She had dedicated much of her time to consideration of the Plague. What would be the most effective way to strike against the Qian? How would it be easiest to destroy the skyrats? The hornless? What should she do with her followers? How should she separate them? They would fare better in groups, she was sure, a group of 'medics' - laughable, really, she should call them poisoners - and a group of soldiers. But what would she do with those who didn't fit into either category? She had some who had no desire to learn the intricacies of poison, but she also has some who were unskilled in the art of warfare. Like Valentine.

Valentine. She sighed. She couldn't decide how she felt about Valentine. She was deeply appreciative of his racism, and she was extremely grateful for not only his loyalty to her cause, but to her. Despite her instincts that screamed not to trust anyone, she found herself more willing to trust him than most. She was even quite fond of him, if she allowed herself to admit it. His complete adoration of her was, at the very least, amusing, and even a bit flattering. Sure, she had had some that had sought to gain her trust by also gaining love - a laughable concept. But Valentine's devotion to her was true, and that was a perplexing concept to the shadow-mare, thought to be incapable of love.

Fond of him as she was, she had long pondered how he would keep an active role within the Plague, but remain safe as well. Safe, and close to her. Weak! she hissed to herself. He is nothing! But it wasn't true. No, she did not love him, in the accepted form of love, but she did care for his well-being, and that was a miracle in and of itself. It was a weakness that she hated herself for, and yet she could not block the feelings that coursed through her veins. It was as though her return, her confrontation with the FrostHeart, her loss of her king had opened gateways that hadn't existed before. Weak! her mind shrieked again, but now there was a shadow of a doubt.

She galloped through the snow, melting now with the approach of Birdsong. The Arch, however, still stood as frozen as ever, and as she arrived, she slowed her pace to a trot which echoed through the long, weaving halls. Her reflection flickered, ever shifting in the icy caverns. Rounding a corner, she caught sight of the ivory stallion that had thrown her emotions into chaos. A low nicker greeted him, along with a smile. It was slightly deranged, as her smiles always were, but it was also touched with a sweetness that wasn't usually present. The little voice in her head screamed at her again, but she silenced it. "Valentine," she greeted him. A simple enough greeting, but it got the point across.

[W/C | 492]

The effect of her word on the stallion was immediate: he looked around, something alight in his orbs, some unknown emotion that she had never seen and, therefore, could not place. And then it was gone, suddenly, and she felt as though with its disappearance the breath had been pulled forcefully from her lungs. It was replaced with a darker look, one that spoke of fear, suspicion, confusion. She resisted the urge to take a step back, to flatten her lobes against her skull in the wave of perplexed agitation that washed over her. Had she made a mistake in placing her trust in this steed? After all, the male gender was a fickle one, their affections changing on a daily basis. Not his, she reminded herself, the image of the Ice King clear in her mind's eye.

Perhaps she was the fickle one. Well, she wouldn't be making that mistake again. She would simply act as though nothing were the matter, and Valentine would fall back into line, and that was as it should be. She should be the one with the power and, remembering that, she would rid herself of the skittish tendencies that accompanied the strong emotions evoked by first Mauja, and now Valentine. Different feelings, to be sure, but both were strong for both she was unprepared. The shadow-mare was returned to the present as the stallion toppled over, seemingly unbalanced by whatever thoughts had been going through his mind. She stared, caught by surprise and disbelieving - he really could simply fall over? This was precisely why she needed to protect him!

She swallowed, unsure what to say, but he beat her to the words. "Psyche..." Her name was a blessing on his lips, but it was lacking a certain affection that he had previously shown her. There was a distance, some wall between them that had not previously existed. She was affronted, and some part of her mind, opening slowly to him, slammed shut once more, an iron door on a room full of secrets. She was once again the Crux, and playing the role as such, not as one who cared about his safety. This is why you don't open up to them, a hissing voice in her mind wheedled. They won't care for you, why should you for them? She met his gaze squarely, refusing to back down. She was his leader, and she was here to discuss business.

But as his leader, was it not her responsibility to care for her brethren? If he had some problem that he needed solved, was it not her job to see to it that she assisted him in any way she could? She hesitated. This had always been Mauja's job, not hers, and now he was gone, leaving her scrambling. But she had seen him act before, and she herself was an excellent actress. And so she sighed, took a few steps forward, lowered her crown from its haughty stature and instead approached him with a much more friendly air that the tense better-than-thou stance she had assumed the moment before. "Why do you feel unwell?" she asked, jumping straight to the point. Besides, it wouldn't do for him to fall ill, not now. She would summon the doctor if she must, but she must first know the problem.

[W/C | 555]

Well, that was unexpected. If that was what happened by her softening her rather abrasive personality, then she wouldn't be doing that anymore. She recoiled from his words, as though they were an unexpected slap, and stared at him, nostrils flared and eyes wide, head thrown high, almost similar to a position of fear. She didn't know how to react to such an outspoken vow of devotion. Sure, she was glad to know that his fealty was with her, glad that he was not rethinking his position by her side within the Plague. And, after all, she had molded him this way - she had flirted, and cajoled, and played off of his attraction to her to bring him under her rule. So wasn't this what she had wanted?

Perhaps, but the statement of adoration shocked her, sending her already scattered thoughts into overdrive. How was she to react? Should she admit that his feelings for her were - what? - stronger, more defined, more real? Should she admit that she was incapable of returning his affection in the same unrestricted manner in which he showed his? Should she simply shove him away, force him out of this weird parody of love, and risk losing him and his hatred for the inferiors, losing his passion for their cause? So many questions that she hadn't the answer to. Did she even owe him the truth? Perhaps she could simply carry on the facade, keep him on her side, allow him to believe that there was more to her and them than meets the eye.

And he had called her beautiful.

All this transpired in no more than a few seconds, long enough for her to truly absorb his words. She took a deep breath and forced herself into a more relaxed posture, forcing her misgivings to a deep, hidden part of her mind. Forcing her mouth to form words. "I do," she finally said simply, words soft. So this was how she would play it, then, keep their relationship as it was, continue it on its path, even if she did not love him and would never love him in the way that he wished. She liked him, that was true, but it wouldn't be enough, were she to admit that. But she couldn't bring herself to return his words; she couldn't lie her way through saying 'I love you.' Would he expect her to? Would he catch her bluff?

No. The thought was firm. She was an excellent liar, with years of practice. Even so, never before had she felt such guilt after a lie. She offered a hesitant smile - let him think that it was nervousness. A step forward, one after the other, each more confident than the last. Yes, she could do this, she could return his affection, if only in action and not in thought. Still the feeling that he would prove an asset lingered in her mind, and she would keep him close if only for that reason. Closer now, and muzzle reached to touch his, the gentle caress of soft skin on soft skin a new sensation. She would never tell him the truth, she knew that, but nor would she succumb again to the overwhelming urge to run far away.

[W/C | 548]

An interesting turn of events, and one that almost vexed her, in its own way. She had assumed that he had feelings for her; in fact, she had depended on the presence of such feelings to ensure his loyalty. Perhaps a flawed plan, but she had not expected such a strong declaration of feelings from a stallion who, despite the markings on his pelt, had not seemed capable of interested in such devotion. This was something she had depended on as well, she realized: that he, like her, would not experience the traditional concept of love, instead trading the emotion for a mutually beneficial partnership, with no feelings involved, no chance for pain or loss or weakness. But she had been wrong.

What else had she been wrong about?

But it was too late now; she had spoken, and agreed, and she would, then, stand by her lies to create the facade of calm that pervaded her being. Insane, she may be, this was true, but it was an insanity laced with a cool cruelty that left no room for error, be it from others or from herself. It was worse when it was from herself - this, this was unacceptable, that she could have allowed it to happen. Sure, she would use it to her advantage, but it came with all the complications and unpredictability of a stallion in love. And she'd had quite enough of that. Besides, the only assistance he would provide her would be, perhaps, to garner support amongst his peers. And yes, she needed the support, but she wished that it came without the price.

But everything had a price. This she knew all too well.

Valentine was speaking again, and he voiced all that needed to be said. He returned the affectionate gesture that she had started, and she held his gaze calmly, silently. Let that be enough. "It's quite alright, darling," she told him sweetly, her voice almost a croon. "I was simply going to suggest a new rank for you. I think it will be a better fit for your skills, and it will keep you close." Yes, that was good, it's just for him, to keep him safe, that was the idea that she wanted him to have.

[W/C | 377]

"A new position." His words were thoughtful, and as he thought, the shadow-mare allowed a wave of relief to sweep through her. She was most comfortable talking about his rank, and how he would be most helpful to her; pretending to be in love with him as he was with her was exhausting. It was not in her nature, and she was having to teach herself how to respond. And she had to adapt quickly, in order to keep him from suspecting that she may be lying. And she wouldn't have that, not until she herself had figured out if she was indeed lying. Would it even be possible for her to admit to feeling something for the pale knight?

"What kind of position are you exactly talking about? Is it one where I work closely with you, love?" He smiled, and she returned it sweetly, a slight giggle escaping almost before she realized it. Perhaps she was better at playing the lover than she thought she was. Knowing this, she relaxed, focusing instead on utilizing her newest toy. "Well, of course it would, darling," she told him, her vocals matching his playful tone. "I think you will most enjoy yourself, in fact." Her orbs sparkled with mirth, and it was true glee at her brilliant plan for the steed. "You are to be a Tormentor," she informed him. "You will be in charge of caring for our dear prisoners." Oh, the sarcasm.

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