It takes everything in him to not shy away from the intimacy of her touch, or from the deluge of emotions that accompany such simple affection. As a healer, Gecersiz was never the one being touched, apart from the sort of inadvertent and accidental grazes of his patients as he tended them. Even as a boy, touch had not been common between either of his parents. Sidika was too reserved, Maslakhat too distant. They loved him, but they had not touched him.

Ashteroth's touch felt like fire on his skin, and he both wanted it and feared it.

The command she'd given him to speak of his life was slow to register, especially as it came followed by her touch; but eventually, he gathered his thoughts enough to speak. "There isn't much to tell," he said, his voice quiet in an effort to hide how much it was shaking with his nerves. Walking through his memories afforded him a small respite of familiarity, however, and his voice grew stronger as he spoke. "I was born on Salem, but I lost my parents young." Flashes of that terrible day, of the fighting and the fear and the yawning void that had opened in his life in the wake of it, darted through his mind and he grew quiet for a beat.

Only after a moment did he speak again, his voice stronger, but more guarded, as if her touch had momentarily torn his armor asunder until he'd figured out how to put it back on. "I traveled then. Tried to be a healer like my mom but…" he trailed off, not sure how to phrase his thoughts. The truth was that most herds felt about as kindly about random, roving stallions as the Peak did. The last thing any testosterone-driven male seemed to want was for some scrawny stallion to show up and possibly touch their mares, no matter how chaste and impersonal his attentions were. "It's not the same for me as it was for her, I think. Or I'm just bad at it."

The self-deprecation was both an attempt at humor, and an attempt to help deflect his nerves. "What of you…. Ashteroth? Were you born here?"