Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

He needed — wanted — to get away for a bit. The warm air of the secluded Basin pressed in on him like a smothering blanket, and in the shadow of the mountain, it was easy, too easy, to fall back into doubt. Am I real? Am I back? Am I alive? Am I dead? Am I dreaming?

Was it ever real?

His dreams plagued him when he slept, and the doubts lingered when he woke. Setting his jaw and trying to chase the darkness from his eyes, Mauja had left the Basin early in the morning. He needed the free air, the cold of the Steppe, to feel its chill sear his lungs with frigid fire. He needed to see the breath pool in front of his face, to feel it freeze on his whiskers. Slowly the sun climbed across the horizon, shedding light on his lonely journey, and one by one the stars flickered and went out. In their stead the snow shimmered, bursting into cold light wherever the sun struck it. So beautiful, and yet so icy. The landscape was mirrored in his eyes, but in his soul, it was still night. His heart felt light and weak in his chest, stuttering to the discordant memory of a half-forgotten dream, and a veil of shadow lay just behind his eyes. Was he still trapped in the dream? It felt as if he was not entirely awake, but surely he was... Further and further from the Basin he walked, bringing his heavy mind with him. His nightmares had no body, no solid issue he could touch and disentangle. They were incorporeal, full of feelings and shadows, hands tugging and pushing, and eyes of fire. It was like being hunted, time and time again, and never knowing from what he ran, or even why.

He had his ideas, but preferred to bury them in the snow. He did not need the things roiling in the back of his mind, and so he paid for suppressing them. Each time he slept, they roared into life, yet he saw no other way but to hold out against them.

A dark shape broke the white horizon of the Steppe, and for a moment Mauja wanted nothing more than to angle away and remain alone. Solitude was his one defense, his one unbroken shield — it was harder now to veil his emotions, to place that disk of ice across his irises, and he, desperately, wanted to avoid all questions and curious looks. He wanted them to believe he was still the same, so that he one day could be the same again. He did not want them to see the pain in his gaze, did not want them to send their questions into the roaring chaos underneath his skull.

But he knew her; he knew her shape. Mangled and thin she had come to Helovia and followed him home, stumbling along behind his white body and Delinne. And speaking of Dell, where had she gone? Had they lost her, to wanderlust, to the enemy, to death? Some sense of duty, of shepherding, drove his steps towards her, and with each one he underwent the change which had now been natural, but now felt forced. His neck arched, his steps took on a more energetic edge as he pushed through the snow, and his gaze sharpened. The darkness, the troubles, he pulled them back, into himself, hiding them from the world. Out of sight, out of mind.

If only it was that easy.

"Leyra!" he called, feeling a hitch in his heartbeat. What had that little journey in time done to him? How could it have wrecked his mind so completely that conversing with a herd mate made him want to run away? He wanted to drop the charade, to look away, but save for a slight twitch running once across his features, he remained the same. Something within him had broken, and he had no idea how long it would take for him to heal.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

From the sea...

Tongue and mind wanted to lock down and legs wanted to flee, yet each step carried him closer to her. It felt like wading through bodies and souls, tugging at him and trying to force him the other way, and part of him longed to give in, to turn and flee. He was too weak inside, too cracked and broken, run ragged in dreams and waking life alike. He did not want to smile, to listen and analyze, to be the selfless, glacial man he once had been. The thought of it made him feel sick inside, but he forced it aside. He had no time to derp off and mope in a corner. He had no.. no right. His life did not belong to him, but to his herd, and he had learned, and accepted, that a long time ago.

She seemed surprised, but pleased, to see him, and he wondered why. Did she not know that he was back, that he once more walked among them at night (and shook awake with terror in his eyes each time he slept in the darkness of a cave, alone)? Did she not know that he haunted them, that his quiet eyes watched their borders in the daylight (and that his restless soul drove him away, time and time again)? Perhaps not, or perhaps she had not believed he would be out here, on the middle of the Steppe, but then, she did not know him all that well. A small smile graced his face as he shifted his weight in the snow.

Her eyes fell to his hooves and he frowned slightly, wondering why she dared not look upon him; he had seen his reflection a thousand times since his return, and he was neither ugly nor outwardly broken. He was the same pristine white flecked with black as he had always been, and only when alone did his eyes become clouded with pain and every thing he forced to keep down. Her question brought a small grimace to his face, a movement which he did not think of; like so many times before it was a reflex, something his body had learned to do, and remembered even now. Would it one day betray him, and portray what he felt, and not what he was used to doing? Perhaps.

"I.. disappeared," he told her vaguely, the grimace turning into a small, worried smile. She seemed so.. off, in a way; her gaze kept roving, as if she was nervous. Did she think him dead, and a ghost? "But it does not matter. I am back now." Slight warmth laced his voice as he spoke, wishing not to answer the question she had asked; he did not want to remember those long days and longer nights, the faces and the bodies he knew but the souls he did not. He did not want to remember the terror of his nightmares. "How have you been?" Better to speak of her, than of him, and with slight concern lurking in his eyes he studied her, waiting for her response. Was that tears coating her eyes? Would his question unleash a flood, a sob story, something he would have to somehow take care of? If he could retrace his steps, turn back time, he would've taken back his words, would've stared at her in cold silence, but he couldn't; he was Mauja, the Frostheart, the beloved King of the Edge, except that fairytale had been shattered.

He was Mauja the Lost King, the broken-minded, black-spirited Demon of the Plague.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

It seemed she was definitely not entirely normal. There was a nervous edge to all she did, the way her gaze flickered around, the slight stammer as she began to speak: "Well... you've missed so much. I-I had a kid... went to the Basin, the usual." A child? Yet she did not sound happy about it — was it a mistake, or worse, a forced breeding? And whenever their eyes met, there was something.. almost worshipful in them, nearly a fanatic edge to their blue depths. It was uncomfortable, unnerving even, and he wanted to turn aside from it, away from whatever had her so fascinated. What about him could possibly elicit such a look, and yet she dared not look upon him long at all; her head lowered and for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to not pretend anymore, to simply keep staring at her in awkward silence with a blank look upon his face. What it would be like, to move away from who he had been.

But, he couldn't. "Congratulations," he said softly into the void, blinking his pale eyes and trying to force the warmth back into them. It bothered him that his mood kept changing, switching from chaotic and confused, to near-panicked, to empty, all in the space of minutes, and he could never quite predict it. It just went where it willed, without a care for the situation he was in. "Foals are wonderful things, Leyra." Or was he alone in sharing the fascination of watching them grow, in feeling the deep, unshakable love to his own blood? He had been robbed of Snö's childhood, but he had had Tamlin, the arrogant prince he loved and scolded in equal amounts; slowly his gaze drifted to Leyra's appaloosa blanket, the sprinkling of snow upon her dark hide. She looked like his son in many ways, and.. his gaze narrowed. That filly in the cave, when he had returned? She had had a snowy hind end too, but she'd been a bay roan, not a blue. Had that been Leyra's daughter?

Slowly he lowered his head alongside hers, feeling himself falling away within again; hiding, allowing the memories to come out and play again, and direct his body. Who was he, but a shell of what he had been, housing the last lingering warmth of a fire gone out?

"Yet I feel you are not happy," he said quietly, his head close to hers yet beside it so not to tangle their horns. Deep down he despaired, knowing that he could not bear to care about the burdens of another, but something, some deep force kept him going on, pretending, and pretending so well that it felt like a second skin. "Why?"

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

There were so many things she did not know about him; so many things few knew. He was a man who kept his secrets and thoughts close at heart, clinging to them desperately, and even now he felt disinclined to part from one of them. Instead, he just felt himself stumble inside, and his eyes closed briefly. Why were they all so faithless, so focused on their own misery, that they did not think another would be able to relate, to suffer as they had? Why did they always assume they were alone in what they went through, even when they spoke of it? Mauja was sure he wasn't the only one who went through self-doubt and nightmares, but the difference was that he did not speak of it, and thus, not tell others they wouldn't understand. But she did. She said he would not understand what it was like, to be played for a fool, to be used, and abandoned. It wasn't like Lotus and he had ever been in love, it had been a mere carnal act, but somewhere deep down, he knew that it had been a trick. She now carried Cineviam's spawn — had she given up on her plans for Tamlin, of wresting the "throne" from Psyche and instilling her snowcap boy as next King?

It would be so easy to say it, to open his mouth and say, I know what it's like, but only one had been present; d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan, and Lotus herself, were the only others who knew, how easily she had claimed him, and how easily she had left him. It did not hurt in the way Psyche's abandonment had, for he had known it was never something between him and the Amazon broodmare... But he knew what it was like, to have and love a child out of a parent you held no love for.

But even when he opened his mouth, to berate her or comfort her he didn't know, it lodged like a rock in his mouth and he couldn't get it out. It was not a secret he was meant to share, not a thing they were meant to know. He was supposed to just smile mysteriously when they wondered, when they asked, and never let them know the truth. Never let them know that he, too, could be wrong, fail, and bleed. Moments passed, counted only by his heart, until he opened his blue eyes again and sought for hers. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, somehow glad that he had not been able to speak of Lotus and Tamlin to her. If he had, surely he would've regretted it afterwards. Besides, this was not about him, and if he opened the gates for one thing, what would keep the rest from crashing out? He didn't want it to happen here, or now, at least of all in front of a mare he barely knew. "But love does not come as easily to all, as it comes to some." Within, he wondered if she loved her daughter any less of the "sins" of the father. Could he, ever, relate to that? No — Tamlin held his love, untarnished by Lotus' acts. Gently he blew hot air onto Leyra's muzzle, before raising his head again.

The world was too light, and too bright. How could it house all this darkness? "Do not linger upon it, or you will never find happiness." Although he spoke it quietly and confidently, the words rang hollow in his mouth and head. If only he could take his own advice, and put the doubts to rest — but it was like a too fresh wound, too open to stop bleeding and start healing. But, perhaps one day he, too, would find happiness.

He doubted it, as a white shape kept haunting his dreams and thoughts.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

She mirrored the movement of his head, rising up, but beyond that it was as if she disconnected. Her blue eyes locked onto his again, and he let her, though the wariness in his soul remained; they were so, devoted, hungry, almost like she was devouring every miniscule twitch on his body. And, bit by bit, second by second, they filled up with emotion, her breath trembling as it came out. He could feel his own heart pick up pace, running in his chest, and he wanted to slick his ears to his neck as if it could somehow make him not hear what she was about to say. He did not want to hear. He did not want to think, listen, comprehend. He shouldn't have come, gone to her, at all. He should've stayed away. Alone. Nothing good would come of this, he could feel it, in the barely noticeable spaces between each beat of his heart, lurking there, twining its dark fingers among his arteries. He did not want to hear, but he was frozen stiff, half-turned away as if on the verge of fleeing.

"Mauja, I-I-I've loved you for a while now...."

Within, a voice roared WHAT?!, but outside his features melted away into blank surprise. Incredible, the shallowness of souls, the dreams of mortals. He barely heard the rest of what she said, her rejection of the probability that he, the fabled Ice King, somehow held emotions. Stunned by her confession, but in hindsight not surprised, he did not know how to react; this hadn't been as bad as what he'd expected, whatever that had been, but it had been a bit like a kick to the head. Dazed, his wide eyes had frozen, and the air in his lungs too, and he kept staring at her with that expression. In his chest, his heart had resumed its normal pace, and its deep thuds were the only sounds in his head.

Fool, he wanted to tell her, do not love me. She didn't know him. She loved nothing but a dream, a fancy, a fantasy, the shadow of who she saw, and not who he was, within — she did not know him. She did not know that she was playing with fire, that he was capable of stealing her heart and ruining it. He could smile, brightly, say that it was what he had always wanted to hear. Play her for a fool, abuse her, and leave her in the dust; he could, he was capable of it, and for one horrifying instant, he was tempted to ruin her life just to take his mind off his own problems.

But he wouldn't. The bottom line was that he wouldn't, for more reasons than he cared to rattle off to himself.

"Hate you?" he echoed, his voice and expression still distant and frozen. It felt like speaking with your mouth full of cold, sluggish water. "No. I won't hate you." For the first time in many long seconds he blinked, feeling the thankfulness of his corneas as they were shielded from the dry, cold air and coated with moisture again. Slowly his face thawed, growing less blank, more familiar, softer. "Neither can I love you, Leyra. I'm sorry." It felt awkward, and he wanted to leave, walk away and leave her with his verdict and her disappointment, but part of him thought it would be terribly rude of him. He had just told her he didn't love her — could he just walk away from her, then? Leave her alone with her shattered dreams and dashed hopes?

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

( s'cool. <3 I feel a bit bad for her haha. )

As if things weren't bad enough... she started crying. Crystalline tears poured from her lowered blue eyes, drawing wet tracks across her dark cheeks, and for a moment he just stared at her, incapable of action, of coherent thought. He didn't want her to be sad. He didn't want her to cry. Was it his fault? Had he done something? Or was it just the fact that he didn't feel for her? She looked up at him, said words, and if it had been any other stallion she had felt for (or mare, for that matter) he would've told her to smile, to not give up hope... But he could hardly say that now. And yet he couldn't just stand there and watch her cry, could he? His 'brows drew up in consternation, and he was torn in three; to run, to stay, to comfort? He was honest when he admitted to himself to never having been in this situation before, and never having meant to hurt her — he just didn't know what to do, how to act. The blunt truth had seemed best at the time, but could there have been a better way? He would not lie to her, and he could not love her, but did that mean he could not comfort her? Did he need to stand over here, cold and distant, and watch as she wept?

No.

Slowly he jerked forward a step, trying to push his muzzle against her wet cheek as if that could stem the flow of tears. "Please don't cry," he murmured, feeling awkward. He had never meant for this to happen, and it made him feel like a villain, even though he'd done nothing wrong (right?). Would it be kinder of him to run away, and leave her alone? Slowly she worked up the courage to speak, and he stayed where he was, 'brows knitted together and worried eyes watching her face. Her words came out in stutters and stumbles and inwardly he flinched, wondering what he'd done to deserve this, cause this. Ears flickering, back against his neck and then forth again as his willpower warred with instinct, and, again, she said the one thing he had not ever expected. "I-Is it b-because you love her? Psyche?" Something about it was so utterly absurd that he gave a short snort of a laugh, before remembering that it might be inappropriate to laugh when she was crying rivers. Love? Psyche? To hear that word and name spoken in the same breath was wholly foreign and alien, and he took his nose off her cheek to shake his head, white mane rippling.

"No," he said quietly after a moment, stepping a little closer without thinking about it. She wasn't standing still, wobbling at the knees, and to support her came like a reflex. What could he say? I don't love Psyche? Would that make anything better? Was it even true? (flash of white, of red, of spirits falling through and bodies curling together in a golden-and-scarlet glow) He should find something better to say, to give closure, so she wouldn't think it was only because he loved another — that it was for, other reasons. Drawing his blue gaze onto the snowy horizon he took steadying breaths, trying to calm the whirl and reel in his head. How could this all have happened so fast? Her tears would freeze on her cheeks and lashes... "It's because..." He ground his teeth together for a moment, looking for the words and reasons; there was simply an absence in his heart, no flutter and excitement, no warmth. I just don't love you, Leyra. But could he say it? How would she take it? What would she do? Look where blunt honesty got him the last time... "I just..." .. don't love others? Halfway true. How could saying something simple and short be so frustratingly impossible? He kept tripping over his thoughts and words. After a moment he sighed, defeated. Whatever he did and said, something bad would come of it. He never wanted to hurt her, but the truth would, regardless of his intention. He'd already seen that. "I just don't feel that way for you," he finally said, quietly.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

( *feels bad* )

Perhaps he should've just kept his mouth shut, and not tried to explain it at all. It's always easy to be wise in hindsight, when you see how your move fell out. Alarmed, Mauja jerked his head up and took half a step backwards when she crashed down, black knees meeting snow and the rest of her snowcap body following with an almost inaudible thud. Such a small impact it made on the world, a broken mare lying upon the pristine white, yet such a large impact it had on the individual life; nothing but the shadow of a ripple upon the ocean, the echoes fading as the stone sunk beneath the silver surface. It had been the truth in its most simple form, the absolute honesty — there was nothing wrong with her, it was not her fault he did not feel for her. It was merely within him, an absence of emotion, no spark to answer her fire, and he had tried to convey that.. but instead, it was as if he'd slit her throat and pushed her onto the ground to bleed out the red. Slicking his ears against his neck Mauja just stood there, staring at her as she lay on her side in the snow, muzzle pushed into it. He had no idea, absolutely no idea what to do anymore, and part of him was beginning to think that running away sounded like a fabulous idea.

But he was rooted at the spot, as if the very ice of the tundra beneath the snow had linked with the frost upon his hooves and held him in place. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? If he hadn't been a creature standing upon four legs, surely his arms would've been flailing in distress. He was supposed to get past hard situations by acting cool and deter them from happening in the first place! Not.. not cause them and then not know what to do. Incredibly frustrated, and also guilty because of whatever he'd done, he just stood staring at her for a few long moments, until she raised her head. Her pleading blue eyes locked with his; hers blurred over with tears, his sharp and distressed. "Kill me. Kill me now. Please." For a brief moment, he had the time to realize that she was the first to have said she loved him, but not the first to ask for him to kill her — but certainly the first to say those two statements within the span of a few minutes.

"Uhm. No." His 'brows furrowed and his speech came out more as an instinctual reaction than anything he'd thought through. Even if it was terribly tempting to just bash her skull in and run away and pretend it never had happened it felt deeply wrong. It was not what he was supposed to do, of that he was certain. "I mean. Is it so bad, really?" He could feel his panic level rising, his eyes blinking rapidly and his tongue babbling out nonsense to keep the hysteria down. This was so not his day, and his eyes were wide as he looked at the mare who lay before his feet. It all felt very, very dumb, but he couldn't figure out what to do. Why did everything have to be so illogical?! "It's not like anything is really different, truly, it's just that I know and .. stuff." He looked aside for a moment, wishing she'd just get up and go home. Fat chance of that happening, though. "Leyra, please, don't do this, just... just get up, okay?" Pitiful. That he stood there, pleading with her in a small voice. Truly, truly pitiful, but it was all happening too fast on an already bad day.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

It was like his words surprised her, and perhaps she was right in that; he hardly knew what he was talking about, after all, only that he wanted her to stop lying in the snow and asking for him to kill her. It wasn't exactly charming, and it was dangerous too. What if he'd done it? What if she'd not really wanted it? But bam, too late, she would've been dead. Pressing his ears against his neck his distressed gaze met hers, her muffled voice slipping into his brain like a hot knife flaying off his skin. "Y-you don't und-derst-tand do y-you? Have you n-never experienced some one break your heart?" The odd boyhood crush or two aside, his life had been quite devoid of love — at least in that way. Snö leaving had cut deeper than Psyche's departure, but some part of him had not felt broken, merely.. failed. It was not a love-break, just a father/daughter stupid thing. "No," he answered her honestly, his voice like a cold rock dropping into a pond. "I have not."

Was she slipping away, into some emotional coma? It was like she suddenly lost sight of the world and began ignoring him, but he was too stressed to analyze it. He just saw the faraway cast in her eyes and looked somewhere else, wishing a god would just descend and make everything alright or something. "Child. Children. I want a child." The murmur drifted up, soft as snow and barely audible, and his wandering attention snapped back to her along with his intense gaze. "You already have one," he said before he really knew it, his voice both gentle and confused, though part of him wondered if it was a child of his she wanted. How would that be different from Frost Fyre, her current filly? Mauja closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Out with the stress. Breathe it out. Somewhere far above, he could feel the wind over wings, the sun on his back. He could see the world, the vast white, spread out below; the cold ripples on an icy ocean, and a forested clifftop in the distance. He could feel the fast beat of a heart so much smaller than his, the curious concern, as well as the what's the matter this time? attitude she tried to mask it with.

The sound of Leyra moving brought him back, and much to his surprise, she actually did as he told her and got up. Well. That was one step on the long road back home. Without thinking about it he jerked forward to support her, to let her catch her balance against him instead of fall down again. In the back of his mind, the curious Irma gave an owl's version of a snort and retreated again. "There's a good girl," he murmured soothingly, as much for his own benefit as hers. "There's no reason to be out here in the snow, let's go home.. you can rest there..." Maybe he should have a chat with her filly, see if he could beat some daughterly love into her. Or maybe not. He wasn't sure he could. Most of his interactions with Snö at that age resulted in horrible failures, and only served to make her upset. Better to just find Leyra a padded cave and dump her there to sleep it off. Yes. That would be a good idea. Blocking out his distress he nudged her encouragingly, and tried to get them both moving. Home.

How odd that word felt in his thoughts.
A warm valley was not what he dreamed of, when he heard it.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

He couldn't keep up, he just wanted her to be alright again — tearful eyes met concerned ones, and one moment she mustered a small smile, bringing relief to his heart.. and in the next, she blanked out, her eyes grew distant, as if she saw something else, and when she came back... He wasn't sure what he was seeing, reading in her eyes, and one ear flicked up and forth to listen while he wished, and knew that it was futile, for her to just.. straighten out. Couldn't she either be alright, or crying? That way he'd know what was up, not this.. roller-coaster ride with its dips and peaks, the changes coming too fast for him to keep up with. Her dark side was warm against his, but he barely noticed, thinking only of keeping both of their balances; what snow she'd brought up with her had melted between them. "I can't go back to the Basin. I-I don't belong there..." Of course you do, of course you can! His ear fell back again, wondering where this came from — she didn't list his lack of feelings for her among the reasons, so it had to be something else...

"Hush," he said, nearly allowing "you idiot" (fondly thought) slip out too but holding it back at the last second. His tongue ran mostly unfiltered, his shocked mind not fast enough to keep up. If she'd asked, he probably would've told her all about the Plague. Unable to think straight. "I know many there are racist, but not all. Does it matter? We need you Leyra, you've been with us for long, of course you belong there... Think of Lena..." But what was all this about her daughter hating her? Surely not! Mauja had had a bout of his own with daughterly disapproval, but did he think Snö didn't love him for it? No.. but what if she did? He saved that panic-filled emotion for later. "I don't think your daughter hates you, seriously, you're her mother. That means something." But whether or not little Fyre was aware of it he didn't know. Maybe he should have a talk with her anyway. Beat her up a little. Differences was no reason to hate your parent. But maybe she was too young to understand that...

And then.
She said something.
Out of the blue.
Like another kick to the temple.

He'd put the brief thought of her wanting a child from him down previously, but now it roared back into life, and in a sort of daze he began to nudge her and they started to move west. He didn't know which amazed him the most — what she wanted, or that she'd said it out loud.

So easy to put it down to her mental state.

Slowly life trickled back into his frozen veins. You shouldn't talk with madmen. Shouldn't encourage lunatics. "Why?" Why was he so damn special? "What difference would it do?" Slowly his movements ceased again. Trying to juggle his severely off-balanced brain, moving and supporting her at the same time proved too difficult. Better to just stand still. Easier. Breathe. "What would you expect out of it?" I cannot be the mate you want. I cannot be the one who loves you. I don't know if I can be its father.

But if I gave it to you — would it heal your mind, or only break you further?

Question he did not know how to frame, not sure if she knew how to answer.

Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

He hadn't expected coherent answers. He didn't get them, either. Fumbling over words, fumbling with emotions, Leyra's voice was cracked and fragile, thin-sounding to his ears. Putting innate knowledge, certainty, to words was never easy, and the fact that he was about as thick as a door in this area didn't make it easier. Borderline hysteria and mild panic just helped to reinforce his stubborn stupidity, ears falling back again, flat against his neck. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to understand. She said he'd torn her heart in two; he couldn't recall doing it. Closed his eyes. The accusation felt unfair, stung; what had she expected? He'd done nothing but the state the truth in the nicest manner he could, and he got an accusation thrown back in his face. As if it as all his fault. An accusation, and a solution; an ultimatum. How could giving her a child possibly solve it? How could it make whole something, when the very rift had been caused by the opposite of the act to heal it? How could she give him the instrument to heal her, in the same breath she told him it was his fault?

Who was he to say she was wrong, to deny her what she thought would cure her?
He didn't want to deal with this.

She was crying, pressed against him, looking at him, her voice shaking; he wasn't looking, his eyes closed and his body rigid, barely listening, barely feeling. She was begging him, in a way so more earnest and desperate than when she'd asked him to kill her; she was begging him.. on one side of it all, he had this — a broken-hearted mare, sad, begging him.. and on the other, he had the power to make it all stop, to make her stop dragging his mind through a meat grinder. He felt raw, as if someone had flayed the inside of his body.

"Are you sure?" he asked her, pained; how cruel of him would it be, to deny her? To tell her that he didn't love her, that he had the means to fix her, but refused to? "Wouldn't it just be a constant reminder of the dream you can never reach?" His eyes opened, slipped down to hers, held them, gently, but sadly. Would she poison the child's mind against him, would she blackmail him, would she take care of it? Would she expect him to take care of it?

Could he bring a child into the world, from all this misery and ruin, from nothing but a form of twisted blackmail?

"Would you still leave?"

Could he bring a child into the world, just to keep her?

He swallowed, tried to think straight, to beat back the roaring darkness in his mind. It was like a void, a gaping hole, where his control and clear thoughts had been, nothing but a whirl of shadows and madness inside his head; he didn't want to deal with this, and he knew what the easy way out was. He didn't have the time to analyze, to look at it all from different perspectives, to consider the implications and complications. It took all of his strength to just stand still, to try and listen to her voice, and to not run away.