He felt very much like he lived here these days. It had been a long time since he'd frequented the Threshold, because whenever he'd found the time to go there, there had been no one there to take home. The scents of d'Artagnan and Descaro were thick among the trees, and he'd left it to them, and the others who took trips there to keep it under control – they had more luck than he anyway. And then.. and then so much had happened, landing him in southern Helovia, and it had taken him a while to figure out what to do with his time. So, when he wasn't killing equines by accident, he'd begun to lurk in the forest, suffering through icy showers and peaceful snowfalls, and run-ins with some he'd rather not meet in this state. Like, Valentine. But, whatever. It probably hadn't done him any harm, and he hoped it wouldn't, either.

Irma was seldom near him as they moved among the trees; she stuck to the leafless crowns, either flying to report what she saw, or perching on a branch somewhere, her cold eyes following every movement. She was keen-sensed, and the mate of his soul, but she was not particularly easy to hide, or forget, and he was unsure of how heavily snowy owls were associated with the Frostheart. And, depending on who he found among the trees, he may or may not want to be associated with himself.

In short, his life was a mess tangling from a thin thread, and he preferred not to think about it, because it just tied his brain into a knot and made him more paranoid than usual.

Then one cold dawn, the snow gray in the transition from starlight to sunlight and the sky rosy with the first hint of sun, he found himself in a situation that seemed a lot more relaxing than the rest of his life. The first thing his blue eyes snapped to was a very familiar shape, albeit one he hadn't seen in gods knows how long. Beautiful and regal of build, draped in the finest of brown and crowned with a slender horn, Lena was, as usual, followed by the tumbling shape of her blue-white fox. And the shock of seeing her – someone safe, someone he could close his eyes in the presence of.. he almost felt like running to her, burrowing his head against her flank and crying, but kept from it. He had no time for that, for by a stream stood a steaming stranger, dark-colored and positively drenched in sweat.

Mauja's instinctual reaction was, fuck.

"Lena!" he cried out, picking up his frosted hooves and loping easily through the trees and snow, dodging trunks and roots until he stood by her side – there was no mistaking the relief and joy in his pale blue eyes as he gazed upon her, extending his black muzzle to try and brush it against her shoulder.. somehow convey silent apology for his absence in the Basin, but at the same time, he couldn't explain. She wouldn't understand, would she? Soft, sweet Lena, would she condemn him for his lies and his deceit, the violence seeping under his skin and the dark, brooding storm clouds that were his plans? She had fought to defend her home, but he could not see her condoning conquest.. needless violence, she would perhaps call it, and he'd hate to disappoint her again. He didn't want to see that smile fade from her lips, or the spark in her eyes dim. Never again.

And so he said nothing, nothing of where he had been or why he would not come home yet, merely let his gaze stray onto the stranger – losing some of its soft touch, hardening slightly as he scoured the sweaty frame for weakness. A horn crowned his head, crystal and sapphire, red eyes dulled by the weak light; Mauja's head dipped down a fraction in greeting, but he did not stray from Lena's side. "We should get you out of the cold," he said bluntly, raising his gaze from the trembling legs to the stranger's face again; there was nothing cruel or condemning in Mauja's voice or eyes, no blame placed upon the one who had run himself ragged, only a suppressed sense of urgency and concern.

He did not want to see a unicorn fall before the onslaught of winter.