They had integrated well enough - the pair of them well-versed in politicking and pleasing a wide variety of Peoples, but there had never been any doubt in the heart of Kheldar. It was spoken of in whispers so often in the land where they had come from that the truth of it had become as irrefutable and grounding as the very stone that their Kingdoms were built on; So long as they had one another - The Prince that was not a single individual but two bodies sharing a soul - they each had all they needed.
Kheldar stirs first this time, and for several long moments, he does nothing except lean a little into the familiar frame of Rosto tucked close beside him on the windward side. (It was a game of sorts, that went unspoken, each of them vying for the privilege of standing as a breaker and a shield for the other while they rested, and it served to stir no small amount of ire in Kheldar that he would never be able to shelter Rosto as well as Rosto sheltered him. Curse my lineage, and damn my breeding, he’d ranted goodnaturedly the once. Oh, what I’d give to be a little more roguish like you.)
All is quiet, save for the rustle of wind through the leaves, the hum of insects drifting from all sides, and a muffled splash of something moving through one of the marshier stretches of the Lagoon. Kheldar did not pull away quickly, he was confident that they remained undisturbed in this little grove they’d claimed for themselves. If one of their newfound brethren were to stumble across them, well, the nights were cold, and it was the way of battle-brothers, who’d survived trial and terror, to look out for one another’s wellbeing.
But, moments later, Kheldar did stir, subtly taking stock of their surroundings with a causal, calculated grace, to confirm that they were indeed alone. (Perhaps it was unnecessary, so far from their Kingdom, with no spies watching, but Kheldar was nothing if not careful, yes, even here. Yes, even now.) With a murmur, not even that, but some soft sound catching in his throat, that despite being wordless and without proper form did not mean nothing - no, it meant more, perhaps, than any single word that he could have uttered - he curled away from Rosto, shivering as the cool night air slipped in between them, and stretched, reaching for his companion, to brush his lips with excruciating tenderness along the line of the ivory-faced stallion’s jaw, where silken strands of moon-white hair hung like a gossamer veil.
"Time is short for dreaming, Thief," the black stallion murmured, shifting his weight and paying heed to his companion’s every movement. "Darkness has fallen over us like a blanket." He skimmed his velvet, inky muzzle over the longer strands of Rosto’s mane, where they shift like water over stone with the most subtle of movements. "Let us roam together, quiet and careful, as we have done countless times in days gone by," the words are soft, uttered low in Rosto’s ear, and they are warmed by one another’s breath.
Beneath the tangled forelock that rivaled the heavens for depth of darkness, hiding it’s own extraordinary luminary, Kheldar’s eyes gleamed. "While the night is still good for hunting."
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