resurrect the saint within the wretch
She continues towards him and it does nothing to lessen the tension along his spine or in the rigid way his jaw sets together. But he does not move - perhaps he is frozen there, ready and waiting to see what would unfold before him, incapable of turning away, much like when one of his visions is carrying out before him. The stallion’s white lips twitch habitually, his dark gaze never wandering from the brilliance of her own, his spiraling opaled horns matching her antlers as she strides ever closer.
She asks him a question in the middle of her monologue but she does not receive an actual answer - his ears merely flick back slightly, as if listening to something behind him, and abruptly tips his chin down. He’s listening intently, somehow finding a tale of the past more anxiety inducing than his ability to see into the future. He cannot stop listening and though her confession - the thing that made her a loner - is concerning and what some would call evil, the stallion’s face remains the same; taut, expressionless, stoic.
Warden has seen death. It has painted his vision since he was born. So when she speaks of it, there is no typical reaction or attempt to withdraw. If anything, he is more at ease than he had been moments before - this he was familiar with. This, he could understand.
His dark eyes watch as her face contorts into a pensive frown before glancing back up at him, a realization on her lips. Is it that bad, he thinks mildly to himself, when he merely sits back and allows the people around him to die? Perhaps he would have killed himself too, like she had, without a thought.
Then, with a smile that erases all of what she had said prior, she reminds him that it is his turn.
The bay overo does not begin with an introduction. He jumps right into the present, his gaze interlocking with hers in a way that is almost a warning. “I see their final moments before they have become moments. I’m there in their last breaths and they don’t even know it. I see it all.” He pauses as if to ensure she is listening though there is no doubt that she isn’t. “I may have even seen yours.”
There is a tilt of his head, thoughtful, methodical.
“And I do nothing about it.”
Not that he could, he muses to himself. But Warden enjoyed reminding himself that he allows them to die; a punishment that he pours onto himself each and every day. Perhaps a storm is not what brought them to cross paths - maybe it is the violence that follows them, that is ingrained in their minds and hearts, that draws one to the other.
Warden snorts softly as if to alleviate the darkness of their conversation, finding the tiniest semblance of a smile twitching onto his lips. It felt good to be honest.
@[Aislyn]
