It had been so long since Hasan had had a real conversation with Baba Yaga that he'd forgotten how young she was. Perhaps it was her solemn manner, or even her height, that made her seem older. There was an almost childlike curiosity to her question, and Hasan felt something beneath the hard shell of his chest soften.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Yaga," Hasan said. "My life has been filled with strong women; I can't imagine it any other way. Sometimes I even think mares were born to lead and stallions to follow."

Hasan left out a gentle breath through his nostrils to show that he was joking, but it was half-hearted. He left the rest unsaid: that he felt unfit to lead, and that he could never be the stallion his mother had groomed him to be. In a way it was a mercy she was dead, if only so she could not see what he had become. No herd, no friends, no working eyes... no family either, other than his gentle giant of a son, and maybe some wild seeds he'd sewn out there somewhere.

Hasan shifted his weight, and for a moment there was only the gentle trill of crickets and the stirring of leaves in the wind around them. Though outwardly he was calm as a still pond, inwardly thoughts and emotions swirled through him like a tumultuous undercurrent. Though he could not see her expression, he pointed his face somewhere off into the grey abyss beside and below her, so that he was not unknowingly staring her down. He felt vaguely self-conscious, like an alien who was going through the motions of normal behavior but had not yet acquired the muscle memory to do so. It turned out social interaction was a tad more difficult when you could not read all the thousands of microexpressions and postures of your companion.

"I'm sorry I've been so distant, Hasan finally added, "and that I was such an ass when you took me in. Losing my sight has not... been easy," He paused to swallow. "I... would like for us to be friends. Is that still possible?"