það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir A wind bearing the cold of autumn crept up from the shadow, stirring his mane and tail as he waited, pushing against his rugged summer's coat but finding no entrance, no way to steal what sparse warmth the Frostheart had. Blue eyes blinked in the fading sunlight, and for a moment he raised his head up in quiet salute to the wrathful God. Without his warmth and light the Basin would be a lonely, barren place, and despite his deeply rooted dislike of the impulsive deity, he very much liked to feel the sun's warm rays upon his body in winter — or in summer, where winter was perpetual, heedless of season. Mauja sighed quietly, and gave his head a small shake. If the Gods saw fit to use and abuse their mortal charges, why should he not do the same? Why should he not take what they gave and offer nothing in return, leech off their powers and roll in their glories without a care? If he could only forget that the sun had wings and two horns and a fiery pelt, that the moon hiding in the night sky was violet and silver and deceitful, that the earth had a voice like thunder and time a fickle, callous mind... If only he could forget they existed, perhaps he could appreciate life so much more.

Sunlight glinted off the near-white curve of a hip, the frost on a horn, and Mauja's eyes found their focus again. On long, sturdy legs Snö came, not yet fully fleshed out as adults were, her bloodline evident in her natural grace and the hair around her pale cloven hooves. She was the daughter of kings and queens, and for a moment Mauja felt the old, familiar heartache, the desire to drown in the inky sea that was Psyche's soul and become nothing but a puppet, his sharp mind locked away behind the loving heart that would always beat for his children. Sometimes it seemed so easy, to just let go and sink and let her ruin the world while he became old in the mind and grew forgetful, blind to what they wished to cause.

But as if he could ever let go.

She'd never reach his height. She got that from Psyche. Her muzzle reached out and Mauja's extended too, the soft black brushing across her velvet skin and breathing in the scent of her breath. "Snö, my child," he murmured, wrenching all thoughts of Sielu smokemane away. Surely the varnish roan would see that, too, as betrayal, and their newfound peace would be shattered. Cowardly, weak, but he wished to cherish it while it lasted, and said nothing of that odd night with Faelene. Somehow, it haunted him worse than Lotus had.

And then suddenly she was talking, asking him a question, but not even waiting for an answer before a flood rushed out of her mouth. Mauja's clear eyes traveled quietly across her face as he listened, drinking in what she said and staring at all the details that made her his, from the blue of her eyes to the frost upon her horn. There was so little of Psyche in her looks... "I miss it ever day," he admitted quietly, making a move to brush his nose against her poll, curling his neck around her horn. "The trees, the fog, the distant crash of wave against rock, the smell of salt.." And his gaze slid out across the grassy slopes of the vale. "The Basin is a beautiful place, but it is not where I belong, odd as it is as I came from a place much like this." A small sigh made it past his dark lips, and his white tail flicked against his hocks. He'd been born and bred within the snow, but that cliff against the sea had stolen his heart and his soul. "And, my dear — never seek to rule with fear. Better have an army willing to die for you out of love, than those who would rather see you dead only so they can breathe easy." And that small, curved smile tugged at his lips, warmth flaring in his cold eyes.
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.