Inhale. Air, burning cold in his lungs, slipped in. Exhale. Warmed by his body, his life, it slipped out, pooling like steam in the cavern. Inhale. He could taste her upon the air, her familiar scent teasing his memories. Exhale. Let it out, let it out, let it out...

.. but keep the tears inside.

He saw only darkness, as the quivering breaths rasped in and out of his throat. Every once in a while a shudder ran through him, a small gasp as he fought to keep down the flood, yet a few tears slid past his lashes, painting wet trails across his cheeks. Through the darkness he could hear her steps, each like the ripple on a pond after a rock has fallen through, shaking like an earthquake through the stone floor and up his trembling legs. Slow, he told his heart and his lungs, breathe. He would not drown in these emotions, die naked in front of Psyche — that it was her, of all, to see his weakness... Was she coming now, horn first, to quietly slide it in between his ribs and puncture his heart, to feel its last movements reverberate along her horn as life fled him?

The world stopped turning, and his heart stopped beating.
So softly, the plush tip of her muzzle rested against his quivering shoulder, before slowly brushing across the pristine white. He could feel the faint wash of her breath against his skin, the tenderness of her touch before she rocked back, away from him. The air suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

Perhaps it was both a blessing and a curse that it was her, who saw this mess — she knew the game, the masquerade, so very well.. shared in it, even, and for a moment he had remembered who she used to be, before she went away.. how they had interacted. What they were now, were as much his fault as hers, for he had rejected her when she came back, wary and distrustful.

It was as if the shattering of his walls had tumbled some of hers down, too. Her voice, it had its usual rises and falls, but so much softer, as if she suddenly was someone else. Briefly, he recalled all the times her black body had wound around his, her open, loving heart and adoring amber eyes pleading for him to love her back and return her warmth — would it have been easier to trust her words, if she had met him with cold malice, taken advantage of her weakness to secure her position and ridicule him? Was this only a stranger wearing a familiar face, after all?

Her words trailed off into silence, but Mauja did not open his eyes. When had the jackal-heart ever left a sentence unfinished, groped for words, not known what to say? He could hear the shuffle of her hooves on the rock as she backed off a step.

The moist warmth in his eyes had faded; his heart had slowed its pace, and while a tremble yet lingered in his body, his breath came steadily. Blinking away the darkness, Mauja turned halfway around, showing his face, the glimmer of a few tears upon his cheeks, and looked upon her. She was the same Psyche he had always known, down to the feathers in her mane, but her voice, her.. unfinished sentence... Would the mask shift back into place now that he looked upon her, or would his nakedness bring her further out? Sometimes there was strength in not hiding. "Who are you?" he asked her quietly, knowing that it was unfair, how he always asked her the hard things. In silence he breathed for a few moments, before his ears slowly rotated back. "Who are we?"

His wet eyes traveled up her face, searching for hers.