i am the mace, the map, the fall and the high
He has never believed in fate or destiny. Even as a youth, when all the world had seemed to scream it’s demands, he hadn’t believed there was one set path for them all. Then he had grown older and the future had flooded the back of his skull with all the possibilities to come. Still he does not believe in destiny. With the endless futures dancing at the back of his sockets, how could he possibly?
There are many who would disagree. After all, had he not begun to grow into a grotesque mirror of his very own grandmother? (Not truly, not in the ways that mattered. He knows it is only that he had finally come to recognize a truth she had known for a very long time, but the world would not see it that way. But he knows beyond any shadow of doubt that fate had nothing to do with it. No, that was merely the vagaries of equine-nature.)
Wry amusement suffuses his features as she admonishes him, declaring she would make her own decisions. He has no doubt she would be just contrary enough to attempt to wrap the flowers into her mane, if only to prove him wrong. But he also has little doubt she would find it exceedingly unpleasant. So he says nothing. As wild and reckless as he is, he does not truly wish to see her hurt. Even the thought of it stirs something feral in the pit of his belly.
Then she distracts him with her question. He peers at her quizzically, not surprised at her question, but also not certain how to answer. Reave has never once considered flowers, much less which might be his favorite. As he pulls his gaze from her, scanning their surroundings, he frowns, genuinely considering her question. After a moment, a faintly impish smile begins to tug at his lips once more. When he glances back at her, he is already pulling a vision around her.
A scattering of thistles, near shoulder height with purple buds opening to the sun above. No one ever seemed to care too much for them, their thorns a greater deterrent than the simple beauty of their flowers is a draw. If one must contend with thorns, it seems everyone prefers roses. But they are too delicate and temperamental for Reave’s taste. “Should we find some to twine in your mane?” he asks, eyes gleaming with a teasing light.
As the trees begin to thin, Reave knows they are close. Elliana must sense it too. He says nothing more in response to her assertion she would not be a stranger. Her determination settles something in him, and he does not feel the need to press it. But when she asks if they are close, he smiles. “Very,” is his simple response as she closes her eyes and leans lightly against him. The bones protruding from his shoulder prevent her from pressing skin to skin, but he can feel the heat of her.
They walk like that until the moorlands open before them. The tough, shrubby grasses dotted by heather and thistle sweep before them before falling away into cliffs in the distance. The garden he had promised her is nestled on one of those distant cliffs, but he halts. Pressing his mouth to her cheek, he whispers, “You can open your eyes now.”
reave
@Elliana