I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed...

The frigid air froze the tears on his cheeks, crystalline beauty in an ever-changing world, and his lashes beat rapidly to blink it away before all of him would turn to ice. Each slow beat of his heart seemed to reverberate through a hall of fragile glass, the cracks spreading with each shudder it took in his chest, just waiting to crash down in an iridescent display, each splinter a prism. His breath had calmed, growing slow and steadfast, each exhalation quiet, rising towards the ceiling of the cave. She was silent, and he was stable again — though, if she looked closely, she would see the shimmer of tears, before they were blinked away. Some part of him had expected her to push him for an answer, to demand he know what to do, but she hadn't. And in that, she had given him the time to soothe his frayed nerves. Even as he willed his sides to rise and fall, slow and steady, he knew that it was not far away, that hitching rhythm and the warm swelling in the throat as tears were held back. Mauja swallowed. It would not take much for it to bubble up again.

Her voice was not so different from his. A mere breath. She was not hiding. She was not spitting poison and words to mask the truth. No. She told him the truth, and he drank it in, and sighed softly. I don't either, he thought dispiritedly, feeling the leaden weight of his heart. How could you figure something out, when you didn't know what you were aiming for? How could you fit the pieces of a puzzle together, when you had no idea what the picture was to show?

Did he even want to know?

Things had been, things had changed, and things had not come around again; she was different, and he was different, too. It would've been easy to go dumb for her, stop caring, and let her take the power — now she had it, without him shrouding his senses in a thick veil, to not see nor know what went on. For the first time ever, she had him at a disadvantage, but she wasn't pressing it. He was tired, worn, and no one, save for the memory of loyalty in the brains of others; she was everything, Queen and God should she so wish. In silence he stood, unable to find words, explanations, reasons, or anything else for the matter. He just wanted to forget, forgive, and sleep.

But he couldn't. For a moment, Mauja closed his eyes, and sought within his shambled self for pieces of what he had been, only to find that it was as if a hurricane had ripped through his mind. Duty had ever bound him; he had a duty to this herd, to keep going, even when he doubted and questioned himself. His own life was not his own, for the glory of their race. But he was not strong enough...

There it was again, his name falling from her black lips, and one ear twitched lifelessly to the sound, lost eyes seeing through her face and into nothing. "All I know is what we can be." The future. Five minutes from now on, tomorrow, in a week, a month, ten years — he blinked his listless eyes and focused them upon her amber gaze, the churn of life beneath their irises. And what is that? he wanted to ask, but his tongue felt numb in his jaws and he remained quiet, just staring at her. He knew that her words should've touched him somewhere, but it was hard to react when his name didn't feel like his own anymore. Mauja stood with his head high, proud, regal, alert; he did not cry softly and stare in silence like he did now. Blinking his eyes, he had barely been aware of it happening again, no longer feeling the bite as the supernaturally chilled cave froze them against his skin.

"Things always change," he finally murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. I'm so god damn tired, I don't know who I am anymore. Breathing in, breathing out, but no words came to his mind for a long time. "For better or for worse." As if he'd not paused at all. Slowly, he lowered his eyes, and closed them. To force himself together, would be to slip back into that icy masquerade. "I'm sorry," he finally said, hoarse and quiet, opening his tear-blurred eyes again and bringing them up to her face. "I don't know if I can be who you want me to be."

Part of him had expected her to sneer, call him a useless weakling, turn on her heel and leave him alone in the cold, cold darkness. But she was silent, no scathing remark thrown back in his face as he professed his inability to be what he thought she was after — a great duo, two souls bound by a common goal, the fearsome promise to the world they once had sought to speak.. some part of him wasn't comprehending the fact that they were truly past that in that moment. What if she'd only been revealing herself to bait him? But even that notion felt hollow. It was only memory and reflex which made him expect a switch back to the normal, but nothing came. Silence, punctuated by his somewhat ragged breath, his wet, blue eyes on hers. She seemed.. softer, somehow — gentler, but the blood-like marks on her horn would not let him forget, ever, what she was, what she could be. But just as he bore a horn of ice, yet had warmth in his soul.. he blinked, slightly, thinking that if he could be so, then maybe she could be, too.

Nothing had prepared him for her words. Nothing, not even his half-formed thoughts of this all being a game, for if anything, what she said so thoroughly shattered that notion forever. Nor had his straying thoughts, which had touched upon her being a creature capable of warmth and care, prepared him for the depth of what he heard. "I do not want you to be anyone but yourself," she said, and he felt one ear flicked to the sound of it. A moment later, once the surprise washed away, he felt like kicking himself. What on earth had made him think she wanted something perfect, someone who fit the mold of her scheme nicely? Old habits died hard, though, and he'd expected she'd wanted something great back, someone who was strong and charismatic — not this old piece of a wreck. Without taking his eyes off hers, his head craned down a fraction, listening. What she said was true — those who had followed him, when she left, would probably not be too pleased if Psyche trampled all over him or he failed to show strength. Damnit. Why had he had to come back in front of a crowd? Word would spread. No time to rest. Beyond these moments in this dark, cold cave with Psyche, he would have no time to formulate a tale, answers. And the truth? Part of the truth could work, the physical part of it...

Her voice faltered, and the inch his head had drooped was reclaimed in a swift movement of near-surprise. She was searching for words, again? Breathlessly he waited for her to finish, reining in his wild speculations, until she finished with something that, to him, almost sounded lame coming from her, but she said it confidently — it was just the content, the meaning, which nearly had him gaping at her. Who I want to be... But could who he wanted to be, be who he needed to be? Knowing that he was in no fit state to ponder it, he merely said her name, a hushed, half-strangled exhalation: "Psyche...". How come he had never known who she was, how deep she could be, how (much as the notion made him want to frown) understanding? (Maybe because you never cared to get to know her.) What they had had, had almost felt like truthful camaraderie, but now he knew that it had not been that. It had been a game, just like everything else.

And then, she said, one moment, that he was still their King if he wanted to, and the next, not now. It almost made him smile, but he didn't. Instead, he just watched her with mild curiosity, sensing that she was done, yet wondering who she really was. Did she have doubts, too, in her heart, or was she as strong as she seemed? "Perhaps," he began in a cautious voice, feeling his thoughts spin, ordering themselves slowly as he spoke. "It is best for everyone if I am seen neither shunned to the lowest rank, nor given everything I had back in an instant." His eyes flickered to the bright mouth of the cave for a moment, before flitting back to her. "Those who lived under my reign would not feel as if you scorn me, and those who have lived only under you would, hopefully, not feel as if a stranger was allowed in to walk all over them..." His eyes kept blinking, though he barely noticed it anymore — it all needed to come out in some way, so why not as tears when no one but she saw? "It'd also give me time to collect myself," he said quietly, knowing that it would be disastrous if he had a fit like this in public. He almost went on, to ask of the Plague, but stopped himself. Better to take one thing at a time, one step at a time, and instead he let his blue eyes come to rest on hers, a questioning tilt to his head as he wondered what she would have to say.