He begins to talk, and I listen, my eyes steadily gazing into his. I feel that he is drawing strength from me, and I am almost sure that what he says to be is something he shares with no one. I can't be sure, of course - I am no mind reader - but he seems to need the comfort, and somehow I am granting him this.

"You can call it karma, I believe," he says. "For the first couple years of my life, I was trained to kill by a stallion who did nothing but that. That was his mistake, when you teach an un-loyal student your secrets, you'll end up paying for it. I killed him, Sohalia, but he gave me this as his own payback before he died." His voice has turned bitter, and my unwavering gaze catches the pain that floods across his face. And then his muzzle touches mine, and I am surprised by the soft velvet, the warm breath mingling with my own. Still, it is an extremely pleasant sensation, and I find that I do not want him to pull away.

"Where I come from, imperfections make you weak, so I fled that place." I contemplate this. And then my tones ring out, just as softly as his, breaking the silence. "My mother told me that scars define us. She said that each scar came at a price. Many times, it may be a price we were willing to pay to make things right, as you did. Other times, it may be a price that we never wanted to consider." I can hear my voice turn bitter, and I look away. It is a small piece of my own past, but it hurts to speak of, especially considering how shy I usually am.

My eyes light again on his scar, and I force myself to continue. He has been strong and confided in me; so too will I confide in him. I take a deep breath, turning again to him, regretting the decision to stop touching him, even if it had been only instinct. "But scars remind us who we are. They remind us what we fight for, what we believe in." There. That was the most important part. "Your scar is physical, but there are also mental scars that run deeper than any wound." My cranium stretches, maw pressing again to the scar tissue along his side. It is a light touch, for I fear that it pains him, but it is a touch nonetheless. "Yours was well-earned," I whisper.

I close my eyes for a moment, allowing my own pain to wash over me in waves. My pelt bears no marks of my past, and for that I am grateful, for I was truly blessed by the gods on the day my family perished, as odd as that may sound. But my mind is riddled with lacerations, deep marks in the fabric of my soul, that heal over only to break open again. My scars are mental, and for once, I feel that someone would understand.

"talk talk talk"

I want to live inspired