like most snowy owls, a solitary creature - other birds interested her not, nor did dragons, apparently. He doubted she would've been with him, if not for the strange bond stretching between them, a link unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He could feel her cold indifference in the face of having upset the dragon, as if winter itself sat perched on his shoulder. Then Tor was telling him to hold still, and despite every irrational, childish urge to throw a fit and run off, he did. Upon his head, Irma spun to watch what happened on his back, but the King himself just closed his eyes, begging his tired nerves to feel.

His flesh cooled, the fever of infection draining out of him much too quickly for his body to comprehend, but another sensation replaced it. He'd had enough scabs to know how much it could itch, enough chilled muscles to recognize the nearly painful sensation of it thawing; the same kind of irritating pain crept through him as his body reworked itself, sapping Tor of strength to fuel the quickened recovery. It felt weird, and his nerves kept pounding just out of habit. He didn't even detect when she stopped, only the sound of a body hitting the floor making his eyes snap open, head spinning around to give a blue eye clear view of the scene. Briefly he saw the tender, pink arch of his backside, the skin irregularly knotted and hairless, and then his gaze fell on the draft mare. She was more or less lying, piled up against the wall. Sprawled, as if someone had knocked her out. Ophelia quickly padded over to her, but Mauja hung back a moment longer. Had he been one who wanted to hide all evidence of his own weakness, he would've killed them both and run off. But he wasn't. Tor had no place in his future, but when it suited him, he followed the whims of his morals.

Movement brought shadows of pain to him still, a reflex response of how it had been for many days now - it'd take a few minutes before they realized he wasn't in pain anymore, he guessed. "My legs require no immediate attention," he said, something absent in his tone as he lowered his head to bump his muzzle against Tor's poll. He wasn't quite sure if he'd ever stood this close to Ophelia before - close enough to feel the heat radiate from the flat of her white shoulder, close enough that their heads nearly touched. If he flicked his tail, it'd brush against her hock and flank. Mauja blinked. It was a correct observation, he guessed, but wholly irrelevant, and so he wrenched it from his mind and focused on the downed mare. She seemed conscious at least, but utterly spent. And she was in an ice cave on a freakin' tundra. Great. "You'll be getting very cold," he stated, matter-of-factually. If she could get up and lock her knees, they could box her in and keep her warm - but if she couldn't get up, well, one of them - or both - would just have to try and curl up against her on the floor, which would require some motor skill. Horses were quite graceless on the ground.

Mauja Frosthjärta

It felt strange, to hear his name spoken in the soft tones of a female - not that he somehow led a herd of stallions, but... they seldom spoke his name. His rank had convinced a lot of misled horses to call him "my king" or "your grace", and when alone, there was little need to address the other by name. Or perhaps it was just the enchanting qualities of Ophelia's voice, how it was both like silver chimes and a winter wind. Faint echoes of her damning vow towards Deimos blew through his head, and he gave it a miniscule shake. It was unlikely that that day had been a good day for any of them, with, perhaps, the exception of Deimos.

Tor claimed she needed to rest, but he silently agreed with Ophelia. If she wanted to survive, she had to get up, and soon - the chill was always the worst on the floor, where it sucked the heat right out of your body and left you a cold, shivering wreck. The draft seemed determined to stay down, though, and in all honesty, he wasn't that keen on moving away from Ophelia. Miraculous, how sweeping the feverish infection from a body made you feel reborn. It even cured some of his vile mood, making him more inclined to make sure the healer made it through the night. Perhaps it was glorious to heal an exiled king? He doubted it, and even though he wanted to scream at the world and tear it apart stone by stone, he had to school himself to patience, keep dancing the dance upon the knife's edge. Besides, if he didn't stay in this cave with Tor and Ophelia, he'd just do something stupid like prance in the snow, which was quite meaningless and didn't contribute to his effort of taking over the world. So, best stay.

After no more than a couple of minutes, though, the mare seemed inclined to get up again. Mauja quickly scrambled back to give her space, watching as Ophelia rushed forth to offer her something to lean on. Was kindness an intrinsic piece of personality, something that had been hammered out of him, given only when he saw fit and usually only after consideration? What was it, that made it a person's reflex to care for others? Absently he trailed around to the mare's left side, sweeping his muzzle down her flank. Snow fell to the ground, not that it made a difference in her color anyway, white as the majority of her body was. His ears flickered, a humorless grunt of a laugh escaping him. A rebellion to start, when his tattered family was in shambles? "They've made it this far without getting infected, and I'm more concerned seeing the healer survive the night," he murmured, ears flickering. No need to respond to the stupid comment about a rebellion. He wasn't sure at all what to do - sure only of the notion that he wanted to crush the dragonwhore's head beneath his hoof. Anger, oh yes, there was much of it in him, should he but touch it, breathe life into it. But he didn't. He kept his insides calm, a castle of ice and snow. Better not lose his head.

Again, Ophelia's soft voice nearly froze his movements, nearly threw his entire world upside down. Only by focusing on his breathing did he prevent it from hitching in his throat, though he grew somewhat stiller where he stood. He'd not been raised with much kindness, and had always been the central pillar of his herd, the one who could neither falter nor waver. Weakness had not been a luxury he could afford. And when you wore a strong mask, no one stopped to ask you how you felt, if you were okay - if something bothered you. Who would presume to know a monarch's heart anyway, and dare risk his wrath by assume he might not be wholly well? He couldn't remember a time when anyone had even expressed a remote concern for his well-being, and hearing it now... A greedy, selfish part of him wanted to run Tor out and be alone with the more slender mare, but an equally large - or even larger - part feared it. "More than I are wounded," he spoke quietly, trying to steer his thoughts onto other things. "You would be more than welcome to practice your art on them when you energy has returned, if your kindness would allow it. Should you feel unsafe walking among my kin, as it is true that not all of them look favorably upon the hornless, I would not mind escorting you."

With the natural cool of his body, the smoothness of his tongue had returned - and the clarity of his mind, the ease for schemes, though his eyes and voice expressed nothing but gentle concern and shy warmth.

Mauja Frosthjärta

His ears pricked, twitched, to the low mutter uttered in Ophelia's voice; "I suppose you said the same thing about your hindquarters..." And even though he bristled at the comment, soul for a moment pretending it was a porcupine, he didn't respond. As a matter of fact, he hadn't said that, but first the stealth of d'Artagnan and now the loss of the Edge - and thus the Moon's guidance - had effectively robbed them of their healer. Winter and frost had come to the mainland too, cold killing the plants, putting even traditional remedies out of their reach. He'd sheltered in the Arch to wait the infection out, to prevent his herd from seeing their leader's weakness, and to shield them from his vile temper. Controlled the Ice King usually was, an aptly named Frostheart, but the aftermath of being burned had reduced his fuse to something microscopic in size. A good thing that only the itch of healing remained in his backside, or he probably would've eaten Ophelia and Tor both since they'd spent relatively long in his company by now.

"Of course," he murmured as Tor agreed. He'd not expected anything else, really, though again, for the second time in a short time span, did his soul bristle. What had his herd done to earn a bad reputation? Deimos had nearly killed Ophelia, Alan shouted too much, but otherwise no incident had been reported or uncovered. Hearsay, all of it, mad speculation, attributed to him when the Plague had not really struck anyone down. Still, all he did in reaction to her words was to sigh, as if tired - and tired he was. Of the world, of life, of fighting. Not that'd he'd give up, though...

"Uneasy," he muttered, something like contempt falling from his voice for the first time. "Uneasy only because the last mare to have forged some form of pact with me stabbed me in the back." It hadn't surprised him, really. He hadn't trusted Kri to keep her word, not really, but given her heated reaction when Snö was stolen it had come as somewhat of a surprise that she'd so willingly toss the safety of her herd to the wolves and aid the Qian in an invasion that would not fail in making them enemies. Remorse or not at what she'd done, she couldn't make it undone. In a sense, allowing Tor among his own was a gamble; what if she'd just pretended to heal him, only for his backside to rot and slough off like snow in a few days? Only time would tell and if she turned out to be a betrayer, he'd probably declare that he'd had enough of this world and toss himself in the sea.

"I will," he promised Ophelia, the small smile back on his face after the miniscule outburst. "Once my schedule allows it..." Keeping tabs on his herd was harder out here in the wilds - keeping them safe and fed... Damn it all. Ophelia glided to the mouth of the cave like a stray moonbeam, light upon her cloven feet, and Mauja glanced at Tor for a moment - nothing of disgust in his eyes, only concern. Irma squeezed his scalp with her claws, and with a small shrug he followed after the white and crimson mare. Swaths of blue and green fire reflected upon the pristine surface of the snow, dancing and flickering like flame in the sky among the myriad of stars: he paused beside the young mare again, more space between them than when they'd stood over Tor, but less than if they'd been strangers. His blue eyes soared to the sky, pupils moving to catch every nuance of color and every single shape that hung suspended for a mere moment before changing into something new. Clouds of breath rolled slowly into the frigid dark in front of their face, the rugged wind biting at his face.

Mauja Frosthjärta