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.