það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir He didn't feel well. He didn't feel well in the way that he was adrift, had no real clue who he was, or where he should go to fix that. He didn't feel well, because he wanted to just grind his head against a rock until he fell unconscious.. because he just wanted to snarl and walk off, feeling entirely unprepared and ill-equipped to deal with this again, with someone who wasn't as understanding as d'Artagnan had been. Because the irritation seeping in his blood was not his; he was Mauja, glacial and frigid, marble-hearted and chilly. He did not get annoyed. He didn't feel like lashing out randomly. And he hated dealing with others when these emotions tumbled in, consuming the empty bitterness as he listened to Prometheus voice, refusing the urge to growl at him that 'out of whack' was defined as deviating from the norm in a stupid, not-good way and wasn't that exactly what he was? Not himself? What did it matter what the hell he called it?

He kept breathing calmly, somehow keeping the cursed tide of emotions under lock and key, hidden safely behind the blue of his eyes and deep within his shattered soul. He would not take out his own anger at himself, his frustration, on someone else just because they were clear enough of mind to point it out to him. He would not give Prometheus the satisfaction of seeing him crumble further, falling deeper from his perch among the northern frosty stars. The road back up there was long and steep, and made all the harder by the paths diverging from his own, alluring with their scents and dreams.

He felt like stabbing himself with ice in the heart.
Maybe it'd solve some things.

"Where has your darkness gone?"
I'll be damned if I know, Prometheus.

Mauja's eyes were level, steady in their frost, his voice remaining quiet as his mind heckled him; he'd at least spare himself the shame of falling to pieces in front of the undead colt, hating himself because the true words spoken by something less than half his size made him feel useless. Briefly his gaze dropped to the flaming tiger, before rising to Prometheus again. So this was the way it would go? An undead horse would somehow, miraculously, cure his heart simply by whispering plans in his ears. Really, Prometheus he thought, almost disappointed. As if it was that simple. As if Mauja was that simple. One 'brow arched for a moment, before settling back in place. He was not a dog to be led, nor did he think Prometheus could truly fix his heart (unless he stabbed it, and that'd suck), but when you're at your wit's end you're willing to try a lot of things.

And who knew? Maybe he had valuable council, even if he'd find Mauja's mind made of sterner stuff than malleable snow. Greatness, his mind echoed hollowly, seeking words to speak — he didn't want to snap and say fine, try it, nor did he want to come crawling to his feet. In the end, he sighed again, and flicked his white tail. The brush against his hocks was comforting. There's so much I could say. So many excuses. "I always appreciate keen minds." I always give people chances. "So you're welcome to be useful, ráðgjafi." It was an invitation of sorts, spoken in soft tones to not mistake the wording for something irritated, delivered with a slight shadow of his old smile, and a long, piercing stare, as if to say, don't burn this opportunity.

[ Mauja is like -flails- whatarewordsplz ]
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