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.