það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir What had the child become, tossed into the darkness and disgrace of his bloodlines? Mauja's world grew still, his eyes somehow more focused, yet he did not quite stare. There was still something soft about his gaze, and in his chest, he felt his heart slowly melt and leak blood again. What had Mauja done to him, through that simple neglect? Here he stood, a blend, a contradiction, a young stallion promising to grow into something just as elegant and deadly as the Moon, with all her star-spun beauty – yet here he stood, leggy and skinny still, somewhat disproportionate, his long black locks a youthful tangle around his refined head. And for all the youth and budding grace, he did not seem entirely at ease, and not just because he was a colt. It was almost as if Mauja's open, non-provoking question had the opposite effect. He made no move to speak, did not even narrow his eyes, simply remained silent and steadfast even as Mesec bristled for a moment.

It was true, that he had spoken the question aloud mostly for his own benefit, to explain that it was not a single, simple reason for why he sighed, but as the colt's tight, controlled voice slipped into the air, he realized that it had also been an honest question. As if simply letting go of something, exhaling, he let his own worries drop and flicked his black-rimmed ears forward, listening to every word tumbling out of Mesec's mouth, trying to understand every nuance of his voice.

Mauja didn't know him well enough to read all the subtle signs.

"I am the child of a God; yet I am more lowly than a slave." Even though Mesec looked aside, Mauja refused to; this was, after all, his failure laid bare, and he would not flinch from it. How dense had he been, if he'd thought Mesec could survive, unharmed and confident in himself, in the Basin? Why hadn't he done anything to either take him somewhere safer, or make sure the herd steered clear of him? Had he thought his goddess' blood would keep him safe, or that d'Artagnan somehow would? Flicking back through the memories, he couldn't even find a reason, a justification, no real thought given to it at all – it had just turned out that way, and he was paying for it now. The bitterness almost made him smile, but he kept it within, feeling as if they were out on thin ice. He didn't want to hurt Mesec more than he already had.

Mesec fell silent, and just as Mauja was about to speak, having collected his thoughts and memories of when d'Artagnan had mentioned his first son, he spoke up again. For a moment, the pale stallion regarded him in silence, not giving away that he'd even heard him; then, he flicked his tail and turned his eyes to the rosy horizon. Did he wear his heart on his sleeve these days? Everyone knew he was troubled, and it wasn't a good thing. I really should lock myself up, even when I think no one is watching. And what was he going to say? Oh, you know, I just killed someone by accident and then watched the Sun God throw someone I care about into a fire, and I don't know if she's still alive. Perhaps not the best thing to say.. but at the same time, how could he not be honest? Quietly he let his gaze slip back to Mesec, his mind replaying the curiosity in his voice – somehow, it felt like a chance to make amends, but to admit to murder?

No way. Someone would piece it together, and the Edge would know, and he couldn't bring that down on his herd. It was on his head, alone.

"Everyone says that lately," he admitted quietly, surprised at the slight tint of bitterness seeping through. I really should get a grip on myself. Stop moping. "I find myself in a position that is both dangerous and hard to maintain." A small ghost of his smile curved his lips, something almost self-mocking in his eyes. He couldn't tell Mesec without risking it all, and gave a slight shrug, swinging his gaze out to the cold, lightening horizon instead. "It'll pass. It'll pass, like everything does," he said quietly to the pale dawn, knowing it to be true, about everything: sooner or later they would all die, and then the wheels of his mind would – finally – stop turning.
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