It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

The sky was gray, refusing to let the Sun shine on winter's bitter king. With his eyes skyward Mauja walked, stroking snow aside with ease, placing frosted hooves upon the frozen ground hidden beneath the pale carpet — but he had no eyes for it, no eyes for anything but the bright thing hidden behind flimsy covers. He felt like a newborn foal, like an ancient, decrepit being tumbled from a rock, both broken and whole at the same time.. confused, anxious, confident and hesitant. Some part of him had still not accepted, nor understood, what had happened.

Torasin had died.
Sól had healed him.
Sól.. had done something to Ophelia.

A sigh curled out of his nostrils, like smoke from a dragon's mouth, and rose towards the gray skies. It dissipated, merging with the cold air, and Mauja wished that his thoughts would do the same. They were just as vital, just as pointless, but they refused to leave.. stuck to him like ticks, burrs in his mane, and he could make neither heads nor tails of it. Why did it bother him? Why had he left a piece of his soul behind, a silent monument? Teeth ground together, the dry noise alien as it reverberated through his skull; Irma, flying somewhere far above, was vaguely amused by his emotions, but at the same time, disagreed with them. A kill was a kill.

Why do you always spend so much time thinking?
Damned if I know, Irma.

But it was true. He brooded worse than a worried mother, made flimsy plans and schemes, and.. something about Torasin's death.. it had not been planned, and that twist of fate gnawed at him. But at the same time, there had been something.. almost releasing about it, a moment where he had not needed to think, only feel, even if it meant he'd wept over the body of an equine. The past weeks had had his mind running at too high speed, dancing a complicated dance with Sumati, balancing his own existence upon the point of a knife — and so far, he hadn't cut his feet, but he found himself straying further and further away as time wore on, to places where it was not quite so dangerous to rest.. where he could let go of the frantic grip he held on his thoughts, simply watch the wind tug at the snow without running at full speed.

Movement caught his attention, a blur of gray against the white ground. The wind blew cautiously against his face, keeping his forelock out of his eyes, but he was yet too far away to catch her individual scent; another hundred yards or so, and he knew who she was.

Smoke.
World's Edge.

Torasin.
Fuck.

Mauja's flowing movements ceased, his thoughts picking up speed again, devising a million plans in the fraction of a second; he stood still as a statue, weighing fleeing against fighting, and drew blank. Simply stood there, in his element, something pristine and beautiful and lost all at once, blue eyes watching her in quiet contemplation.

Did they know?

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

Could they be friends, with her bare forehead, and his crowned skull? Could they be friends with the dark ice weighing down his blood — with the very same blood seeping through the cracks in his marble heart? Slow, steady breaths rose towards the dismal sky, heart ticking away the seconds in his chest: he told himself it wasn't strange to want to run away, knowing whose blood was on his hooves.. and not knowing, if they knew. He was sure the body had been found. The Deep Forest was not a barren, lifeless place. He was sure they knew, because Kiba was dead, and dragon souls spoke, just as owl souls spoke. They all lived at the edge of a hive mind, just beyond reach, barely understanding. Had that brave, foolish brown transmitted images of the one he sought to drive away? Had they paid silent witness to the encounter, seen the raw terror forcing the sophisticated calm aside in his blue eyes?

The thought made him uncomfortable. He resisted the urge to shift, and instead opened himself up to the world, to the cool touch of winter's early breeze, the scent of snow and life all around him.. the warmth of Irma's spirit wrapped around his, the comfort of her heartbeat, the familiarity of her amused disapproval.

"Mauja?"

He hadn't doubted she'd see him — he blended well with the horizon, but not as well as he did up in the Basin, where snow and dark, jagged mountains painted a perfect picture, or as he did in forests, his black breaking up the outline. But that she called out.. friendly, warm almost, as if greeting a friend she hadn't seen in a while. Slowly, he inclined his head, long mane shifting. He couldn't lie, and say that he wasn't Mauja. A slight grin curled his lips, and then he raised his head again, horn saluting the winter sky. "Smoke." He expelled her name with force, shoving it across the distance without shouting. And before he knew it, he was moving again, still gliding through the snow with practiced ease, leaving a trail easy to follow. The downside of winter, before it froze a hard crust, packed thick underneath.

I just need to know what she knows. I need to know if the Edge knows. It was what he told himself, thanking, ironically, the gods for Sól's good mood and for healing his shoulder. Aside from the ice tree spreading its fragile limbs to the winter skies he had washed the last incriminating stain from his pristine coat. He should be safe, but he wasn't fool enough to think you ever were safe.

Safety, was a crude illusion, and an addiction.
And he was addicted.

Always wanting to play it safe. Always considering the greater numbers, the risks, never the gains — white tail flicked against his hocks in its customary fashion, and he pushed yet another failure, another weakness, under the surface and back into the sea. His tall frame towered over hers the closer he came, and then it was just a yard between them, and the snowbeast halted, somehow still graceful and regal despite the reeling thoughts and the burdens of his heart.

"How have you fared?" he asked, innocently. The Edge would not learn of Torasin's killer through him.

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

He never quite knew who she was. When the rest of Helovia had clamored for their blood and watched them with beady eyes, reading murder in their every move, she had walked, brazenly, into his home — to apologize. Even though her blatant trespass had irked him, as all trespassing did, he had to admit she seemed confident in her recklessness, and the sting of her disregard for his borders had been softened somewhat by her.. admission that maybe they were wrong to jump the gun and call him racist? But since then, so much had been lost, home and sanity and hate, and they thrived in the frozen north. His eyes were level, watching her in thoughtful silence, wondering who she was, if she truly was so different.. or if she just pretended, to get under his skin. Perhaps she hoped he'd let something slip. Without shifting his face, he felt his heart harden, the bitter traces of his old distrust flaring up through his veins; in a sense, it was disheartening to know that he couldn't trust anyone outside of the Plague circle. But to do so would be foolish, and pointless, most of all. He did not need them.

She reacted well to his polite query, and his black-rimmed ears flicked forward. While she was nowhere near as terrifying as Sumati to be around, he cautioned himself to be wary within. It would be foolish to let her niceness lure him in, not that he had many plans to spill to her — a few, sure, things that swam like sharks in the back of his mind, waiting for the time to strike, but nothing that affected the Plague. He was out on his own, with his own agenda.

"You've been busy," he commented dryly, meaning her variety of children; at least three, given that there was one son and two daughters. Maybe more? But who was he to speak — he had three children, too. But he kept a smile of his own from forming, sensing that there was something else she wished to tell, on the tail of the mention of a shadow. Not all was well in the Edge, and he bitterly remembered the fires they kept burning at all times — hating them for their disrespect towards the land who had seen enough of flames. Still, he dutifully followed her gaze west, glancing down briefly at the golden knot-work sun revealed by the shift in her mane. Well, wasn't that interesting. A follower of Sól, living with the Moon's whores? But he passed little judgment about it, knowing blind faith to be cursed whoever you followed — having done so himself, until the bitter pain of her betrayal drove it from his heart.

She looked back and he met her eyes, level and calm, though he felt ice drop like a weight in his gut, heart skipping a beat within his pale chest; gods, what did they know? Had they made the connection of ice and north? Had something else happened? He was too out of the loop, he hadn't met his herd in, what, half a season? Out on his own crusade, and he refrained from grinding his teeth together — merely arched his 'brows instead, a gesture of cool surprise. "No? Pray tell, what have we done this time?"

Killed your Doctor, perchance?

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

At least they could talk of children, without fear of wolves bursting out of the woods to steal them. Mauja didn't make a habit of kidnapping the kids of others. From him they were safe, at least for now, though for how much longer? Some part of him was slipping into the familiar past, coming to terms with the brand of being a beast, and the accidents – heck, this one had been.. But it was so easy to slide into that mindset, the place he'd carved out for himself in a nook of his soul, all smiles and softness while something so much darker roiled beneath. His lips wanted to quirk into a disapproving grimace at the revelation of it being a mix-blood daughter, one who flew, and he wondered why – not why she had a winged daughter, but why he felt that way. He walked easily among the hornless these days, treated some of them as comrades and even felt a sting of remorse at knowing what he would have to do one day.. so why did this remnant of the past flicker into life? And what was he supposed to do with it? Quench it? Nurture it?

As it was, he didn't really do anything about it – just settled back in that comfortable alcove of ice, snuggling deeper into the snow, allowing instinct to guide him while his mind spun quickly, thoughts and plans sparking into life before disappearing again. Somehow, he found that time seemed to slow when he visited that part of himself, like the world somehow accommodated his need for thinking, but such a thing was just foolish to think...

He felt his heart beat swiftly in his chest, burdened with adrenaline even as his face betrayed nothing of the discomfort. What did the Edge know? Too much, his instinct was telling him, and he waited for her ears to fall back and the scathing accusations to start falling. And how could he deny the truth if she guessed it? How could he not claim Torasin's death? Mauja's blue eyes kept blinking at a sedate pace, not missing a beat. "One of yours has stolen one of ours..." Well, that was news. He hadn't known, but then again, how could he have known? "But one of our Glaziers witnessed your Time Mender murdering his mother." He had to keep himself from laughing – how ironic wasn't it? He and d'Artagnan, by accident or decision, both killed members of the same herd at around the same time. But instead of chuckling, as he doubted Smoke found death a laughing matter, he schooled his face to something akin to sorrowful. "d'Artagnan," he said softly, almost bitterly, but there were no such emotions in his heart. Instead, he found himself surprised by the contentment of knowing that someone at least still did their duty. Had it been ordered, or a chance taken?

"I am sorry for your losses, Smoke." And in a sense, he was – most of all for the golden gentleman frozen over in the east, because he still hadn't meant to. He'd never be able to change that fact, only what he did with the aftermath. For a moment he toyed with the idea of telling her, just to see her face when she heard him say I killed him, but that satisfaction would be nothing against the wrath of the herd. And there was no way he could bring that down on the unsuspecting Basin while he still gallivanted around down here. No. That secret would have to remain a secret a little longer. "Does this mean you are stepping up to fill his role?" He didn't quite know what else to say, remembered she had spoken of changing tack after leaving the Foothills – and somewhere, he dimly thought that if she said yes, it would rank her a little higher on the hit list.

Had he always been like this in the past? Contemplating their murder while pretending to be their friend?
He had a hunch he had.

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

There were limits to what he could do – he could keep a straight, smooth face while conversing with someone who did not know Mauja had killed Torasin, the object of conversation, but it was harder to be all smiles about it. And besides, what would it say of him if he smiled about it? Wasn't it natural, to be sorrowful, and.. wary? But why was he wary, if he hadn't known about d'Artagnan? His thoughts ran at a fast pace, and he came to the conclusion that even if he chucked Torasin out the window, the tension in Helovia had upped since last. Much of the cause was Psyche and Kri butting heads, but with Kri allied with Mirage, it was bound to rub off on the Edge.. and gods knew how Psyche's negotiations with the Grey had gone.

Dryly he realized it was not a good time to be Mauja. But unfortunately, he couldn't do anything about it, and had to make the best of it.

She was out here fetching willow bark. She was the new Moon Doctor. She wore the mantle that should've been d'Artagnan's, serving a mare who should still scrape her living out in the Wilds – but the bitter thoughts had lost their sting, his mind merely going through the motions as he nodded thoughtfully, blue gaze scouring the horizon. Willow bark.. what did it even do? There hadn't been any willows in his homeland, and it was awkward to realize there were still so many things he didn't know. And some things he was sure he'd never know, but the art of healing was useful. He should fix that problem some day...

"You're troubled." "Mmh," he hummed in response, returning his eyes to her. She was perceptive, but if he thought about it.. it had been nearly a year ago since they'd met last. A year was a long time. A year since you came home, you weak fool. A lot could happen in a year. After a moment's silence he sighed, guessing she wouldn't settle for nothing but an explanation. And keenly he remembered the last time he tried to explain anything, and the too-clear insight he'd offered Prometheus. "There's a lot on my mind, and wouldn't you be troubled too, if you'd just been told one of the ranked members in your herd committed murder?" A wry, mirthless smile curved his lips, something cynical about it, but he found strength in the simple rhetoric. Smoke had been a leader once – surely she knew how it could weigh on your mind.

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

Abruptly he decided that he did not want to be here. He did not want to stand belly-deep in last year's frozen grasses and with snow cooling his fetlocks, talking to a mare he shouldn't let any closer, let alone answer her prying questions. He could think of a lot of things he'd rather be doing, and a lot of others he'd rather be in the company of. This was too dangerous. It was too.. annoying, to have someone poke around in his brain, like having a blind man grope at his wounds without realizing what they were, a kick to already broken ribs. It hurt, to keep himself together, to keep all thoughts in a place where he could see them, to not think about Torasin, about.. about that half-step he'd taken forward, as if he could save Mauja from the fire and the pain. It hurt to think about the expression frozen on his face, the blood running down the spike, the tears, and the small, gentle smile that had curved his lips as he finally left this world behind.

It hurt, and Smoke stood there, asking her pointed little questions and Mauja stifled the sudden, mad urge to just whisk his head down and stab her throat. He was fairly sure he'd not get away with it twice, and instead, simply did nothing. Just stood there, breathing at the same pace as he always had, his eyes looking as they always had, guarded and pale. He wouldn't act on any impulse, let alone let her see that she was grating on his nerves.

And least of all did he want her standing there, pondering the question he'd turned back against her as rhetoric, and have her give it serious thought. He'd never felt as fidgety in his entire life as he felt standing there, waiting for her to open her mouth and say something that would just set him off further. It became an exercise in self-control, to keep everything calm, sedate, smooth and precise; his tail flicked idly, the motion slow, not at all the sharp lashing of someone irritated. Then, she began, her voice rolling off her tongue and Mauja fought to keep his eyes on her, even though word by word he wanted to yell at her to shut up.

"Irritated that such selfish actions could spark another war against the group that already ousted you once." Shove your pride and arrogance down your throat, Smoke, before I make you eat those words. If he'd been any less controlled, if he'd been a beast of another kind, he would've had his teeth in her, just to prove her wrong, while knowing that such an outburst could just prove her right. But he didn't. He was Mauja. He was Mauja, and Mauja didn't do stupid things like that; Mauja just kept breathing, blinking, listening, one black-rimmed ear flicking back momentarily to listen to something else before sweeping forward again. Like water running off the feathers of a duck, he let the words rush past him, holding her gaze steady with his own.

He had to admit he was curious about what d'Artagnan had done, but if he knew the Doctor, the reason was probably "she had no horn" (if, indeed, it had been a hornless; otherwise it was just another enemy to slay), but he was not inclined to tell Smoke that. Nor was he particularly inclined to humor her and what he perceived to be an overblown ego when she assumed he had questions for her – or a desire to listen to her stories. Again, he fought the darkness down, the cold rush of power through his veins. No. He was silent for a moment longer; he was always curious about things, but the way this had been presented made him want to snarl that she could not teach him anything.

"Why don't you just tell me?" he asked conversationally with an arched 'brow.

It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

There was a difference between the Mauja beneath the skin, and the Mauja the world saw. The beast caged within seethed and writhed, snarled and snapped, but the flesh trapping it was smooth and calm, his eyes the stillness and cold of a winter's day just before dawn. Dimly he was aware that it had not always been like this. His darkness hadn't had such a temper in the past, content to lay dormant at the bottom of his soul until he needed it. When had it happened, his patience ground down to nothing? From where had this bitterness come? He had once walked as if he were a god owning the earth, and now he was simply a shadow drifting from one place to another, darkness and anger rolling out with every breath. How could he have fallen so fast? And so low? Glory dimmed like a memory dusted over, his brilliance in the sun the only thing left; his own light had gone out. He was as lost as everyone else, while clinging to the remnant of an old, powerful life.

He wasn't exactly sure what sparked the flood of information from her – it wasn't like he had accused her of stealing his home and setting the ever-burning fires in the poor trees, or as if he'd even given away the frustration seeping through his veins. In his already irritated state, it sounded quite much like a tale of woe-is-me, but he forced himself aside to listen. It sounded very much like Smoke had borne some god-spawn, just like d'Artagnan had sired one. One of Mauja's 'brows twitched, as if torn between amusement and vague surprise, but then Smoke was stepping away, giving him a choice: follow and learn, or leave and wonder. While the absolutely easiest thing to do was to just let her walk away, he was uncomfortably aware that it was somewhat out of his character to do so. And besides, who knew when he would be given the same opportunity to learn of the past so many seemed to share?

Biting down his irritation Mauja followed her, knees pulling his hooves free of snow as he easily settled in slightly to the side and behind of her. "I didn't accuse you of anything," he pointed out in a thoughtful voice, keeping his judgment and his emotions under lock and key. He figured he could view it as practice, reigning in the monster and doing something constructive for once. Still, it didn't cool any of the strange fires burning inside him, only kept him from exploding. Uncomfortable, but necessary, if he wanted to climb back up the mountain and sit on the top again. Once, it felt like he'd had Helovia always looking over its shoulder, always holding its breath, waiting, knowing that Mauja and his kin were out there, somewhere.. but what was he now? Nothing. His presence was no longer as commanding, the fear had dulled to what- contempt? He resisted the urge to grind his jaws together. If he wanted to seize this world by the throat again and press it against the wall, he had to start doing something, instead of simply waiting for it to happen.

"So you bore one of Mesec's half-siblings," he continued in a quiet musing, trying to cling to reality and not drown in the stream of his thoughts.