Meadow

He can tell that she hears him, or that she thinks she has, and so he remains quietly near to her, admiring her as she admired the world beyond them. The morning is crisp, but not cold, and he finds himself grateful to his wrongdoers instead of saddened. He would still be aiding a mad king, still be fighting for conquerings-sake instead of for loyalty and love. He would be a criminal, despite not being criminal in the eyes of the Old World’s laws. Criminal for taking land from it’s rightful owners, individuals out of their beloved’s embrace, children from their parents.

This woman was a greater redeemer than he could ever let her know. She must never know that each fight he had incurred on their behalf had stripped away a swath of tar from his eternal soul. It was a slow baptism, being able to serve her and her son. It was a slow one, but steady. Every day waking to her lovely face, her stern but kind self so brilliant in his mind as to blind the sun. "Once I would have turned you away," she says, and he smiles sheepishly, replying, "You did, in fact."

He laughs a little, remembering the fierce mother who could have so easily given him what-for. "But I think we are beyond that now." There is a visible tension that had risen with her first statement that falls when she says that at last. Even with her sigh, which he takes to mean that he may yet be a burden on her mind, he is still without regret for remaining beside her. He is about to clear his throat, when suddenly she looks full on into his eyes and he straightens as tightly and well-formed as if she had bid him Atten-hut.

"I think you’ve done more for me the past year than you know, Errant. When you first found me, I was bitter and frightened: a mare that had been betrayed and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But over time, you’ve reminded me what it is to enjoy another’s company. And you’ve done so without asking anything of me in return. So, I suppose I am saying… thank you."

He looks concerned, listening to her thank him, his ears split again atop his head. She oughtn’t be thanking him at all, he thinks. "And you gave me a thread of hope that I was not all that my homeland left of me. You made my punishment, my exile-name, into a true-name." His face softens, but it is clear he does not dwell on that long enough to fool himself. She had done what she could to offer gratitude without encumbering the act with fanciful feelings. He does her as much of the same courtesy that he can manage.

She reaches out, and he almost returns the gesture, left behind when she pulls herself back in and reorients to avoid the touch. He does not chuff, he does not groan for the clench in his chest. He accepts her turn of mind and instead grasps hold of the memory that, for once, she had reached for him. She had reached for him and not in haste to chide or teach or command. It had been for something softer. It would sustain him for quite some time, that little act of emotional behavior.

"I have to ask, though… would your time not be better spent elsewhere? There are so many islands to see, and a herd could make great use of you, with your skills as a guard. Why stay here, in the company of a hermit and her wayward son? I hope you… don’t stay merely for our sakes. You deserve much more, Errant."

He sighs, but it is the sigh of a man who is trying to force the wheels of understanding to work. A sigh of the Thinking-Man as he rests his chin on his fist and ponders a great weighty thing. "I have seen what fealty can bring out in a man when it is paid to one unworthy of it. I have seen what it made me do before I was given the blessing of finding your said hermit and her wayward son." He looks down at the earth, curling crest and ears turning back at the ill thoughts. "A herd might make use of me, but I do not know that I would ever l--" course correction, "I do not know that I could ever give of myself to any land or herd again."

His shoulder flickers, the brushing of his mane over the wound bringing the tingle into stinging recognition. He stomps the foot, ridding himself of as much of the disruptive sensation as he could manage. "I stay for the hermit who saved me. The wayward son who keeps me on my toes. And I stay because I would not be parted from them short of their wishing to be parted from me." He looks at her now, eyes stern, serious, solemn. "Ylva, if you commanded me to leave you, I would do it because I have defied you in that already once before… but I would be poorer for your absence, not greater. A shell. I would have lost a cause that I truly believed in, felt no hardship in, and wanted nothing more than." The solemness turns to weakness, to vulnerable openness as he had not previously given. Openness and glibness but never vulnerability.

"Have I burdened you that you would have me leave, now?"