For all of the talking we have done, the longer we expound on our differing points, the more I realize she will simply not see reason. She, like nearly every other mare I'd ever encountered in my entire life, lived in some fantastical, idealistic world where good and evil were conflicting poles on which everyone was sorted. When in reality, life was far more complicated. One could do "evil" for the sake of "good" as easily as they could be "evil" for not doing anything at all. Everything, everything was a matter of opinion, and she was failing to see that she and her little band were the minority opinion.

As much as I wanted to continue arguing with her, I was tired. I'd been forced from my home, stripped of my title, and dropped into a screaming match in which we were both wasting our breath. It felt pointless to continue pointing out the flaws in her logic but the thoughts crossed my mind - and likely my face - anyway.

She commented on electing an untried stallion as General and I did not disagree, however, the snarky answer that rose to my lips did not get voiced. Of course we had a hard time electing and keeping a General when said position was a guarantee of perpetual battle wounds given the Peak's relentless desire to take while calling it "rescue." Or perhaps it was because the instant we elected one, the Peak often came for them, too. Or perhaps it was because, like in Vane's case, they ended up dead.

It is not until Khar makes a very pointed comment about her being rescued from me that my silence was broken again, this time by a harsh and caustic laugh. "Yes, Khar, you were so mistreated while in my care. Of course you - ex-Prime minister that you are, needed rescuing from big, bad me." The sarcasm drips from every word and I snort derisively again when I am done, my jaw setting as I cast my gaze away from her. She is hot when she is angry, but gods is she good at getting beneath my skin. I don't even know why the accusation stings like it does. I've never pretended to be a good caretaker, and whether she considers me to have been a villain or not shouldn't have mattered.

But it did, and I disliked what that meant for who I was becoming.

She responds to my pointed question about role reversal the way I'd expected her to and I find no energy left for a response beyond a roll of the eyes. Were the roles truly reversed and she were faced with trading away entire families for the sake of "ceasefire" she would not have said yes, and the fact that she was not being honest only underscored to me that I was wasting his breath arguing with her. No amount of logical rebuttal on my part would change her foolish notion of what was "right."

I ruminate on this even as we reach the children, my jaw still set, my posture rigid as I settle before them. The daughter looks at me exactly how I'd expect a Peak-raised girl to look at any stallion: pre-emptively ready to hate me for what I was, no matter what that meant. I could come in bearing rescued orphans or the freedom of all mare prisoners across the isles and she would hate me still. Even so, I watch silently as Khar'pern continues to attempt to shoehorn me into some sort of fatherly, patriarchal role by implying that I had come here in any shape or fashion of my own volition. And while one might assume she'd done so for my benefit, to paint me in a better light for our two children, I doubted it considering how little concern she'd had for my desires thus far.

This was all more of the Peak's game of pretend.

I sigh, but take the opportunity to rest by cocking my hip, and turn to observe the two of them. It occurs to me suddenly that I am at a strange crossroads I never truly expected to encounter in which I must decide if I am more lagoon or more stallion, more father or more stranger. My tail flicks at my hocks as Khar'pern leaves the situation open ended, forcing me to be the one to speak when this interaction had not been of my own desire or devising in any way. It makes me more uncomfortable than I'd like to admit, and far more than the berating and arguing we'd done on the way here, it makes me feel vulnerable and caged.

"Here I am." I start, carefully leashing my voice to keep it neutral. "You must be Solas," I say to the colt who at least does not appear to already hate me. The girl though, who I find my gaze drawn back to, offers me nothing. I attempt to inject some of my normal nonchalance and sass, but it feels almost wooden to my ears. "I'm afraid your mother hasn't told me your name, darling. I'm Khyber, and you are?"

Stallion - Young Adult - 15.2 - Brown Overo