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

Snow would fall in silence, and the world would change—but he would not. The thin blanket of white met his frost-covered hooves with a sharp, near-silent sound as he walked the misty hallways of his ancient home.

He had been here a long, long time. After the wars which had ravaged Helovia he had been one of the first to enter the World's Edge—only a few had stayed to witness the brutality the Gods had wrought upon their followers, and the few ones who had remained had accepted his rule. The ranks swelled with newcomers, all horned, united under the Ice King—Mauja the Frostheart.

In the depths of the now-dead swamps he had sworn along his Dark Empress, his jackal, to rid the world of all those un-crowned.

Irma was watching the meeting as the frostwraith paced the depths of the forest. Her mind could not pick apart their words, but he was constantly tapped in to her consciousness. And he understood what they said. He understood what she saw. He had even heard the echo of Tembovu's voice floating upon the chill winds, but had hardly moved from his spot face to face with a rime-covered tree. His gaze traveled up its old, sturdy trunk, thinking of flames, the wildfires which had ravaged his home in the years long gone.

He saw them gather, to Tembovu and Elsa. He saw them bend their knee, whisper My King, My Queen (and he hated them for it—).

They were reduced to their roles. Incapable of fault. Incapable of emotion. Incapable of sorrow. His teeth gnashed with helpless anger, and his heart ached with helpless pity. What had he done to Tembovu, thrusting him into this position..?

And he saw other things, too, from Irma's lofty vantage, spinning on the slow, meager winds. He saw things which broke his heart, and stopped him dead in his tracks, no longer advancing upon the meeting.

He saw familiarity.

He saw envy and love and disappointment and hurt.

An effeminate stallion slipping smoothly from a primal mare with a lion, weaving his way with expertise through the gathering crowd; words—'Bov'—coming out like the rustle of satin, his hips swaying like a harlot's. And Mauja wasn't stupid. Tem-bov-u. How hard was that to figure out? 'Aji', the King said. Fondly, perhaps.

A rough, uncharacteristic growl spilled from his dark maw. More bodies joined the press, filtering in, gathering, crowding, choking, yet he couldn't acknowledge them—couldn't see them—Irma couldn't tear her eyes from the smooth-moving, smooth-talking stallion. There was a familiarity there. A familiarity which went deep, deeper than the earth.

Deeper than whatever claims Mauja had on Tembovu.

Mauja had taken the Elephant King in. Mauja had given him duty and responsibility to take his mind off things, given him a chance to sow seeds that wouldn't grow in ashes and be watered by blood. Mauja had given him the fucking crown he wore, placed him at the head of this throng dying for his attention.

Tembovu had been the one to back Mauja off the Veins' edge, keep him on this side of life.
Mauja had been the one who had burned for Tembovu's grief and rage and his own mistakes.

And all of that was taken from him in an instant.

He had no place anymore. He did not belong—never had, not really, he had just been the white stag they all chased, trying to lead them onto safer ground. He had never been one of them. He swallowed. Alune towered next to the King. Naerys hid beneath the motherly, loving wing of Alysanne. Elding (—the fuck?) hid in the shadows of the trees, kept company by Katerina. Glacia had Kvasir.

Nobody needs you—

And Tembovu began to speak.
Each word a hammer-stroke falling on the nails of his coffin.
Each word soft, loving damnation.

Nyx was away. Rohan was promoted. Fair enough. Auriel was promoted. Caenan was promoted. (Who the fuck are they?) They had an alliance with the Basin. They traded with the Throat. Tilney was made Moon Doctor in Calista's stead. Word by word the glass shard pushed deeper and deeper into his heart, until he stood alone in his snow-laden clearing and gazed straight up at the distant sky with tear-glazed eyes. d'Artagnan's bags were wound tight against his body, the scythe a cold, terrible weight over his back. He wondered how long it would take them to react if he charged into the meeting and began laying into everyone with it.

How many would die.

How much blood would cover the snowy ground, haphazard stains of red—

And he had signed up for this shit for eternity. A low, strangled laugh—or was it a sob?—broke the stillness of his corner of the world, an echo dying quickly between the snow-covered trees.

[ aka Mauja is being a difficult, jealous bitch. he's nowhere remotely near the meeting but Irma can clearly be seen circling above it! ]

Mauja

the white queen