það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir Each beat pounded finality. Each second seemed to stretch for ages. The open, adoring honesty in Tolio's eyes, the admiration in his voice, had Mauja lowering his gaze slightly. Unwilling, to openly meet such praise, humbled by his devotion. What was it in him, that brought this out in others? One ear swept back to hang thoughtfully, the other arced forward. Things such as true leaders.. did they exist? Was he one? Was the reason he was reluctant to associate with the term the simple fact that he was afraid of growing lax and callous, distant and cruel? While he had the strength to carry through, sometimes it took effort, and sometimes it took power of the mind to keep running down the altruistic path when parts of you yelled for self-centered action, clamored for selfish desires. It was not always easy to put others before himself, and slowly strangle the veins of his own life.

No. Not easy at all. But he wouldn't say that. Just lifted his muzzle, to tug at Tolio's mane.

If he knew — would he still follow? If he understood the price Mauja paid, would he still be devoted? Or worse, would he seek to change the Frostheart's ways? Would he want to breathe life in the decaying, abandoned parts of his life, and try to make him believe he could be both a selfless King, and someone who acted in ways that benefited only himself? Not for power, but for life, to drink the blood of the world and feel it thrum like fire in his veins — he forced a shiver down. Mauja had chosen his path in life, but he'd keep dreaming for as long as he could, and suddenly he found himself afraid of Tolio's fierce devotion, afraid that he'd make him try to reach out and grasp the dream if he only knew of it. Yet nothing stirred on his immovable surface, not a single blink or breath out of place. Temptation was the deadliest sin of all, and if someone else would urge him-? He swallowed. It was bad enough that he lingered. A clean cut would always heal the fastest but he kept tearing at the edges of the wound.

"I'd prefer strength, for both of us," he murmured, raising his eyes to meet Tolio's. Mercury and ice. No wary edge betrayed his momentary, fading panic, nothing for Tolio to see had shifted at all; he allowed his own fears and guilts to fall, return like silt to the bottom of the sea from where it had been stirred. One day he knew he would fall headfirst into it and drown, but he was putting that off for as long as he could. Instead, he watched the play of emotion in the other stallion's face — it was so open, so honest in a way that almost hurt him like too-bright sunlight does. Steady breaths washed against Tolio's throat as Mauja lifted their heads, holding them higher, feeling the shift of bone and muscle as the chestnut spoke. Slowly the Lord slipped his head out from under his red jaw, and for a moment he looked at the pale, washed-out horizon. What else could he do? What else could he say? It seemed he had tied up the last loose ends of Tolio's, breathed some ounce of strength and life and determination back into him — his gaze returned to the other, and despite his brief anxiety earlier, of things unrelated, he realized that he would miss the loyal stallion.. and that he'd be happier when he returned, if he was less broken, more whole, cheerfuller. Mauja inclined his head slightly.

"If you linger any longer, will you ever have the strength to go?" he murmured quietly, before glancing up with a small, wry smile. It was not that he wanted Tolio to leave, but he knew that the longer you stayed, the harder it was to go. Gently, he reached out to bring their muzzles together again, eyes sincere.
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