but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

And they all came rolling in, like the thunder, like the tide, a gathering of noise and blood and warmth—hearts beating, lungs breathing, eyes bright and merry. Their exhalations rose like white clouds in the darkness, straining towards the distant, starry sky but fading before they came anywhere at all. And all the while, the bells kept on jingling, a sound so divine and so bright it made his heart ache—

This evening, it never came at a set time. It always changed when it appeared, the magnificent turtle moving to some different calendar he could not, for the love of everything, figure out; he just came when he wanted, spreading a touch of winter and a hint of cheer, bathing them all in a perplexing sense of tranquility. There was no arguing. There was no fighting, no brawling, no old feuds called to life—just peace. Just.. a very peculiar sense of acceptance, of simply.. bobbing along where the stream took them, spinning in its warm, careful touch. Tonight, and only tonight, Mauja could trust in that feeling, in those steadfast hands carrying him safely through, without letting sharp rocks bump his knees or thorns snag him. Tonight, and no other night, and he closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the others who milled about, exclaiming in wonder, sharing quiet greetings and celebrations—so that he could be alone in his dark, warm peace, floating under starlight.

But they would not let him be—and why would they? He was practically shining in the crisp light, a white bonfire standing out against the dark backdrop, lost behind his eyelids and the white curtain of his forelock. A nicker ear-marked Mauja floated into his soft ears, and they flicked forward, and his eyes opened. The blue seemed nearly silver in the moonlight. The nicker had been kind, not at all angry and intrusive, a gentle touch, and as his gaze swiveled (and heart despaired at the throng of Helovians still pouring in; there were too many of them) it settled upon Mesec—the moon-child.

d'Artagnan's firstborn son. The unholy progeny of a mad doctor and a bitchy goddess.

He had seen Mesec on offhand occasions throughout the years—in the Edge and the Basin, he had tried to always have a kind smile for the boy when they met, and now, the roles were reversed. Tentatively, he smiled back, dark lips curving. Mesec had grown. Gone was the leggy, awkward youth sandwiched between d'Artagnan and Mauja at a meeting, gone was the bitter, hurt, questioning anger that boiled beneath the surface—instead, there stood a handsome stallion, whose smile and eyes seemed so much more at peace with the world.

Maybe he had found himself, or at least pieces of it; maybe he had made his peace with his past, and enjoyed life, now. Maybe he had a purpose, a feeling of belonging, of being needed and loved, a reason for his heart to beat.

And then, the moon-child looked away, back to the tree, to the gathering, to all of those who had enough strength of mind to simply pour in and chit-chat and smile at strangers and do all those things Mauja wasn't strong enough to do—so he remained rooted, surrounded by the chill touch of the night, and not the melodic laughter of friends, and their soft, warm embraces. Even Mesec, standing on the edges, seemed to belong despite the distance between them.

"Need some company, my friend?"

He's not talking to you— But as Mauja's white head turned, the Seer was looking at him, standing only a few feet away. Alune's eyes were strange; they seemed blind, if not for the way their focus was trained on him, reflecting the glow of the stars and the moon. They were .. warm. Concerned, even. They were staring right at him, his words playing over and over in his head (—a counterpoint to the depth of disappointment as Tembovu changed his path and headed elsewhere); friend, and the bells jingled and the Helovians laughed and maybe, just maybe, some of the tension fell from Mauja's spine. Maybe he was alone, only as long as he made himself alone. "Yes," he breathed, as if the word was sacrilege, as if it was a knife about to cut if said too loudly—as if it had the power to turn the world into glass, and shatter it.

He was afraid of Alune's eyes going hard and cold like stone, and his voice to grow scathing and biting, and laugh at him for his stupidity—he was afraid of being made alone.

But before anything else had the chance to happen, Glacia was next to him, her approach lost in the muddle of his fear and the press of bodies still tumbling in; her muzzle brushed across his hide, a tingling warmth left in its wake. Wordlessly he reached over to tug at her forelock, but she did not linger—her haunted eyes slipped past him, and the rest of her body followed, ambling along towards the turtle. Mauja frowned. That was not like her (—except you don't know her, do you?). "What..." he murmured, squinting after her, hearing her voice shear through the thrumming mess of sounds, shouting a name—Rhoa. It rang no bells, but she was facing the direction of Gaucho, and what Mauja presumed was his army of offspring.

With that many, he had to be a worse father than Mauja.

Slowly, his attention shifted back to Alune, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was wrong. It showed in the depths of his eyes, in the shadow of his smile. "That was Glacia, my youngest daughter." And somewhere in the throng, he saw Sialia too, and the way she looked at their daughter, moving closer, and the unease he had been denying became a leaden, dread weight in the pit of his belly. His eyes swept back to Alune, trying to find them, lock with them; it was hard to tell where the Seer was seeing (hah). "Something's wrong," he said quietly, before disentangling himself from his spot and starting to skirt around the meeting, heading towards Glacia.

[ Title is nonsense. Tagging .. lots of people .. as this is a direct continuation of the Giving Tree, but up to you guys if you want to bounce in here or not ^^ @Alune @Glacia @Rhoa @Mesec ]

Mauja

the white queen