It was silent, save for the howling wind. The land was barren, lonely. Snow piled against the rock pillars dotting the landscape, almost covered the scruffy trees that were even more scarce. It was stark, white beauty at its finest - or perhaps it was stark, white desolation at its worst. A snowstorm was arriving, grey blankets overhead laden with frozen rain, waiting expectantly for the chance to drift down, to erase what little evidence of life existed on the empty Steppe. But the wind was the only truly terrifying aspect of the landscape: it whipped angrily over the snow, around rocks, trying its best to go through anything in its way.

Somewhere on the cold, lonely plains there was a dark fae, standing out against the ivory lands. She paced back and forth, always in the same spot. Her movements were jerky, her eyes unfocused. It could be said that she was not truly there. And it would be truth: her body may be stuck in the frozen wasteland, but her mind had retreated and gone elsewhere. She was stuck in her own head, thoughts finally overwhelming her. And yet her pacing always took her to the same spot, where she would whirl suddenly, angrily, and start back the other direction. Again, at the end of her trail, she would turn, unseeing, always in the same place, always at the same time. Her footsteps were wearing into a trench.

Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. Her head was spinning. What foolish trickery was this? They had been walking, she and the FrostHeart, just walking and talking, secretly hating each other and secretly loving each other, but sharing a truce nonetheless. And then, out of nowhere, something, someone, had stolen him away, just pulled him into thin air right before her eyes. She had locked her gaze on his, at that last moment: seen the whites of his orbs, something she could not name deep in them, some emotion that she had never known or had simply forgotten.

If she had turned faster, would it have been different? If she had seen it coming, whatever it was, could she have saved him? Could she have lunged into him, shoved him out of the way? Scared it off? Could she have done anything? If she had known, would she have said different things? Would she have abandoned the mask which she hid behind, laid her soul bare to him? Would she have admitted her faults, those things that she regretted? Would she have forced herself to speak her true feelings? What if, what if, what if...

Her frustration was a palpable thing. She shrieked it to the wind, the howling wind that blending with her fury and loss to create a truly formidable thing, almost a solid creature, filled with hatred and anguish and need. What was she supposed to do without him? Was she now to take on his role? No, surely he would be back. Or that's what she told herself. But she knew that where he had gone (wherever that was) she could not follow. She could not get him back. Perhaps he could not come back. She didn't know, but she did know that someone would have to take his place until such a day that he deigned return.

Finally, she stopped in the middle of her track, lowered her cranium to the snow. Her breath, a hot mist, melted some of the snow away where it drifted against the icy mush. But the snow had begun to fall already. It piled quickly where she had left her mark, erasing all signs of her frantic pacing. She felt small and unimportant, truly erasable for the first time. Did her presence in Helovia matter? Did she even make a difference? When she died, would she simply be forgotten? She shook her head, sending feathers, teeth, and mane alike flying violently against her nape. Such thoughts would be of no use. Perhaps she was of no use. But the king had left her charge of the Plague, at least, and someone would need to keep his herd together in his absence. She was to have been queen, once. Perhaps it would be so again.

[W/C | 704]

She was not in the mood for politics, not today - not now.

It was all a game to them, as it used to be for her. They were pawns on a metaphorical chess board, carefully plotting moves to work their way into victory, supremacy, superiority - call it what you will. It required careful observation, meticulous planning, and all for what? She had been the queen, one of the most powerful pieces on the board. She was still their queen, but now the playing field tilted precariously, setting their side on its head and sending members of their herd flying into the dark abyss of nowhere - or was it somewhere? It was just a game, and yet it was the game. This was the only thing that mattered, the only way to carry out her lifelong desires. Regardless of who was lost... or perhaps in memory of who was lost.

A familiar scent drifted to her nostrils, and she turned to glare at the newcomer. Strange colors, leonine tail, white-tipped horn. Ambrosius. A hot breath released, as though to snort his smell from her nose, and she pushed her way out of her little trench, intent on telling him off. Oh, it wasn't his fault, of course, but she was angry, and lost, and - Scared? a mental voice sneered. Oh, grow up. But it wasn't just some attack, Mauja had vanished right before her eyes. He was there and then he simply wasn't. What's a mare to do?

"Lady Psyche, is there something the matter?"

The question, simple enough in its content though, perhaps, lacking in sincerity (this was not assumed based on anything lacking on his part, but rather a knowledge of how to play the game, so to speak) made her take pause. No rash actions, she couldn't afford to chase away those who would make her army. She regarded him shrewdly, giving away no emotion, though she knew that he'd see right through it. After all, he must have heard her scream - what else would have enticed him this direction? Her vocals, when she deigned to speak, were a bit short, though not the burst of anger that she had originally intended. "Ambrosius," she nodded in way of greeting.

"We have bloody hornless and the nasty skyrats roaming about, of course something's the matter." By now, she was recovering her persona somewhat, and her tones had taken on an alluring, dangerous quality. A slight smile was given, though her eyes still sparked rather unhappily. Let him think it was anger that the inferiors were everywhere. Let him think that she simply wanted action. It mattered not to her. Her mask was returning, a mask of fire and ice all mixed into one psychopathic crown. She wore it with pride, this figurative symbol of her authority. She drew herself up, holding her head proudly, haughtily in the air, as though showing off her horn - her birthright - to the skies.

[W/C | 497]