His deep and dark oceanic eyes - steely and cobalt blue, unlike the bright cerulean that runs in his family (in his father’s blood) - continue to simply watch her, the cold night air tightly wrapping around his mahogany and ivory skin, atrophying his muscles with numbness. His own skin tingles at the sight of her own unease, unable to shake the feeling of doom that seems to shroud the small area that they are in despite his not knowing the reason why.
The darkness always follows.
That inner thought - wistful yet foreboding - is enough to cause the yearling to step towards her. He knows that his edging closer to her might cause the strange champagne woman to become more anxious, but he can feel his heart pulsing rapidly in his chest and his own fear now drives him forward, shuddering against the icy breath of winter’s dying strength. Still just a boy, lost and searching. Warden’s body itself seems to creak in protest as the movement warms muscles that had grown stagnant and tense within the cold, stopping after what seems like a long trek towards her, but realizing he had only taken a few hesitant, frozen steps.
The boy snorts softly, his breath a cloud of warm vapor against the stark whiteness of his bald face. His mane and tail are still growing - short and stubbornly - but his forelock now falls flat against the sharpness of the bridge of his nose, attempting to give him a more mature appearance despite the wideness of his navy gaze.
I don’t know.
He doesn’t know what to say to that; however, there is a weariness in his eyes that is easily readable - one that is understanding. He doesn’t know, either.
Where is your mother? It’s too cold.
Warden’s alabaster ears flicker into the cropiness of his dark mane and the deep auburn of his neck, pressing his ivory lips together into a thin line as if he had just been scolded, embarrassment and disappointment riddling his features. I’m old enough to be on my own, he wants to say, but the words of defiance do not come. It doesn’t matter.
His brow furrows, screwing up his youthful face as he attempts to push the thoughts of his mother from his mind, yet forced to think about her (because how could he not).
“She’s - she’s busy.” Busy brushing sweat from his father’s brow caused by constant fevers, busy allowing the darkness of rust to stain the gold and white of her body, busy caring for a dying man. Quickly, he speaks of something else (anything else). “Do you want to be alone?” He asks her this genuinely, his voice softening with a slight concern he isn’t sure how came to be nestled there in his throat.
Maybe she did, but so did he, and then they could be alone together.
-- warden
@[Glassheart]
