the elephant king

The impassive, blue, icy stare is one that the Elephant King had studied for a lifetime— at least, it felt that way in the long moments of silence (or were they short moments?) between his own words and his question. He had watched them glaze over with impassivity— that was how he had met the man; collected and aloof, even for a King, when recruiting him from the Edge. He remembered their panicked regret during their spar, after his flaming birds had scorched his side. He remembered them angry, as Ampere shouted insults while Irma lay close to death at his own, ivory hooves. He remembered them grieving and tattered, as he held the lifeless and bloody body of his own daughter. He remembered them dazed, slipping into unconsciousness as his own rage had engulfed his pristine white body in flames. But the gaze had broken only once before, that the Elephant remembered. On the dark cliffs, when the Frozen Light had laid his heart upon those sharp and jagged rocks; but it already had been rent by the abandonment of a man he loved.

But now— now he, the Elephant King with his harsh words and unfeeling glare, caused the stallions eyes to fall away; caused a crack in his ice, a backwards tilt of the ears. The Elephant, who had sent this man into agony by his own anger; who had been filled with vengeance, only to be offered a home and duty (and eventually a friendship), was passing judgement— was holding a grudge? Over a favor? A favor he was free to deny? (And he had denied him.)

Navy eyes close. Lips purse tightly together, as disappointment and anger flows dark, daunting, and traitorous through his chest and barrel. His great head drops, a long and low sigh pushing past his nostrils, as his face turns away slightly. What kind of King was he? The doubtful, poisonous thoughts hiss and twine in the dark corners of his skull.

Pale ears twitch at the sound of teeth against metal. Dark eyes flare open, a low growl at himself rumbling from his throat as his dark gaze sweeps back to Mauja, finding him rising. Finding him shaking. Are you proud, now, Elephant King?

Ears sweep back, flush with his skull, at the trembling and drunken approach of the marked man. Long limbs moved in a half-step towards him, before his temper made his muscles rigid and still. Inward anger grew, swelled, spilled out into his eyes and out from his chest as a snort. Gritted teeth ground as the clicking and chattering of Mauja’s flitted into his ears. And his gaze, after sweeping the twitching, glossy, spotted skin, squarely met the fractured, white-rimmed gaze.

“Immortality does nothing to you. What I do, I do to myself.”

He shook his head once, roughly, at the slow answer to his question. His own, agitated restlessness a warped mirror of the Frozen’s quaking brokenness. “Mauja—” his voice was harsh, but no longer cutting. Emotion— betrayal? disappointment? — took the warmth from his voice, but it was not the cool impassivity from before (far, far from it). His head reached out, towards the man, as remorse and anger reduced his strong voice to a whisper, “Why do you do this to yourself?”

His outstretched muzzle was an open invitation; but a contradiction. The Elephant rarely held back with touch, yet here, after his hoarse words ended, he did not touch Mauja. He wanted to hold the trembling stallion, in the same breath he wanted to shake him, and further still plunge his horn deep into his flesh as Tembovu had denied him at the meeting. So, uncharacteristically for the Elephant, he kept their hides apart, burning eyes awaiting an answer.