Frosted feet carried the restless beast away, the trail of his wandering invisible against the thin cover of new snow: his breath didn't quite steam into the air, the snow didn't lie quite as thick and soft, and the nights seemed both darker, and brighter. Brighter, for the sun didn't lay quite as far below the horizon, but darker, because there was less snow and fewer stars to light it up — and no colored lights to wash across the sky.

Now that any of that mattered now, though; the sun had risen behind a dismal cover of gray, flakes of snow gently falling from the overcast sky. Like old friends they settled across his haunches, stuck to his mane, only to fall to the ground each time he shook himself. In many ways, it was a reminder of home, the way things ought to be, and in other ways, it simply.. was, a state of being that carried neither positive nor negative energy. Simply, a state of being.

As he passed into the deep forest, the world grew darker. Ancient trees pressed in on him, the tangled undergrowth poking up through the thin cover of snow. Bare trees mingled with pines, and despite the lack of leaves they still did their best to blot out the gray sky and steal all the snow — he felt weaker, more vulnerable, among the trees. Crisp and fallen leaves crunched underhoof, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering a pack of wolves and their huge leader, the beast which had pounded him to the floor. A moment of such uncharacteristic weakness, at the mercy of a predator beast, yet he had escaped unscathed, but he was warier now, warier of what this dark forest held. He might not be so lucky the second time.

It wasn't what he had expected, then, as he thought to be more alert — yet there he was, spying an anomaly with his eye, hearing it with his ear, before the scent hit him. Instantly, Mauja ground to a halt, his cautious senses straining to discern what it was.

Wings rustled, and Irma passed their location: the picture of a gilded stallion, equine, splotched with white and a brown dragon, entered his mind. And he realized, that he knew who it was. Torasin, the foolish, golden preacher. Did he still wear that scar, the "S" Cineviam had carved into his haunch? Such a clever, wicked thing, remnant of another era — his anger had been hot in his gut, controlled and doled out in just enough to neither make it uncomfortable nor frustrating. Now, he just felt pity, and hated himself for it.

He wasn't sure why he drew closer — shouldn't he have walked away, and left the man be? Shouldn't he have simply ignored the weakness festering inside, and gone some other direction? Yet he didn't. Step by step he drew closer, a pale ghost in a forest of darkness, a sliver of light; his forelock fell across his eyes, veiling the world, and he made no attempt to mask his approach.

"Torasin," he finally said, half-loud.

It was such a shame, wasn't it? If things had only played out differently, if the cards had not fallen in their damning pattern, what would have happened? Surely it wouldn't have ended this way. Mauja was, after all, not cruel — at least, not anymore. Not today. Not when the snow fell gently from the sky, and when his heart felt burdened, his mind drifting aimlessly like a lost ship in a storm. He had changed, he was different, and in some ways, he wasn't different at all. So what could've, would've, happened, if one small, brown dragon hadn't loved so fiercely?

Maybe they could've even become friends.

Perhaps he'd thought time would've tempered the wounds, just like skin closed and flesh knitted, the way scars faded with time, but his was just too recent. Mauja hadn't meant to scare him, had approached openly, hadn't even meant to speak of times past. Heck, he didn't know what he'd meant, but it certainly wasn't what happened. Maybe his isolation had made him forget the reputation he had once had, or maybe it was his own attempts at curing the ever-present bitterness that had him deluded, thinking he wasn't perceived as evil as he sometimes thought?

Whatever the case, Torasin suddenly reacted, his ears playing nervously even as his green eyes fell upon Mauja — and Mauja, fool that he was, thought to soothe him. Still the white lamb, his lips had barely begun to tug into his characteristic soft smile, when two things happened nearly at the same time. First, his name and rank spilled forth in a way that didn't suggest a friendly greeting, and secondly, an ear-splitting shriek had his heart freezing, head jerking up as his blue eyes left the golden man, and was met by —

— fire.
The one thing he hated, feared, the most.

There was no time to waste on screaming, no time to waste on curses and despair; Mauja's forebody rose sideways into the air, his head straining left, away from the oncoming rush of heat. It crackled as it shot towards him, narrowly missing the right side of his face before colliding with the flat of his shoulder.

He didn't know what to think anymore. He was hurled back through time, into memories, of his entire body ablaze, inside out — the skin on his shoulder and barrel cracked and charred, the scent of burning hair and flesh spreading, and Mauja lashed out in blind terror; ice, fed by the excruciating pain, erupted at the edges of his mind. As the ground grew jagged with half-a-foot high spikes, he tried to grip the body of Kiba in his mind and load his veins with them. Anything, just to make it stop.

There was no thought behind the attack. There hadn't been any plan, any desire to harm: only instinct.
What a pity that the world is such a dark and cruel place.

A scream split the world, and split his skull. As the haze of agony slowly cleared, the first thing he thought was, but I didn't scream. One by one the senses returned to him: he could smell the metallic, salty tang of blood lying under the stench of his own shoulder.. and he could see Torasin, poised as if about to take a step his way, but frozen. Red blood spiraled slowly down the sharp edge of an ice spike, the tip hidden in the golden man's chest cavity as it had punched its way in there, through ribs and lungs.

The world was silent. He could hear nothing except the pulse roaring in his ears, as if his frantic heart could somehow support the body failing just in front of him. "No!" The rugged, half-choked scream tore out of his throat, and despite the way every single movement lanced pain through his body, Mauja hauled himself forward, covering the yards that still separated them — red ran down his frontleg, staining the thin layer of snow where he stumbled forward, thinking of nothing but to reach him in time, before it was too late..

The world, it was blurred. He didn't even know that he, too, was crying, but suddenly he was there, as Torasin's green eyes closed for the last time. In some kind of desperation Mauja threw his head out, as if to cradle him, as if anything he could do could reverse these moments and stop the blood flowing out of his chest — heal the gaping wound, right the wrongs.

But nothing could.

With his head draped across Torasin's neck he let himself be dragged down as the golden gentleman tumbled to the frozen ground, knees bending painfully before crashing to the floor; the dying stallion lay sprawled on the thin snow, neck across Mauja's legs. Each breath Mauja took was a gasp, dragged in and spit out again, but even through that, and his pulse, signs of life, he heard the last words Torasin ever spoke: "I'm sorry."

They say hearing is the last sense to leave you, and as Mauja ignored the pain and dragged his soft muzzle to those golden ears, he put all his faith in that. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered as he lay there beside the fallen stallion and his loyal, overprotective dragon. Tears still leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he closed them — tried to breathe deeply, but bunched up like this, each movement tore through his shoulder and nearly dragged him into oblivion. Giving in to the pain he draped his neck across Torasin's again, and lay still and silent, mind reeling.

It had all happened too fast. He hadn't been ready. A year ago, in a damned war, he'd introduced Torasin to those same spikes, but a year ago, the gilded gentleman had avoided them. Tonight, Mauja's terror had been too great, and Torasin, just a tad too slow. Love, pain, blind instinct, and two souls lay dead on the newly fallen snow, blood painting it red.

There were a lot of things he could've said. Could've done. Could've thought.
Some part of him argued that he should've meant to — that he shouldn't lie here, weeping over someone who was an enemy. That he should rejoice, and not let the dead lie under the cover of his snowy neck. That he should get up, go home, wash the blood off his hands and square his shoulders, smile and be proud.

But it had happened too quickly. He hadn't had the time to dredge any feelings of anger, or hate, up.
Since when had he ever mourned the death of an equine?

Prometheus voice, seconded by d'Artagnan, echoed through his skull. Torasin should be his redemption, it should've been murder, but it was an accident, and the snow that fell in soft, soft flakes covered them both. An accident. Bewildered, exhausted, agonized, Mauja hugged the slowly cooling body closer, and Irma came down through the branches to alight softly upon the bloody curve of Torasin's barrel. One wing extended gently to brush her white feathers across Kiba's still frame, then her blue eyes settled on Mauja — a silent urging for him to rise, to get out of here, before someone found him with the body and jumped to all the wrong conclusions.. the conclusion that should be right, but weren't, because he had a heart.

Forcing ragged breaths in through the pain, Mauja's front hooves scrabbled against the ground before finding purchase. He heaved himself to his feet, but cried out softly and nearly fell again as the pain blossomed up, threatening to devour his every nerve; ten seconds passed and he found himself still standing, albeit swaying in the slowly increasing snowfall.

Ignoring wisdom, ignoring everything, Mauja tugged at the magic in his veins. But this time, it was not the chaos of attack, the frenzy meant to destroy, not a thing to rise quickly, but rather.. something else. He bade it rise slowly, nudging and dragging at it here, and there, until it rose to become a crude, thick-trunked tree of crystalline ice. There were no leaves upon the bare branches stretching out towards the sky; Mauja was not an artist wielding harmless power, but rather, a warrior seeking to manipulate his magic into something it wasn't. Expelling a great deal of power he anchored it to the snow and the cold, a monument for the fallen, to stand at the spot where Torasin fell until it was either destroyed, or spring's warmer air claimed it.

It was foolish to leave something of his own magic behind, but sooner or later, someone would figure it out anyway. Sooner or later, the world would know the truth, and no one would believe him when he said it was an accident anyway. Slowly he let his gaze fall again. His own tears were freezing upon Torasin's golden neck, blood of his own marking the spot where he had lain, but soon the snow would cover that, too.. a pristine white blanket hiding the gruesome carpet of blood.

Mauja swallowed his tears, whispered "Goodbye, Torasin," and began to limp away west, his track slowly being obliterated by the falling snow and the wind which tugged at Torasin's pale locks.

[ those who wish to find his body etc. are welcome now. :) ]

NO!

The cry was a silent one, a plea, and its voice was panicked, rousing the attention of the shadow mare immediately. It was impossible to get anything useful out of the frantic dragon, who could not describe the feeling that had triggered such a reaction, but merely knew that they must move, now! It was not completely with her will that Mirage bowed her tiara to her chest and summoned the magic that would change her physique. The pain that came with the change was all consuming, but there was a different kind of pain thrumming against her skull as Akaith flew higher and higher in the sky, preparing for a lengthy, speedy flight.

With a golden muzzle and a pleading glance thrown towards her lover, Vikram, Mirage took to the skies, flapping hard to gain altitude, to rise high in the sky so that her wings could fill with air and propel her forward. Akaith had already begun her flight, travelling as fast as a bullet south - had something happened at the Throat? No, came the sad, echoing reply, and Mirage was filled with dread at the sensation of mourning that filled the little gold's body. Who? the dragonmare pressed upon her bonded, as if trying to squeeze the answer from her.

She didn't receive a clear answer. What she received was a jumble of images cascading through her skull, flashes of a golden smile, a kiss upon the brow, a warm embrace, an admission upon a mountaintop, a declaration of love to a false lover, a thousand regrets, a brown dragon, a healer's touch reviving her, saving her from certain death as she bore daughters too great for her own body.

No…

It couldn't be. It simply could not be. She could not allow it, she was not ready. Faster, and faster still she pushed herself on, determined to save his life where he had saved hers. Her beloved Torasin, her first friend in these new lands, her beloved sunny stallion, who wore a smile to hide all the hurt that went on beneath - just as she wore her mask of shadowy indifference to hide the truth from those who would use it against her. They were kindred spirits, since that first day together, they had always been together - and she had thought that they always would be together.

Was she a fool for not allowing herself to love him wholly and completely, for never speaking the words that would have meant they would have been sharing sons and daughters together? Was she a fool for never telling him just how much he meant to her? Vikram held her heart, he inspired her to be a mother - but there had been plenty of times that she had fought the same urges when in Torasin's presence. He is not allowed to die - HE IS NOT ALLOWED TO DIE! the thoughts tumbled with frantic desperation through her skull, again and again, over and over, a morbid mantra, a chant that she hoped if she put enough will behind it, would mean it would come true.

The Deep Forest was familiar to her, though it had been many season since her last visit. In fact, the last time she had come here, was to welcome into the world Thor's daughter, Essetia. Now she was here to farewell her longest held friendship to the ether of Helovia.

It can't be true..

Denial was a wonderful thing. It allowed one to convince themselves beyond a measure of a doubt, that something significant had not just happened. But it had happened. The metallic taste of blood fell upon her nostrils, and Akaith darted through the trees, leading her with a mental trail to where the body laid. The little dragon sung a mournful song, and above her, the DragonHeart sung too, her voice echoing over the snowy canopy. Folding her enormous wings, she dived through a gap just large enough to allow her through, landing with a rough draconic snort pressing out of her nostrils. Shutting her eyes, she summoned the magic that would give her back her equine form, tears springing to her eyes as the pain engulfed her once more, pain that wasn't caused just by her magic.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the damage that had been wrought upon her beloved best friend's body. The way the blood and bones fell from the open wound upon his back, the way the dragon slept in an endless slumber upon his flank, the way his eyes were shut, as if hiding from larger terrors, the smile that curved his luminous golden lips. Mirage blinked, and blinked again to remove the tears that swiftly filled the charred eyelids. Her muzzle dropped to his form, just as Akaith landed and wept over the young, formerly virile form of Kiba, cradling his draconic crown in her own dextrous claws, crying to the darkness of the Deep Forest that surrounded them.

Mirage's muzzle touched his cheek first, blowing a kiss against it, drinking in the scent that lingered there, before the stale stench of death overwhelmed it. Tears fell freely from her eyes, streaming down her cheeks to fall upon his golden and ivory hide. "Torasin." She said, and immediately she was reminded of his insistence to call him Tor, that very first day they had met, and despite the tears, the torment of her grief, she gasped a choked laugh at the silly memory. "Oh, Torasin. It was never meant to be this way." Her voice, usually so controlled and even, was so thick with emotion, it was almost impossible to recognise as her own.

It was then that, amidst the pale surroundings, the mare saw the icy tree that stood before her. But she was too absorbed in the grief, the horror, the sheer depression that now enveloped her, she did not see it as a clue to the killer of her friend. She saw it as winter's own way of saying farewell, and without a second glance, she turned her gaze back to her friend, as if she was unwilling to believe her eyes - and that was probably true too. "I love you, Torasin. I always did, from that very first day that you greeted me with that ridiculous smile of yours. You were the first soul I ever met upon these lands, and I could not have asked for a better friend, comrade, guardian of my heart."

"If it weren't for you, I would not be standing here today." Deep down, she knew the fallen could not hear her, but that didn't stop the words from coming. "Torasin, I'm not ready to do this alone." Her voice was a whisper now, as her maw hovered above his ear, the words meant only for him. There were few in this world the mare ever felt comfortable enough with in sharing her deepest, darkest secrets; Torasin had been one of them.

How was she supposed to go on?