það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir Sometimes he worried about her, that she'd grow too cold — but then he thought of Psyche, and how cold she had been, and how.. less cold she was now. Unforgiving, yes, harsh, merciless, yes, but she seemed to have learned things in his absence, when the mantle of leadership had been thrust upon her. When he had affirmed that she was still the Crux of the Plague, both of them had expected him to remain has Bane, adviser, guide, smokescreen for their activities. If he had not been lost, would the Basin had been given to him, to reinstate their places of leader of one thing each? He would never know, didn't want to ask — thought it presumptuous to assume. But it had done Psyche well, she had learned things he wasn't sure she otherwise would've learned. She had come to realize that terror was not the way to go, that there were more unicorns to care for than simply the warriors clamoring for bloodshed and supremacy, and somehow, in the dark of winter and the throes of spring, she had realized that emotions were not weakness. He'd been chock full of them upon his return, yet she had not scorned him, and as they had lingered after the Plague meeting...

Yes, Psyche had learned much, and had come a long way from the cold, cold mare she had been, but she was still a beacon of their ambition, the star which he looked to when he felt his own confidence waver. If Psyche had grown cold, only to thaw again.. perhaps Snö would be alright, too. A slight frown creased his 'brows when she stepped back gently, calling him father. He did not exactly wish for her to grow cold, to forget the meaning of her heart's beat, or the touch of a warm soul. Why could she not grow up balanced, the haughty arrogance of her race only strengthened, not hindered, by affection, devotion? Love was a fire, and could drive you to desperate acts, but upon a battlefield, it could be the weight to tip the scales. If his soldiers knew love, they would always, always, have something to fight for. It did not need to be one individual, merely a concept, something on the edges of their mind, and Mauja blinked slowly, listening to her words. It could even be love of a home.

The space between them felt colder, but he let it — her — be. There was no reason to force his flank against hers, to cling to her; she was not a thing to be kept, but a free spirit. Slowly his ears rotated back as she asked her question, before coming forward again. She did not wish him to lie, but he seldom lied anyway. Feeling ten years older, he heaved a quiet sigh. "Yes," he said after a short moment, his distant eyes pulling back from pine trees and fog-dewy grass to settle upon the snowy frame of his daughter. "I'll make sure we do." As for his rank.. the Moon had chosen him to be King, and his people had followed him; if he led them into battle, bled with them again, and emerged victorious, why would he not be King? Psyche could remain Lady of the Basin, a Dark Empress to rule the north, and he could one more walk the Edge like its rightful King. Giving her somewhat of a lopsided, playful grin he reached out to tug at her forelock. "And I'll only be King if the herd would still have me," he told her in a light voice, for a moment shedding the gravity of the situation. Given the startling amount of loyalty his old followers still had for him, that he would not be King seemed unlikely.

But then the conversation switched, rapidly, and he found himself growing stiller, as he always did when thinking. Was he proud of her? Of course. Why did she need to ask? Who knew. Tilting his head, his blue eyes sought for hers, open and honest. And he told her, "Always,".
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