She does not expect the younger woman to recognize her. How could she? They have never before met. Certainly her son looks nothing like her. No, she does not resemble the blue iridescence of Longclaw, or his strength and heft. She is unassuming, of average height, her frame lanky and slender. Attractive enough, with a coat of dusky pewter laced by white, but in no way beautiful. No bright colors to make her stand out above the rainbow of horses that call Beqanna home. And in that one small way more similar to the mare beside her than her brightly hued children.
She too, is often underestimated. She would never dare do such a thing to Ajatar. Indeed, she has seen the destruction the woman can bring. But it is not a thing she particularly wishes to dwell upon in this moment. Especially as she needs all her wits about her.
“You were friends with my son, Longclaw, were you not?” she continues, answering Ajatar’s question with a question of her own. One she already knows the answer to, but the woman before her hardly needs to know that.
For a moment, she wonders if her companion grieves too. Her eyes sharpen as she considers the other mare, her face a mask of marble. It would be so easy to blame her for his death. So easy to call it done here and say good enough. But she knows there is far more here than meets the eye. She would not be so foolish as to only scratch the surface. Too many have made that mistake with her.
Instead, she digs. Seeking. She is not yet certain what she will find, but she will recognize it when she sees it. Of that, she has no doubt.
i see your sins
and i want to set them free
