d'Artagnan would say his weakness was mares, something he'd obviously proven yet again, but Mauja himself would say it was his paranoia, the way his thoughts always churned, rolling down dark alleys and into the most dramatic, and depressing, corners. For as long as he could remember it had always been there, that vein of fear, the constant, niggling worry, a skip of his heart as he interpreted yet another thing in the worst possible way.. the strangling guilt of doubting his friends, those who had stood by him for so long. Trust did not come easily to him, and despite the antics of that day a few weeks ago he still carried the echo of the feeling with him.. a sense of safety in the Doctor's company even as he walked willingly into his lair, blindly ate what was offered while knowing a bite of the wrong thing could stop his heart in a minute. That faith, unquestioned, was either madness or something built by years — an welcome with open arms even as he came home tattered and broken. Only time would teach him that Faelene would not leave. In the past he used to think that only upon their death could he know if they would ever leave him, but recently he'd begun to think that maybe he should let himself pass judgment sooner.

It was, after all, hard to say look, I think you might've been one of my closest allies to someone when they were already dead. The corners of his eyes wrinkled with a faint smile at the sound of her amusement, but it faded as he had to turn the talk to Psyche. Again, she seemed thoughtful, and he appreciated it. She wasn't someone with air between her ears, nor had she closed her mind off and decided for him who he was and what he did — no, she had listened to him, picked apart his thoughts to find her own truth in them. As her gaze dropped his ears fell back hesitantly; had he misstepped again? Would such a caution lower her faith in him..? Was it wrong of him? But, no — he had assured her, hadn't he? Just that it would be easier with Psyche on their side?

"Well, I would appreciate that. I think the two of us just started to understand and trust each other and I don't want to see that all go to hell.."

Perhaps there was another black mare in this Basin whom he'd been wrong about, too.. a carnivore, a jackal, her heart cold as ice and black with frostbite — or was it? Mauja remained silent, remembering the slide as a mask fell off her face when he'd just come back, the way her amber eyes had seemed different.. less predatory. He'd stood weak before her, with his throat bared, an easy kill, but she had not laughed at him. She hadn't even put him beneath her feet, to declare herself supreme and better than him. She had just offered some sort of quiet assurance, and Mauja gave a low hum, before shaking his head. These thoughts were for some other night. Faelene was tired and he was guilty of keeping her up with his stupidity and caution, and he did not really feel comfortable to spill his guts to anyone. d'Artagnan was one thing, and good as Faelene was, he just.. didn't want to. Instead, he forced it aside and gave her a small smile. "It'll work out somehow," he said, and despite his quiet voice there was something confident in it. Perhaps not foolishly confident, but he did not believe this would be the end of everything. "I won't keep you up longer now, Faelene." As an afterthought he added, in a whisper, "Thank you,".