No guts, No glory
Family was a complicated subject for the young stallion. Had he been raised in a more traditional home, he might have been less willing to accompany his father on his harebrained journey south. But the truth was that Rehoboam didn't have anyone else, and Theseus feared that if he had allowed his sire to return alone, that he might not have continued breathing. And while there was a certain sort of well-meant callousness to the painted man, he wasn't yet hard-hearted enough to wish the death of his father.
Thankfully, she gives him plenty of reason to be distracted from his own troubles. A wiser, more experienced stallion might have read the emotions dancing across her face and caught the manipulation for what it was, but Theseus was neither wise, nor experienced. The one mare he'd ever claimed (and fallen head over heels for) had been a ghost during her time in the Ruins, and he was half-convinced now that he'd imagined Rhiannon.
Witche fluttered her lashes and he smiled, the grin easy and natural. Her invitation had his eyes glittering and heart hammering with excitement. As she mentioned a condition, however, his brows raised playfully and he tilted his head in anticipation before freezing momentarily as she laid it out. His ears ticked back briefly in thought and he blew out a slow breath.
The thought of being claimed rankled him. He was the herd leader. He did the claiming. And the protecting. And the flirting.
His gaze flicked back at her, reading the look in her eyes as challenging. Was he man enough to take a woman leader? Hadn't his dad lived with Arsinoe? And Nyimara (although that was a whole other can of worms)? And then there was the matter of his mom, who had been a whole queen in her own right, once upon a time. There was no doubt in his mind that women
could lead.
Still, his pride prickled at the thought of being under anyone.
And then he thought about how it might not be so bad, if it was her face he was looking up at.
Theseus might have been much bigger than a fly, but he was about as good at sensing traps as one was, and so with only that moment of hesitation, he stuck his big, dumb hoof right on in.
"Only if you promise to tuck me in every night," he answered with a grin and a wink, leaning another fraction of an inch in. In for a penny, in for a pound.
"Think you can manage that, Witche?" He teased the length of her name, drawing it out like a caress as he watched her.
no legend, no story