leave me at the altar, knowing all the things you just escaped
He is perhaps most troubled by the stallion’s trouble. How perturbed he is there in the half-dark of the forest, the sunlight pale in comparison to the light his galaxies throw into the space between them. He does not shrink, though there might be some impulse in him to do so. He is emboldened, maybe, by the knowledge that he can make himself nothing at all should the stallion decide to go after him with teeth or hooves.
Still, he does not know what he has done to deserve his wrath. So oblivious, in fact, that he wouldn’t even know how to ask.
He could slink off into the dark, he knows, but it would do him little good if the stallion decided to trail him, demanding answers that Isakov does not have. Or, rather, does not know that he has. He would not be hard to track, he knows, not with the way the stars on his hide demand to be seen in the dark.
He draws in a breath, prepared to answer the stallion’s question before he is cut short. This is his first glimmer of irritation. Such a foreign feeling for a creature built around love. (Not from love, no, but around it).
He tilts his head and wars against his impulse to allow himself to be a child. To yelp back that the stallion must have gone mad with age. Instead, he peers up at the older stallion with those pale gold eyes and releases the breath he had not realized he’d been holding.
“I am of the stars,” he answers, his tone remarkably even given the thunderstorm brewing in his chest, “and I told you already that I never claimed to be anyone else. I’m afraid your anger is misdirected.”
@[Tarian]