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

“The world is always wary of what they don’t understand.”

And he could relate to that—one of Mauja's most prominent characteristics was paranoia, inability to trust, always second-guessing, always doubting, always thinking about the worst possible scenario. He would rather not love at all, than to love and risk pain.

He could not understand the machinations of others, and what drove them; what empowered them, and what frightened them. The only reason he had ever been what he had, was that he had distanced himself. He had been cold. He had not been there for small talk. His mind had been honed to a startling openness, refusing to pass judgment until having all the facts—to ask questions without making them pointed, to fish for personal truth while inviting trust with his open eyes.

And thus, her words made sense. If Mauja did not understand the world, why would the world understand him?

Still, it saddened him—to hear that she was wary of him, even though she had good cause. How many times hadn't they been here? The years passed, and still they stood on their own side of that line drawn between them. She was.. strong, he realized in that moment. Broken, perhaps, but still strong. She had always resisted the subtle ways in which he manipulated, refused to be part of his world order, desisted from bending to fit the boxes he carelessly threw upon others. In her silence, she was resilient—in her song, she was divine.

She had a clarity he did not possess, a perspective by nature denied to him. She was the one who heard his words, his voice, and felt them; she was not to blame for his shortcomings.

“It’s what you say and do.”

Mauja's eyes closed. Of course it was—he doubted Helovia had a blanket hate of spotted ponies. But it wasn't that she said it, that she pointed it out, it was the fact that he knew this was not the end of it: just the beginning. He had asked, and she had answered, unveiling one of the many things he did not understand. And while he could've hoped for some outlandish theory of how a little pink bunny had told all horses that Mauja was evil incarnate, he had known that the truth would be this: solid, tangible, real, close.

A flaw within himself. A flaw in his schematics. In his youth, they had seen promise—but if they had hoped in his heart, he had let them down, striving to silence the organ and shape himself into a perfect machine. And none of them had seen it. None of them had helped him. None of them had done anything about it.

And then it had all been his fault, his failure, and he had not known how to deal with it.

So he had fled.

And now he stood here in the frozen wastelands of the north, staring at the hot darkness on the backside of his eyelids, knowing that he was nothing more but flesh and bone armed with sharp words struggling up from an impaled heart. He had never been perfect—could never be.

But no one had fixed him, and now he was old, struggling to fix himself even while he came apart in a torrent of glass shards.

What he had said and what she had heard was worlds apart—just like them. Fallen. Taunting. What did he think was going to happen.

He had thought they would understand what he meant. He had thought—no, not thought. He had forgotten they were not like him, that their thoughts did not bend at the same angles. He had, in a moment of careless ecstasy, and in a moment of sour revelation, forgotten that they existed independently at all.

He wanted to say, I didn't mean to—, but it sounded weak and childish. He had asked for insight, for explanations, for clarity, and she had given it to him, raw and whole. Softly, Mauja sighed, sagging beneath the weight of his defeat. Not even the starlight's touch could make him seem lustrous again.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, not sure if she wanted his explanations or not—not sure if they would fix anything, or just further deepen the rift between them. Still, it felt important to explain to her, that he hadn't meant it like that, to.. well.. everything was always too late, wasn't it? That's what they ought to call him—not Frostheart, not Ice King, not Queen, not Frozen Light. Mauja—too little, too late. "I.. my tongue ran away with me.. I meant, I was chasing them, and they showed me you, and you were a star, you know, like the gold at rainbow's end..." His voice was a soft thing, slipping through the snowy, starlit darkness.

"As for him—" and his muzzle waved in the direction Nox had disappeared in, "I was genuinely curious." And he wanted to leave, to sink through the snow, follow the unknown stallion into the darkness and disappear—leave Lena behind in the snow, where his words could no longer hurt her (—or anyone). Something always had to happen when he was around others. He fucked Snö up. He fucked Glacia up, a little. He fucked Ophelia up. He fucked Kahlua up. His insecurity drove him to madness, and in his madness, he did not fit in this world.

He didn't want to deal with it. This.. pain, in him, and in others. He avoided it to the point of brutality, but when he could escape it no longer, it destroyed him.

But something in him rebelled against the idea of leaving her behind. It would be.. wrong, somehow. Admitting to that he would never change. Never try hard enough. As if he attempted to hide behind his grief, as if it could exonerate him from what he had done.

He swallowed, eyes dry and burning, but said no more, lest his voice harm her again.

[ @Lena || eee congrats on 500!! <3 ]

Mauja

the white queen