The masculine parts of his mind reveled in the easy grin and happy relief that covers her face at his arrival. Though they have known each other carnally (a memory that he is reminded of every time he sees the steel general), he relaxes easily into their friendship. “They’re little survivors, I’ll give them that.” His ears twitched at that remark, curiosity growing further as his eyes glance down a the fillies. ”You forgot Ker.” His eyes are drawn to the scarred girl and her squawking eaglet, a small grin covering his maw, “Oizys, Enyo, Ker,” his great horn’s tip dipped towards each of them as he spoke their names in his deep voice. Though his grin fades and lips line slightly at he belligerence of her denial of a healer. But Oizys falls silent beneath the warning nudge of Nyx’s leg, and so he does not voice his mild displeasure. The small shadow at the General’s other knee breaths a quiet greeting, but otherwise reminds quiet behind a golden, wide-eyed stare. The King studies her for a moment longer, wondering briefly if her shyness came from her sire, dam, or her wretched beginnings, before returning his attention to Nyx and her story.

He listened to the tale of her travels, moving closer towards her as sorrow and pain dart through her body. He begins to reach out, seeking to place a comforting touch on her muscular shoulder. But the back of his mind whispered: ”Why is a general choking at a battlefield? Why is she woeful at the bodies of war?” Yet these misgivings say in the back of his mind, in the shadows to feed his demons and build their strength for another day. For a day of reckoning.

But today was not that day. Today, his warm breath sought his silver skin, ears tilting backwards as she relayed the mental image of vultures eating the fillies alive. He stiffens for a moment— his family had been burned alive— and so his eyes and muzzle are drawn down, back towards the youthful girls, re-inspecting them for the life that they were spared, unlike his own son. “I am glad you found them, Nyx,” his quiet, sincere rumble broke into her story of vultures fighting. He fell silent again, listening.

His eyes dart back to hers as she reveals that she’s choosing to think of them as her father’s progeny (as her sisters?) To the King, it seems a stretch. But who is he to rob another of their hopes for kin? So he merely nodded, relieved that she produced enough milk for them. But of course she did— she was a woman of strength whose womb knew only strong warriors. Her body was trained, disciplined to obey her needs. And she needs to nurse these foals. Warmth stirred his his chest, accompanied by something ugly; was it regret? Regret that his own seed had not taken root in her? These (selfish) thoughts were roughly shoved aside, to be mulled over for another day. Now was a time for these two, young lives.

”Will you allow them to stay, my King?” His quickly pinned and unpinned, announcing his displeasure at her question. She knew him well enough to know he dearly valued foal’s lives; and she knew him well enough to know she did not need to call him King when asking something of him. Though, he simply said, “You need not ask, Nyx. They are welcome here. And you, as a woman and a mother,” his voice grew strange at the word, “know better than I—“ his words paused for a moment as d’Arcy approached, nodding towards himself and staring coldly at her dam, “—know better than I if you need help in nursing them.”

d’Arcy’s carefully flat words followed on the heels of his own. He raised his brows, looking to the General. He would let the woman talk to her daughter, only intervening if necessary.

Tembovu

the Elephant King