From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
Would that he could have a bigger, closer family to picture. It had been him and his mother, a woman as slight as a field mouse, as without aggression as a doe and as indomitable as a cliff face. She seems made of nature, and in many ways it is obvious he is made of similar stuff. Similar and different. While considerably stronger in build (“like mountains to hillsides, or eagles to waxwings,” as Vineine would put it) he contains her quietude in no small measure. But that had been all. He has a father, to be sure. And he wouldn't know it, but he looks more like him than his mother, at least at first or distant glance. He has a sister, and aunts and an uncle (an overwhelmingly female affair all-round) if he is to believe his mother.
But his formation had been his mother's own.
And that, to anybody who knew Vineine (which are few) is immediately obvious. Neither entirely good or bad, it has imbued in him a certain confidence and comfort around mares. (Not necessarily lacking for the former around stallions, it is perhaps more the latter that his feminine upbringing has affected.) The sheltered nature of his boyhood has made him surprisingly unprepared for many social situations. But this? Soft words and stars. This is in him, somewhere inseparable from the other components, and so he shifts his weight easily to rest. He resists the urge to make contact, physical and real — to bridge a distance as unfathomable as two utter strangers. And she is a stranger, to be sure. But there is nothing strange besides.
“I surprised you.” He is not apologetic, he can see where he is welcome just as readily as where he is not. He was not raised an oblivious boy. There is curiosity more than anything in his words. But before he can intrude he is interrupted (perhaps for the better). He looks this man over with tempered interest — what is it he is made of?
They are like some vibrant flame, drawing in from distant darkness moths. “Cerva... And you, of course. A great pleasure.” He clears his throat, “Ganymead. Well met. I am Trystane.” Their din is growing, he feels an unfamiliar pressure. “It is a fine night.” He settles into small talk as comfortably as a man shrugging into shackles.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery.
From the daily press, the deepest nest,
the keeper's keep.