He had waited patiently until Rasta had stopped kicking the tree and sank down to the ground before he'd let the light hearted joke fall from his lips. Had it been someone else that had done what she had done he would not be so calm, but he felt like after spending a couple of days with the mare he was beginning to understand her. Kind of. He didn't think he'd ever understand the sudden mood swings, but that was with every mare. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know how her mind worked, what she thought about when her eyes lit up like she was happy, what she was thinking about or remembering when her eyes darkened and her face looked drawn, tired, and sad. In two season he would be able to answer the questions that plagued him the most and he would get answers that he wouldn't have to wrack his brain to try and figure out.

Pop!

Alleo's attention was immediately on Rasta, he took note of the way she winced and he quickly let his gaze sweep over her petite frame to search for any visible injury that would pop so loudly and make her wince. Did he need to call Lakota again? So soon? His sister would think that he had nothing better to do than call her to fix one particular mare, and she'd probably begin to get the wrong idea about it.

A tug on his mane brought the stallion back to his senses and he hesitated a moment before allowing his head to be lowered toward Rasta, though in the back of his mind he was wondering what she was going to do. Rear up and try to smash his head in? No, it seemed as if the mood swing was over for the time being. Instead she rested her head over his poll before moving to his side and lipping at his chest. He didn't know what the gesture meant, at least he didn't know exactly, but he had a feeling and so he sighed and lipped at her mane. "Its okay, I'm fine."

His head raised only to be tugged back down once more for a game of charades that left him completely at a loss as to what she was trying to say. Something about his head? But then she touched the scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and he reeled back from the touch, eyes wide, snorting, and ears laying back against his skull. It was bad enough when anyone stared at it, but no one touched it. Instantly he was reminded of the night that he had gotten it. The night his father had actually tried to kill him for daring to protect Lakota from torture. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously as if that alone would banish such a horrible memory. Had she known what it would do to him? What memories would be forced to the forefront of his mind?

His eyes opened again and he stared at Rasta, a mixture of confusion, regret, bitterness, hurt, and anger on his face, all of which was not directed at her but at the memory related to the scar. It all melted away as his stupefied brain began to work out the finer details and the tensity that had locked his muscles began to melt away. "Sorry." He murmured. "Bad memory."


"."