Mauja doubted he was what the other had expected; the stallion looked as if he was about to move, muscles tensing before releasing, relaxing. He didn't even need to sniff the air to know that nothing had changed, though — even where he stood, a few yards away, he could smell the anger running beneath the other's skin, and watched him with calm, level eyes. "Lord?" the other breathed, and black-rimmed ears cupped forward to catch the faint, questioning sound. So, he was known, the speckled King of the North, and still silent, he inclined his head. The wind ruffled his long mane, his vision veiled by the white forelock draped across his face, head turned somewhat to the side to keep Voodoo in his sights. Mauja didn't know his name.

The wind rushed with a howl towards them, keening through the crevices below, snow swirling upon its breath as it reached out to touch them. Mauja stood immovable, something carved out of marble and with ice for a heart, but the other, he moved on dark legs, his red horn coming dangerously close; his ears pinned back, but Mauja did nothing. Did he need to do anything? No.

"I'm very angry, Lord. I don't know what to do."

One ear twitched, and a faint smile curved his dark lips. I might know what to do. He almost chuckled, but kept his face straight and voice silent; no need to embarrass or confuse the boy, was there? Slowly, he began to detach, his mind sinking through the frozen planes of his being, disconnecting from his warm body. His soul rode the bitter winds somewhere out over the range, on wings barred with blue, her beats strong and sure even in the gusts buffeting her. Her cry haunted the desolate peaks, and Mauja's blue eyes glistened with something unreadable, amused and aloof, cold and sharp in its color and intensity. There was nothing of warmth, nothing of soft snow melting in sunlight, only the merciless frigidity of winter's ice, frost upon the frozen ground.

"You could hit me," he suggested, perfectly calm, still bemused despite the way his being had hardened; that crooked little smile grew, nearly into a grin, but not quite. "And hope that the anger goes away."

He didn't need to say that he would hit back. Surely Voodoo knew that he would — perhaps even wanted it.. some kind of honesty, warm blood shed in the cold teeth of winter.

[ 411 words. ]