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

It was soft—

(Hush, hush...)

—a soft day. Green moss still bearing the faintest dusting of night-frost cradled his large frame, and formed a cushion for his plush nose; its scent lay deep in his mind, coloring his brief, whimsical dreams. The sun had warmed the air and stolen winter's coming bite from it, its light filtering down like a dappled blanket between the evergreen trees. Mauja, former Queen of the Edge, lay upon his soft, soft bed deep in the heart of the land, sheltered from the ocean's winds and the cries of gulls, sheltered from the sharp gazes of others and the cruelty of the world.

Even his awakening was soft: a voice, a call, slipping in through furry ears and gently wriggling its way into his consciousness. And there, just like faint sunlight, it tugged at his awareness, pushing and pulling, gently, gently, until the snowbeast's mind stirred and those pale blue eyes flickered open to the world. The mist hung at his eyelevel, twisting and dancing and hiding from the sun-rays, but in a forest it hardly did much to ruin his line of sight—the trees and the bushes saw to that.

Mauja raised his head, ears flickering. Something had woken him, something other than the fact that he was done sleeping; his eyes closed. What had it been?

(His soul glides on pale wings, feathers whispering as they shear through the air; they hold them wide, those wings, and bank, then dive, dipping in between the crowns of the trees, flaring beneath them, and there—)

"Myrrine," he whispered, opening his eyes again. The white owl hung in the air in front of the filly for a moment before disappearing, having shown her friend why he had woken. Back in his soft bed of moss and dreams Mauja hauled himself to his feet, giving his body a shake once to throw off some debris and dust. He hadn't seen the spotted girl in a while—well, a long while. She had been there at the meeting, when he was newly crowned, and he had seen her in a few of the battles, but then.. she had simply disappeared, like so many others did.

But she had come back.

(And if she could come back, maybe he could, too—)

He threw himself into motion, trampling the foolish thoughts and foolish hopes beneath his hooves. He would not come back (I have to believe that you won't but I wish you would). He had left. His heart and his blood and his eyes had screamed the truth: he was leaving, and he wasn't coming back.

Mauja didn't want to think about that now. He didn't want to stumble upon Myrrine like some half-lost ghost, weeping, mourning, when she had just walked back into his life; he drew ragged, rugged breaths, focused, for once, on where he put his feet. Watched the world and the mist flow by beneath his fluid trot, occupied his mind with the more immediate things in life, like that squirrel, that patch of frost over there in the shadows, thinking about apples and buttercup flowers.

And then—it was over. He had made it to the border, the glass wall shimmering treacherously in the vague sunlight, and Myrrine was there. She was bigger than he remembered, starting to flesh out her frame, her queer butterfly wings moving lightly with her breath and the breeze... "Myrrine," he said again, because the first time he said it today she certainly would not have heard him. There had just been too much forest between them, but he had fixed that now. So he smiled, warm and pleasant, his eyes gentle, a different kind of ice masking up the hurt beneath, but ice all the same. "Welcome back." Slowly, he reached out, to place his muzzle on her forehead.

(Because sometimes, we just need a touch to anchor us in reality.)
So much had happened in the time since she'd left.

[ @Myrrine <3 ]

Mauja

the white queen

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

And that was both how easy and how hard it was. Her breath was warm against his cheek, her muzzle soft, whiskers tickling his sensitive skin; this was the easy part, just standing still. Breathing. Living. Feeling. Her scent was familiar, joining the memory of the ocean's salty tang, and the vivid display of milky seas—the faint dread of standing near her, the abhorrence at what he was capable of thinking, had almost washed out of his memory.

Almost.

If he, who could barely even act upon his desire to save his own life sometimes, was capable of thinking all sorts of stupid shit—he shuddered to think of the people who could think it, and, worse, would do it. Once, he had witnessed a young, barely two years old, stallion massacre a dying mare. What could move someone to such needless violence, such rampant cruelty? They had reveled in her destruction, they had wanted it, and they had caused it—mercy had had nothing to do with it. She had been weak, a prime target for his delusions.

Mauja prayed that that boy, now a stallion grown, would never, ever reach the same level of vivid, cruel imagination as Mauja held.

And that was where the hard part began—she called him your majesty, oblivious to the events that had gone down in the Green Labyrinth and Riptide Isles, and asked him how he had been. If all had been well. And everything he had fought to keep contained—

It came bubbling up to the surface, a high-pitched shriek in the back of his mind, pulse holding silent for a shocked second before thundering into rapid motion. Where could he even begin? Should he just smile and lie? Gently tell her he was no longer Queen? Had she known who d'Artagnan and Snö were? Did she know anything about him at all?

No—

"I—" he began weakly, but faltered, fell silent; saved, in part, by Tembovu's approaching form. The giant came lumbering through the forest, an easy focus for the sad, pale eyes. "Our King approaches," he said quietly to Myrrine. If she thought Mauja was still Queen, well.. she hardly knew that Torleik had been replaced, either, but that seemed a problem for later.

And speaking of problems, it felt like everything was going wrong lately, or like everyone was hiding from ghosts. At the sight of Tembovu Myrrine had begun to sidle over until they were almost touching, and she seemed to look aside when Tembovu greeted them. Mauja's ears flicked, once. There could hardly be something he didn't know here (or was there?), but.. and still, that word, lovely, and all other questions that poured into his mind—questions that were for a different time. "I have to make up for my presence here," he responded, the blandness of his voice giving the joke away.

And then, Elsa was there. Mauja nodded to her, listening to her, wondering what moved behind the bone of her cranium; she had seemed broken and shattered, but what was she now? Did she hold it together like he had, living with a feeling of the water level rising, but pretending it didn't scare you to death that you were slowly choking on your own life? He sighed, softly, subtly, and glanced to Myrrine instead. Her wings created a wash of air against his flank, her eyes bobbing between the three of them. A slight frown creased his forehead. What was going on here? What about Myrrine's presence was it that made his mind take all the wrong turns, and come up with all the wrong conclusions? Was he just imagining things or was there some kind of nauseating, underlying tension here? Like something that's just about to start reeking of fear—

"I am Queen here no longer," he said quietly, shifting slightly so his shoulder pressed against hers. "Nor is Torleik King. Tembovu and Elsa are our shepherds now."

And then, he did not know what else to say—my love tore my heart out and left it on the ground? d'Artagnan had walked away, but it was a pain too private to share here.

[ So sorry for the wait! :( @Elsa @Myrrine @Tembovu ]

Mauja

the white queen