a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

But the birds fell silent in the shadow of death—the early sun glittered along white feathers and struck navy glints in the dark barring, and on silent wings her shadow passed Glasgow's tree. The cold promise of her presence brought an eerie silence, an abrupt stop to the chirping, before she passed. She was not interested in their small, fluffy bodies. She was not hunting. But what did they know? They were just birds, fighting to stay alive, and once the pale owl had passed they tentatively began to sing again, until the morning air was once more full of their vibrant song.

As if they hadn't held their breath at all as a memory of winter had sighed through the trees.

Mauja heard it ripple through the forest, the hush of silence in her wake. He was far enough behind her that the little avians had begun to sing again, but in a way, he heard what the owls heard, and they heard what he heard. Over time, the instinctual sharing had become constant, senses overlapping, minds bleeding into one another. They were separate, distinct, yet the same; their hearts pounded faster, but his life fueled theirs, and so, they would remain.

The mist hung like a fine veil in the air, glittering golden where the sun rays slanted in to strike it. Little droplets clung to him as he passed, forming on his whiskers, his forelock, knees and fetlocks, and whenever he passed from the shadow into the sun, he, too, glittered. Diego sat upon his back, or rather, upon the crystal staff he always carried with him these days. The water didn't stick quite as much to the owl, who was quite smug about the fact—his entire presence radiated satisfied glee. Apparently, it pleased him greatly that Mauja was sparkling. Passing into another spot of sunlight, and feeling the owl's renewed surge of amusement, he rolled his blue eyes and snorted. One day, he'd find some way to get back at the owl. But not today.

Beneath one of the large pines, half-cloaked in the mist (and surely that was the reason Mauja hadn't noticed her and steered clear of her, recluse that he was), stood a mare. Porcelain white, whit locks of slightly darker gray, and the same curious red-tinted fetlocks he recalled—but trying to put a name on her face was like trying to catch smoke, and he quickly gave up. He knew that he had greeted her during his reign as Queen. Ophelia had brought her. Torleik had showed up, which had, of course, soured his mood. But aside from that? He'd seen her around, and had a notion she'd actually gone and done something useful with herself, but her name? He didn't have the faintest clue.

He crept into another spot of sunlight, gold reflected along the line of his jaw. It wasn't like he was a dazzling, radiant beacon of light—it was far more subtle, just the sharp glint of an aureaute glow, but apparently enough to bemuse the owl. Behold, the one once known as Frostheart—but now, he comes in Glow Edition!

"Good morning," he offered after a moment, watching her with interest. She was doing something. He could tell that she was doing something. She looked far too concentrated to not be doing something.

But the question was: what was she doing?

[ @Glasgow <3 ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

It seemed she had been just as unaware of his presence as he had been of hers; as his voice split the serene near-silence of the morning her head came up, eyes searching for him. The fact that she didn't instantly stare straight at him gave her surprise away.

She hadn't know he was there. So, he could've simply turned and gone back the way he'd come, and she would've been none the wiser.

Now it was too late for that, though, and it wasn't like he hated others, or company, just.. that he didn't know what to do with them anymore. Beyond saying hi and offering a sympathetic ear, what did one do with people? He had no orders to give, no things to speak of (for all his secrets are dark and dirty and nothing he wishes to spill on the pristine white of a stranger's lap), no.. reason to interact with anyone for more than two minutes. He couldn't even recall reasons from his past. He had always hidden behind duty, behind his role, being the King—or Queen—they needed to know. So now that he was supposed to do things for himself, he realized he just didn't know how, or why.

So, he might as well use this as practice. Trial and error, and hope there was no collateral damage as his brain exploded, which it probably would at some point. “Oh, uh, good morning. Mauja, right? It’s good to see you again.” Crap. She recalled both him and his name. No easy way out there. "Mmh," he rumbled, ambling a little closer, lest the soft tones of his voice be lost to her over the distance. "I'm afraid I don't recall your name, though I do remember greeting you. Ophelia brought you in." And that was an old, old wound, scabbed over and scarred a thousand times. It always surprised him how little it hurt these days.

“Don’t mind me. I just got promoted to Glazier and I’m trying to figure this whole thing out.” Ah, so that was what she had become within the herd—and the answer to his curiosity. She was glass-shaping. He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing something take shape within the mist he shut it again, peering curiously at her work.

It was like the mists themselves coagulated, growing denser and firmer, but before each shape had a chance to solidify it bled back into the fog. Strange. He had so readily thrown the job at Tembovu, but never cared to watch him work with it—or even ask him about it. And that was how it always went. He only remembered to check in on people five years later, or something.

"Interesting," he murmured after a moment. How long had it taken the Qian's glass-smiths to erect the wall? How long had they served, and practiced, before they were strong enough to undertake such a task? "Have you finished anything?"

[ @Glasgow ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

Changing was always difficult—admitting that the world changed was hard enough, but accepting the changes in yourself? Even when they were for the better he struggled against them, that old self whispering things in his ears: telling him how weak he had become, that he had given up, given in, changed because the world demanded it of him and not because it was right.

But those were things he could deal with. If it truly bothered him that he wasn't a scheming, racist scumbag anymore, he could probably become one again. All he would have to do was convince himself it was the right thing to be, and choke that little voice of reason and compassion until it gave up and stayed choked.

His memory was worse. It had been damn near perfect once, but the past couple of years—"couple", hah, it was more like four now—it had been growing sketchier and sketchier. Small details, important but not life-altering (like names of strangers) escaped him much more often. Events became jumbled, timelines tangled.

He hated it.

He wanted to still have that crystalline, flawless memory. He wanted, desperately, to remember everything as clearly as he once had—those old memories were still pristine and clear.

So admitting that he had not recalled her name had been doubly damning; in part, he hated himself for having changed in a way he could not prevent, and in another way entirely, it felt like he was insulting her and calling her not worthy of remembering. Which, hey, everyone was worthy of being remembered. Wouldn't it have been worse if he didn't even recall greeting her? (Yes, yes, but it's not about that, it's about showing that he cares—)

"Glasgow," he repeated. Now that she mentioned it, it was familiar, but he wondered whose feelings she was trying to spare; his, or her own? If it were hers, well.. he couldn't do that much about it, really, aside from feel ashamed. But if it were his? If it were his, he wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to never, ever make excuses for existing, or something.

Instead of asking, he simply gave her a small smile and said, "Glass-grow".

Oh how funny you are, Mauja.

“I’ve made a few glass blades for our sneaks.” Oh? For the sneaks? So they could stab herd sentries when they crept in to steal people? ( :D :D :D :D ) (.. wait, you're supposed to be nice now, aren't you?) “I’m supposed to make glass jars for the healers. We can’t have those being sharp and hazardous.”

"Mmmh," he hummed, wondering what they needed glass jars for, and simultaneously cringing inwardly because his first thought was something along the lines of are they dissecting people and putting the organs in them?. In all honesty, he could not imagine Alysanne cutting anyone open and pulling out their heart and putting it in a jar.. it was just too bizarre, but of course, it sparked the image in his mind of an Alysanne with blood up her forelegs and a deranged smile on her face, maybe a bit of gore splattered on her white star and stuck in her forelock...

Stop it already. His ears flicked, his tail flicked, and he let his gaze focus upon Glasgow again. "How come your glass gets jagged?"

[ @Glasgow ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

She laughed. It sounded soft, and he wondered if it was because she was like that—soft, not of resolve, but in her manners. Though, that was merely a fleeting observation, a question echoing around some unoccupied space of his skull. It was just a prelude to something else, a little something to dredge up all the other adjectives one could use to describe Glasgow: timid, perhaps, reclusive, even?

With her odd scars and perpetually blood-stained fetlocks, who knew what she came from? What she had been through? What had broken her horn, had it broken more as well?

And he had made her laugh, softly, gently, but to this naive ears it sounded genuine. With nothing but a bit of silly wordplay he had made her laugh.

He had never considered himself amusing; he had always been stoic, composed. True, from time to time he had offered the odd blandly spoken crass comment resulting in laughs or snickers, and he had had a handful of strange ideas, like when he had pushed Moron over in the water, but—that was it, wasn't it? It wasn't something he could fake. It wasn't something he could contemplate, stage, and achieve.

It was something that just happened sometimes, because he was in a silly mood and let it slip. Still, he was surprised at how ..good it felt, to have caused such a reaction in her.

But, of course, his prying question was less amusing to her. She averted her gaze, and he let her, waited in patient silence with his blue eyes trailing slowly along the surroundings. It was beautiful, the way the sun glittered upon the fog and the dew. He was content to wait for his answer, and when he saw her raise her head from the corner of his eye, his gaze slipped back to her as if no time had passed at all. And truly, barely any had—just a few seconds at most.

"I've never heard of any God punishing their crafters," he said before he could stop himself, yet his voice was gentle, thoughtful. Only too late did he realize it sounded like saying it was Glasgow's fault, but it was too late to go back and fix that. "And I can't say I have much faith in the Gods, either. I acknowledge their power, but that's it." His tail flicked as he tried to think faster than the seconds, but the pretty words he wanted to use eluded him; when he wanted to paint something smooth and soft like silk to boost her confidence, all felt like gravel on his tongue. "Have you tried, uh.. different 'ways' of shaping the glass?"

It didn't even cross his mind that maybe she didn't want to talk about it, that maybe she didn't want him butting into it.

[ Sorry for the wait, I suck. @Glasgow ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

(Gods and glass and things divine; social missteps and lost moments. Bruises, scars. Smoothing the hair back over where you just hit someone.)

It wasn't what he was the best at; once, it had been a skill well-honed, but a sword left to gather dust and rust becomes fragile and useless. He was a tool gone blunt, and in the whirlwind within he simply couldn't find anything to fix it with—or anyone to fix it for him.

They tried; some did, they really did, but he remained as he was.

Lost.

Being smart didn't help with it, either; what was intelligence without clarity? Wisdom without purpose, direction? What did it matter if he knew why the water fell from the leaves when the dew grew too heavy, or saw a fragment clearly but the whole was clouded..? “Hmm. I haven’t. I’ve never had magic before, I didn’t know there were other ways you could go about it.”

Mauja had been born wielding his spears of ice. From a young age he had been able to pull them from the ground—at first a gut reaction, instinct screaming along his nerves as his soul threw grasping hands at the chill earth and tore ice from them, where no ice should've been in such quantities. But with knowledge came power. With knowledge, he had honed his ability, learned to control it, eventually to do it in an almost careless fashion, something he could do in the back of his mind as he was focused on the enemy—

Back then, when his life had had a clearly defined purpose.

Protect your people. Fight an ancient war you cannot hope to win as you've been losing steadily for the past decades.

Old habits were dangerous. "There is never any harm in trying something new," he said, quietly, thinking about the sunlight on snow and the iron-like smell of blood spilled upon the churned battlefields. No more pristine snow, no more newly fallen white perfection to lay like a glittering carpet across a world frozen solid—just blood and guts and split skin and the whimpers of the dying as they became too weak to scream.

All that fear.

His heart stumbled in his chest.

Glass beads hung in the air, three of them and quite small, but as his eye honed in on them he saw no obvious jagged edges; nothing to make them dangerous to the touch of a soft muzzle. He moved; frosted hooves separated from the ground with an effort that felt monumental but looked lithe and he padded closer to get a better look at them. (And all the while his heart kept trying to leap out of rhythm, swelling and swelling and swelling until he thought it would choke him—)

"They look good," he said with quiet honesty, afraid that his voice would tremble and betray the sudden panic flashing through his veins if he put more force into it. "Do not be afraid to dream, Glasgow." His movements reversed, a flight which was so composed it seemed nothing of the sort, and he paused once he had put a yard or so between him and the beads again. "I will leave you to your glass-making," he offered awkwardly, pretending to be graceful and —something, as he spun elegantly on a hind foot and made to walk off.

He wanted to go somewhere where no one would hear him scream.

[ I'm willing to wrap this up, hence why I'm seizing his random panic as a means to get him out, as I'm trying to finish off all my old threads so I can eventually pick him out of the glacier again. And we don't have free crafting anymore so lmao idk xD @Glasgow ]

I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind