No guts, No glory
Gods, he thought to himself as her sweet voice filled the air,
I'm done for. She could have asked him to roll belly up with that voice and he would have done so without hesitation; could have told him to walk off a cliff and he would have taken the time to do so backwards so that he could watch her face as he fell. She stepped forward and all of the sound in the rest of the world faded, replaced by the sound of rushing blood in his eardrums which was only broken by her soft crooning.
You can call me Rhia, she said and his grin - already wide - broadened further as he dragged in a ragged breath laced with wanting and admiration and eagerness. She was so pretty it hurt to look at her, and yet he couldn't bring himself to look away, especially when those brilliant eyes were focused on
him.
So Theseus, she began and his eyes widened.
"Theo," he blurted, huffing a soft, nervous chuckle.
"Call me Theo, please." It was silly of him not to have offered it earlier, but his mind had been on other things - like the way the very tips of her ears curved in, just so, and the way a strand of forelock was caught on it, wafting in the breeze, trailing down the slender cup as if taunting him. But he managed - somehow - to hold onto what she was saying too, and he was eager to oblige her request.
"A native," he says, glancing at her to see if this was a good or bad thing in her eyes.
"I was born here - on the Crossing - but I grew up on Salem." Getting into his messy and overly complicated family history felt like a subject he very much wanted to steer away from. There was no amount of careful wording that would soften the fact that both of the mom-like figures in his life had left him, or rather, his father.
"But I've just claimed a spot on the islands to the East for us. They're called the Ruins but they're beautiful, I promise." Theo didn't particularly enjoy the name, but his father had blathered on about how they were the remnants of an island that had existed even before his time. The thought of there being a whole island that had sunk had fascinated the colt as a boy, but those stories seemed very far away and very tame right now.
"Not as pretty as you, of course," he murmured, flushing.
His tail, slightly copper tinged compared to his body, flicked against his haunches.
"I'd like for you to see if, if you're willing? And if you don't like it, we can find somewhere else," he promises, already far more attached to the idea of
her than to the rocky spit of land he called his own. The flush across his skin - thankfully hidden everywhere except for his muzzle - deepens and he hastens to ask a question back, not wanting to leave her hanging awkwardly or get the impression he only cared for himself.
"But wait, I'm sorry. Tell me of yourself first, please. What sort of life are you seeking, Rhia?"
He asked, despite a deep, unyielding hope that her desires aligned with his own.
no legend, no story