i've been called worse by better.
The condolences that came from his mouth were soft and quiet, still steady but with notes of what Santana thought was pity. Dark ears twist in the dark, brushing against poll and mane. She was conflicted. In the near-constant company she had had with her sire, the smokey black mare had been taught that pity was essentially an insult. To be pitied was to be looked down on, and he wouldn't have that. To be pitied you have to open up. And here she was trying to go against the lessons she'd learned. Santana wondered in that moment if he would have been disappointed in her now, given the circumstances. Her typically apathetic countenance softened into sadness.
"Would telling me about him help," he'd gently prodded. Her brow furrowed a few degrees in thought, tail flicking outward once to dissipate her indecision. What would there really be to say about Taurean? He'd been like a lot of stallions back home, she'd learned. They all wanted notoriety and lazed about, simply gathering mares and reproducing like crazy while feuding and getting nothing done. But Taurean, unlike a lot of them, was willing to kill if someone got in his way or defied him. Santana really thought he had killed someone, at least once. Not that it was something he talked about with her at length, but.. the way he talked about it had made her balk inside. Where had that anger and sadism come from?
The stallion at her side speaks and launches Santana into the present. Taurean was dead. Santana was not. She was alive and a world away from whatever it was that had taken root in her father. A soft exhale flutters her dark nostrils. Would telling someone about her father help? She really didn't know. The mare wavered in the stillness. What would it change? "He was a paranoid, sadistic son of a bitch." The words are low in volume, but they are razor-sharp and critical as the mare continues. "I can't think of anyone outside of my siblings who wouldn't celebrate his death." The line of her mouth tightens, and she looks toward the stallion now. The smokey black mare shifts her weight, suddenly wanting to move, escape, whatever the urge was that was balled up in her stomach. Her voice had lost its edge by the time the next sentence leaves her lips:
"So, what does it matter that I miss him?"
-santana