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10-12-2015, 11:11 PM
Tembovu
His ear flicked toward the Kiara as she growls. They must be conversing silently with each other. Thoughts of connected souls drift through his darkening mind. The connection between companion and equine must be remarkably deep— if Mauja’s anguish after the wolf god battle was anything to go by. He almost envied it. But his thoughts were not coherent enough to truly form that emotion.
“They still live.” At this phrase, the anguished hope that had flared in him shatters into soul-crushing pieces. He had not found a kinsman in his loss of family. But still, he listens to the silver stallion silently. He can hear the pain in the other’s voice— it is obvious, thick, and palpable.
And he wants to feel empathy with this clearly devastated man. He wants to share how broken he is over the hatred of his son and distance of his daughter. He feels a vague twinge of responsiveness to the leaving of his mate— he knows how it feels to never see one you love again.
But they were all alive.
A deep, heartfelt sigh escapes the giant stud as he turns his eyes from the horizon. He glances at Ciceron— surprised at the composure on the quicksilver’s face. Tembovu did not think that he could speak of his own dead family and remain so collected. Though he was interested in such self-control, he did not linger his gaze on the other’s face to wait for it to waver. Others had done that to him when they had brought up the attack on the civilian camp, the attack that had killed them. It was a cruel thing to do; to stare in wait of the slippage of composure. But it was also like watching a wreck— it was just so hard to look away.
But, in that, Tembovu felt true empathy. So he did look away. He respected that much in the dappled unicorn. His words, when they finally came, were low and quiet, “I am not unfeeling towards your loss, Ciceron,” he pauses, gathering his words in the mess that is his spiraling brain, “But your family is, as you said, very much alive.” He pauses again, voice caught on unknown words that do not wish to come.
“Were my family alive, I would take them any way I could. Be it hated, distant,” he rivets his unseeing, bright gaze on Kiara, “And I think Mara would have to fight me horn and hoof to leave.” He blinks once, thinking aloud now, “Though, perhaps I only say that because I have lost her, and my son, to death.” Silence rings in his ears as he continues to stare at the tigress. Hoping that he can burn her alabaster fur into his retinas instead of the horror movie that begins to play on repeat behind his lids.
“They still live.” At this phrase, the anguished hope that had flared in him shatters into soul-crushing pieces. He had not found a kinsman in his loss of family. But still, he listens to the silver stallion silently. He can hear the pain in the other’s voice— it is obvious, thick, and palpable.
And he wants to feel empathy with this clearly devastated man. He wants to share how broken he is over the hatred of his son and distance of his daughter. He feels a vague twinge of responsiveness to the leaving of his mate— he knows how it feels to never see one you love again.
But they were all alive.
A deep, heartfelt sigh escapes the giant stud as he turns his eyes from the horizon. He glances at Ciceron— surprised at the composure on the quicksilver’s face. Tembovu did not think that he could speak of his own dead family and remain so collected. Though he was interested in such self-control, he did not linger his gaze on the other’s face to wait for it to waver. Others had done that to him when they had brought up the attack on the civilian camp, the attack that had killed them. It was a cruel thing to do; to stare in wait of the slippage of composure. But it was also like watching a wreck— it was just so hard to look away.
But, in that, Tembovu felt true empathy. So he did look away. He respected that much in the dappled unicorn. His words, when they finally came, were low and quiet, “I am not unfeeling towards your loss, Ciceron,” he pauses, gathering his words in the mess that is his spiraling brain, “But your family is, as you said, very much alive.” He pauses again, voice caught on unknown words that do not wish to come.
“Were my family alive, I would take them any way I could. Be it hated, distant,” he rivets his unseeing, bright gaze on Kiara, “And I think Mara would have to fight me horn and hoof to leave.” He blinks once, thinking aloud now, “Though, perhaps I only say that because I have lost her, and my son, to death.” Silence rings in his ears as he continues to stare at the tigress. Hoping that he can burn her alabaster fur into his retinas instead of the horror movie that begins to play on repeat behind his lids.
@Ciceron
Please tag Tembovu.
