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

Had he truly lost all his purpose? All his worth? He was a remnant of an era gone by, a relic, a piece of the past; did he have a place in this future? Their future?

Our?

Our future...

To be a part of something again. (Again? When were you ever—) Myrrine had already run past him, a spotty blur in the misty forest, the flutter of her wings a memory carved into his skull. Myrrine was part of the future, and in a symbolism surely lost on her, she had left him behind.

He knew nothing of the in-betweens of life; either he was the bedrock foundation, or he was the tallest, highest peaks breathing the thin air of royalty. The roots, the rocks, the trees, the lowest reaches of the sky—they were mysteries, unexplored. They were the realm of mortality. His eyes spun. They were the realm he had forsaken. They were the realm he had destroyed. With his head bent into the wind he had carried the world on his shoulders, until the weight had broken him, and he had soared into the sky. Untouchable. He had left the scythe behind but not the haughty arrogance it had embedded within him.

He supposed he was not used to freedom. The freedom of choice. He could do what he wanted, go where he wanted—cut all ties, start over. He did not need to bear the Edge up. He did not need to lead it. He did not need to take orders. He did not need a guide.

He glanced down into the snow.

But he had never known any other life. Freedom frightened him. He did not know what to do with it, or what it would do to him.

Sighing softly he drifted closer to the meeting. The crystal staff across his back felt like a curse, a chain, an anchor to keep him mired in his bloody past.

“You all make me proud to be King of World’s Edge. Thank you for attending,” and that was that. He had officially missed the meeting, coming up in the forest line with his head held high but something forlorn about his stance. His lost eyes traveled the masses gathered as the wind blew his long forelock about his face. So many.. Were they so many? He had seen them from the air, from Irma's perspective, but to see them in the flesh—from the ground—they were too many and he wanted to run—

But he remained where he was, motionless. Irma sailed down on wide wings, settling on his withers, her scouting duty done. What would happen now? Would anyone approach? He should just melt back—

Fuck—

The flare of anger was hot in his breast, a lightning glitch through his skull: his eyes darkened, lips curling back in a sneer.

Was that what he thought it was?

Was that Tembovu dearest leaning into Elsa? In a way that seemed intimately, thoughtlessly at odds with the shattered Queen's frigid demeanor?

Before he knew it, the staff was in his mouth. It was lighter than his body remembered, balancing easily between his teeth; its shape unbroken by the scythe blade stowed away in darkness.

It hurt. It hurt to see everything he didn't even know that he wanted handed out to others; it hurt to see the familiarity of bonds that went deep, bonds unknown. You came to Helovia to start over, not to bring your baggage with you. Who else had come here and brought their friends? Mauja hadn't suspected it could happen, not quite, not really, yet here he stood and stared at what could only be Tembovu's old friend and a new friend, his latest crush perhaps, that handsome bulk of his attracting mares like moths, his smooth-talking tongue pulling them in—

What had he done? What had he done to Tembovu?
What had he done to Helovia?

What had he done to himself?

A single tear fell solemnly from the corner of his blue, blue eye.

[ In case anyone was unsure, the scythe blade is NOT summoned, so it's just a regular staff. ^^ ]

Mauja

the white queen