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