“Yes,” he tells her immediately, black tipped ears flicking towards her. But not always, he adds silently, his dark navy eyes taking in the curve of her neck as she turns warily to look at him, her vertebrae slowly allowing her to painstakingly find his face in the midst of white. The young boy is a bit perplexed at her reaction of him; as if he had been a shadow in the darkness, an oily thing that had crept up behind her - but that expression fades just slightly as the pale honeyed mare realizes he is just a child.
Just a child.
He is one, he knows, and perhaps it is because of this fact that he finds himself solitary and confined. He could do so much more if he was grown; if his muscles were bigger, if his strength was more, if his skills were preened to perfection. He could protect and serve, command presence and not allow fear to trickle into his mind - because a man can do so much more than a boy can. A boy can only hide away in the woods or the meadow from the rich ruby red of his father’s blood and wait for the day his mind reveals to him that the navy-winged stallion is no longer with them.
No longer with him.
Warden swallows painfully, realizing that the bitter cold has swept all moisture from his throat. He wonders what she’s scared of, or if she’s scared of the blood too.
“Are you?” he asks, remaining frozen in place and unable to find the strength to move closer. He is unsure and cautious, curling his neck so that the deep obsidian of his mouth presses against the ivory and auburn of his two-toned chest, his mouth champing absentmindedly.
-- warden
@[glassheart]
