Revenge is a glorious thing. Some crave it. Some deny it. Some live it. Some fight it. Regardless of the relationship, all feel it in some way or another. It is an all-consuming thing, rushing like wildfire through minds, hearts, souls; it takes over rational thought at a rate nearing insanity, chaos ensuing in its wake. It is an obsession, something that can’t be avoided, can’t be escaped. When it takes you, you become the pet of a monstrous force of which you have no control. You no longer control your anger; it controls you. It wields you like a sword, battering you against enemy after enemy until you triumph. Or you crumble.

The shadow-mare was a vengeful creature; this had not changed with the Qian conquest of the Edge. If anything, her hatred for those unlike her in blood and mindset had grown. Her entire life was based on the idea of vengeance. The world needed to be cleansed of the unpure, her family needed to be purged of the blood-traitors, and now her home needed to be rid of the tainted creatures that roamed it. Let them get comfortable, let them get cozy. Let them relax and become lazy. She would wait, and she would watch. And when they expected it the least, they would reclaim that which was theirs.

She wondered what had become of her past followers, the Plague. She knew the organization was still alive – Mauja would have made sure of that, for all that he was a diplomat. They had made quite the pair, once – her heated passion for their cause had fueled it, and his detached coolness had steered it. Ah, what she wouldn’t give to return to those days, when ruling was easy. And she had been in the perfect position: set to be made Queen, with the FrostHeart fully in her grasp. Even without the title, she ruled separately, for she had created the Plague. It was her blood, sweat, and tears that had made the group possible. Had she remained in Helovia, she would have been doubly the leader – Queen of the Edge and Crux of the Plague. But she hadn’t, and it was far too late for regrets now.

Had she been replaced within the Plague? She was sure that Mauja would have stepped up in her absence, but how would he fare running two herds, with one of them a secret society? There were only so many secrets a King could keep before someone had a slip of the tongue and sent his reign spiraling out of control. He may well have picked a new Crux by now. She would appeal to them, she decided. She had created the Plague, after all – surely she could create a new position. She would not be called ‘leader’ in that case, but advisor was much the same. And she could always challenge once her injuries from the invasion had healed.

The memory of her various bruises and scrapes released a wave of sore limbs. Her right shoulder ached still, though she wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with it. It could be a slight fracture; it could be a deep bruise. In any case, she wasn’t going to some equine healer to fix it. She’d just wait it out, keep most of her weight off of it. The deep laceration along her left side had scabbed over, but broke anew at the slightest stretch. Luckily, it did not bleed profusely, or she would have been dead of blood loss by now. It was an annoyance more than anything, and each time it reopened, the dark vixen would roll in newfallen snow to clean it. She was lucky that Frostfall had come when it did, or she would have higher chances of infection.

Pegasus feathers drifted lazily in a cold breeze, dangling from her silken banner. Amber orbs scanned her surroundings, recognizing certain landmarks of the Steppe now that she had been banished to it with her comrades. The jackal sighed, an irritated sound, as snow began to fall. The skies above were grey, heavily laden with the frozen bits, and there was no sign of a halt any time soon. What a desolate time to be stuck in this icy wasteland! But whining about it would be of no use – it was time to plan. She was seeking the FrostHeart - probably right at home in this place! she thought resentfully – and together, they would prove a force to be reckoned with. If, of course, he would cooperate.

[W/C | 757]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.

Time passes; things change.

Such was the way of the world. She did not have to like it, but she accepted it as true. And such a fickle nature hers was; indeed, a fickle nature is common amongst mortals. When change brings good to them, they praise their gods and fall to their knees in thanks, calling it good luck or good karma or any number of silly things. But when change brings them bad, suddenly their friends, their gods, even their world is against them. They place blame on something that they recently acquired, claiming that the new thing brought bad luck along with it. If they simply rid themselves of that thing, then they believe their good fortune will return with it. She knew better. Life comes in ups and downs.

She had never been a philosopher, and as this was a skill that she lacked, the shadow-mare have never stopped to think about this in detail. This day was no different; she was aware of changes taking place, of things being set in motion around her. She was aware of the fact that her once-had possession had fallen out of her grasp. But she did not linger on the why or the how of the situation; no, life was too short for that. She simply looked forward, on to how she could once again conquer her territory, set the order straight again. It was with this mindset that she had set out on that afternoon, searching with the few remaining shreds of her black heart, and yet never searching with her mind. It was a constant battle, and one she would never admit to fighting, but one she fought all the same.

In the distance, a too-familiar form appeared. She quickened her pace; his appearance excited a part of her that she had thought lost long ago, long before she had met the FrostHeart. And yet she was weary. Did she really want this meeting now, here? She ached still, and she froze in the gleaming drifts of snow, and she had yet to decide how she felt about her daughter's father. As one that refused to consider actual emotions, this was not surprising, and yet the question still reared its ugly head: did she, would she, could she care for him?

Worse still: had she ever stopped?

It was far too much for the cynical femme to ponder on such short notice, and she was dismayed and relieved in equal measure when his path led him to her. She was sure that the events of the last days - hell, the last months - had taken its toll on him, and yet in his eyes was no trace of the emotion that had to be roiling under the surface. He wasn't called FrostHeart for nothing, that she knew all too well, but she also knew that he had chosen the easy thing. It was far too simple to slip on that mask, to show everyone that you are okay, even when you are dying inside. She knew.

She did the same thing. Her sweet smile was at the same time sinister; in her orbs there was a wickedly mischievous glint. She could not rid her eyes of all of her pain, however, and this irritated her. She worked hard to mask it, and failed, though her unsteady mind would remain unrevealed. In speaking distance now, the shadow-mare halted. They were close enough to touch, and a part of her yearned to reach for him. She crushed the instinct with iron will, instead parting her lips to drip sweet poison in his ear, as ever: "And so we meet again, darling. None the worse for wear, I see." A bold-faced lie. He may have had his injuries healed, but he could not have escaped mentally unscathed - could he?

[W/C | 642]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.

They flowed together well, even after all this time. Old habits bubbled to the surface as they reacted to one another like well-oiled cogs of a machine. There were subtle differences: the owl perched precariously on his shoulders, for one. For another, the air between them was dead, as though left in the wake of a bolt of lightning. Whatever tension, whatever attraction, that had once been present had long since left - no, been forced from them. He would blame her, and she him, and on the layer under that, they would each blame themselves. Regardless of who shouldered the blame for the problems between them, it would never be forgotten, perhaps never forgiven.

Such was the way of the world.

And yet they would not speak of it. This she knew, as she knew that he knew. It was done, it was over, and neither of them was the sort to linger in the past. At least, not vocally. In her mind, the shadow-mare replayed her actions over and over, searching for mistakes. She wondered in vain if she would do things differently, should she have the opportunity to do it all over. The most time was dedicated to a search for weakness as she tried to decide if it was her feelings or the fact that she had run from them that should shame her more.

She would not run this time, she would never run again. She had spent her life running, first from her crazed father after her mother's death, then from her king after their daughter's birth. What a great example she had been for Sno, who now felt that she could simply wander around without so much as a by-your-leave. She had planned to raise her daughter better than that, to teach her more respect than that. She should never have allowed her to get so out of hand. But that was the story of her life: things getting out of hand.

But all this thinking was getting nothing done. "It takes more than an army of mutts to break me, sweetheart." Ah, the inferiors, those which had brought them together in the first place. That was a safe topic, and one she would embark on quite readily. "Those mutts threw you out of your home," she reminded him sweetly. "We ought to do something about it." She knew that it was a low thing to say, particularly at this moment in time, so soon after his defeat. But she may as well cut to the chase. She was fairly sure that the FrostHeart would not want to stand around chatting with the likes of her.

[W/C | 443]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.

They had always been so different, the FrostHeart and the jackal. He was so cold, so distant, so in control of his emotions, his actions. Everything was reigned in, kept under tight ropes, never to be freed. And she was his opposite, everything about her suggesting a raging inferno. She was heated, intense, and in control in a different way. She allowed her emotions to direct her course rather than holding them in; she retained control of her mind while allowing her passion to guide her. Passion - the one thing she could truly count on.

There had never been passion between them, not in the sense that one would assume. They had never looked upon each other with the warmth of love shining from their guarded eyes, never shared a touch that sent electricity coursing through their veins. But there had been agreement, and shared goals, and shared desires. Perhaps 'desire,' then, was a better way to sum up their relationship. It was separate from passion, a whole different element.

Her words had their intended effect. He became a bit less distant, a bit less (or was it more?) cold, responding forcefully. "We will." A small shiver scattered over her hide at the word. Shared desires once more would tie them together, even without a shared passion. "Do you just want to rant an prod me, Psyche, or do you actually have a plan? Maybe a masterpiece you're just dying to share?" The dry comment, perhaps comical in some senses, invited her closer in its own way, a concept reinforced as the king silently motioned her to join his walk. She did so.

"Well, darling, as fun as prodding you is -" she brushed lightly along his side, then retreated, the momentary touch a lapse into the past "- I do, in fact, have a plan." But then, he would know that, would he not? He knew her, or at least the part of her that she allowed him to know. He would expect no less from her. "What ever happened to the Plague, Mauja?" For the first time, her tone was serious. She had not inquired about her organization, had not seen any of its members. Seasons had passed. Things had changed. Would she have to start over?

[W/C | 381]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.

Always, the darkness sought to overwhelm her, and always, she banished it away.

The darkness was of a different kind that that which flowed thickly through her veins. That, at least, was a kind that she controlled with an iron will. But the other darkness, the one that threatened to overtake her, was full of heat and passion and fury which, unleashed, would take over all in its path. It was anger and fear and hatred and determination and so many things all rolled into one. But with it would come rash actions, inane desires. Under the spell of this darkness, things would come to pass, things that would haunt her - and others - for many years to come. So perhaps it was not just herself that she saved by suppressing it.

Control had become a cleansing thing for the shadow-mare. She may not be able to control the chaos that lurked in her surroundings, brooding in the minds of the lesser beings (inferior and supreme alike). She accepted this; it was the way of the world. She had been no more able to save her mother from an untimely demise than she was able to change how the FrostHeart reserved himself from her now. They were out of her reach. She was the better for it. Let their deaths, their problems, let those things be theirs. She had enough in her own mind to keep reigned in. She could control her thoughts, her emotions, her actions. She could control where she went, what she did, how she did it. And this she did, and did well.

Too well, perhaps. She would never be the queen that he had once wanted her to be. Nor would she simply be the mare he wanted her to be, that she once was. Those times had passed them by, quickly enough to have been simply a leaf in the wind. This was out of her control. This was the way of the world. Even so, she found herself yearning for the way things once were, for the mutual trust - could she call it that? - that had bound them so tightly together. She wished for it back, and (dare she think it?) his love. Perhaps it was not the same love that others had shared before them; perhaps it was not the same love that more would share after them. But love it had been nonetheless, a love set to burn by their common desires, struck to light as a flint lights a fire. She had not allowed herself to think it before, and yet, there it was.

Amber eyes gazed at him perhaps a little too long, a little too emotionless - she had always shown some emotion, after all, be it a mischievous smile or and angry scowl or any number of things in between. A sense of desperation took her, and she swallowed, pushing it down, raising the mask that was her salvation. The too-sweet smile, the poisonous tones, the glittering orbs. It was all fake. She was all fake. Or was she? Perhaps the artificiality with which she lived her life was real, for her. Perhaps that was all she had to offer. Too many perhapses. She pushed against the thoughts further, forcing them down as one might force down bile in the throat. Losing control.

"You know me better than that, honey," his words had been, a silken purr that left her wanting, waiting for him to return to the way things had been. But no. I knew you better than that, she wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it at him, at herself, at everyone. Perhaps she just wanted to scream. Not here, not now. Later, perhaps. Control. The darkness, the frigid way in which he spoke to her, it returned, and perhaps it would have left one less practiced than she reeling. But not the jackal. Never her. "You wound me," she informed him with a pout. Then, grinning, she continued: "Well, as long as they are still around, I should like to make good use of them. Seeing as how you're busy and such. Would you mind, dearest?"

The mask was perfect. It never slipped. She never slipped. And yet, when one is walking on the edge of a precipice, it is only a matter of time. And this one is particularly deep.

[W/C | 731]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.

"It's always been yours, Psyche."

For the slightest moment, she found herself wandering to what he was referring. Of course he meant the Plague - it had been her creation, hers to nurture and grow into something more. But some part of her considered an alternative, hidden meaning: him. Could it be that, on some level, he admitted his feelings for her? She thought, hard, for a long moment. Would she, could she, apologize for the wrongs she had done him? She liked to think that she could do anything that she decided to, but in truth, apologies went against the grain of her nature. But she would never find out.

A prickle of unease crept up her spine, raising hairs and planting the seed of a shiver that soon wracked her entire bodice. Auds flattened against her head. Mauja felt it too, of that she was sure. She looked away, scanning the waves of snow. Nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Mauja's presence was a reassuring warmth at her side - for a brief moment, she remembered how they had once functioned so well together, as one being almost. She relaxed. But suddenly, a shout, cut off: "PSYCH-" She shrieked her surprise, dancing away from her companion, whirling to face him -

And all she saw was his head, as though floating in midair, eyes wide with some unknown emotion - fear, anger, something - it was a look that would haunt her dreams for days to come. And then even that was gone. She was left alone in the barren wasteland of the Steppe, the only hint at the presence of another the lonely hoofprints in the snow. Even they were being erased now, as the frigid wind blasted snow into the deep indentations. Snow began to fall.

By nightfall, there would be no trace of her king.

[W/C | 311]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.