A statue came to life before her eyes.

Like lifting the weight of the earth with the corners of his mouth, the slightest mark of a smile rests on his lips as she speaks.  Her lavender eyes remain steady, yet inside she explores this new facet of his expression.  The whole of his body is unmoved, passive, yet that tiny flicker of emotion softens his face.  Now, where it had been cold, polished lifeless marble, it looked like stone lovingly carved by an artisan.  More and more, the man before her appears like a mortal being instead of a breathing shadow, a ghost. The expression, like the tiny flame lit in her heart by his confession of self-doubt, filled her body with a courage to keep going, to slowly draw herself closer to the Lord of the Mountains.

Another cautious step forward, followed by another, drifting ever closer in the field of flowers and sunlight so opposite his figure.  She halts when she is standing along side him, feeling dwarfed placing her diminutive frame beside his.  Although they stand much closer now, she makes certain not to impose her own presence too much, choosing to keep a healthy distance.  After all, he seemed to be comfortable at a distance from others; she would not impose her own tendencies at his expense. Up close, the riveting blue of his eyes are more apparent, along with the slow waves of emotions dancing so far below their surface - unreadable.

There are many who have need of such qualities.

She resists the urge to laugh at the thought, but instead only another smile graces her features in the sunlight.  He must be filling her with a false sense of confidence, when all she had ever been was a girl - not particularly smart, not particularly strong, not particularly brave.  The thought that others would have need of her kindness or honesty made her want to laugh bitterly, yet something plain in the voice of Deimos makes her reconsider.  Despite their brief interaction, she felt he was not the sort to lie.  Maybe the feeling was another dim hope of a fool.  She could not know for certain.  "Like whom?" she asks, wondering if even the Reaper would be unable to answer her in the quest for purpose.

Zyanya only wished for a direction, a guiding star.  She doubted highly Deimos would become that beacon, but he may give her a place to begin the search.

He appears distracted, however, by the look in his eyes.  While the body language of the dark stallion had been detached this whole time, he slipped farther, farther.  An invisible film, a mist falls between them, and quietly she stands, listening to the steady breathing beside her.  The intensity of his stare as those eyes came into focus on her own surprised her, accompanied by the haphazard nature with which his question was posed.  She nods immediately.  "Yes, my former home kept record of lore through song."

Another brilliant smile flashes as her own eyes cloud with memory, thinking back to the straight posture of her mother's back as she sang the story of Zyanya's own ancestors, being delivered to the land in rays of starlight.  "My mother believes that history can be uncovered in the songs of the world, like hidden traces of events long since past," the small voice is distant as her eyes, until they come back to focus on the dark cast mask before her. She was not sure if it were true, but the thought that objects reverberated with their own songs did not seem so strange, so foreign.
""

We've made a fool out of love, when all we want is to be enough
when all we want is to feel enough