Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

Days. How differently they passed in a land of snow and ice, when the wind whipped through and stole time and warmth from your bones, and when the dark, star-struck night stole your breath. It always made him feel infinitely small and insignificant, a mere pawn in the celestial scheme of the universe, and not at all a once great King who, somehow, had gathered a bad reputation. A king of mortals. What did that matter in the long run, when your body would turn to dust anyway? What did it matter what you did in your life, when sooner or later you memory would be forgotten anyway? Why, then, did it matter if you lived on to tomorrow, when nothing at all mattered in the end?

Mauja, lone creature of ice and snow, moved effortlessly across the snowy tundra in the pale light of dawn. His soul, his heart, mourned the loss of the World's Edge: mourned the sound of gulls and waves, the sight of sunlight filtering down through trees, the fog shimmering all afire with it. Living next to a sheer drop towards death had done wonders for the spirit, to be able to gaze out across such a vast expanse as the sea, watching a bloody sunset from that dangerous perch... He sighed, breath clouding into the morning air, the wind tugging at his rugged mane. The heat loss through his hindquarters was annoying, and potentially dangerous, but he counted on his body to regrow it before the worst blizzards set in. And if it didn't... He'd entertained the thought about asking to borrow Tamlin's lynx pelt, but decided against it. The foal would need it, especially since he'd had it all his life - he'd probably freeze a lot without it. Damn it, why hadn't he made something about it back when he was newly born? It was dangerous.

He growled.
Moved on.

He kept his body going through the nights, to stave off the worst of the cold. Warm blood circulated through him, just enough to keep him warm without sweating. Sweat was dangerous, too. Deadly. On the whole, living in the snow was dangerous, unless you knew how to survive. He did. Some didn't. When he could, he'd shown his band of exiles how to browse for the hardy vegetation under the snow, or taken them on guarded forays to the south. The foals... he was less sure how to ensure they didn't freeze to death. Normally no foal would be born on the cusp of winter, yet here they were with both Tamlin and Aviya, and not to forget Mesec, the moon child.

The pale sunlight fell on the world, and sparkled in every snow crystal. It was beautiful, breathtaking, cold, crisp beauty, the stuff his soul thrived on.

So why did the loss of the Edge sit in his chest like a bitter ache?

The shadow of the Frozen Arch fell across him, and he blinked his pale eyes as he stepped into it. On his shoulder now, Irma blinked too, before stretching her wings, flapping them a few times. She was not yet fully fledged, and still covered in her chick down, but she was growing. Rapidly. Some days he wondered if digging up rodents for her to kill with her merciless, large talons wasn't a full time job. Sighing, he stretched out his neck and gave it a shake, only to stop mid-movement when he spied a familiar, dark shape in the cave he'd entered. Her head was to the wall, horn scraping ice, body radiating one thing: defeat. For a moment, the former King just stood there, blinking stupidly at her. She'd not sustained that bad injuries in the war, but he had learned a long time ago that war did not only mangle bodies; it mangled souls as well. "Lena?" he called out gently, frosted hooves making sharp thuds on the floor as he padded over to her. "Are you alright?" Concern. Hot breath from a warm muzzle, gently reaching out to touch the flat plane of a brown shoulder.