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That was how he found her, out in the storm, cradling a colt to her side. It was an accident that he stumbled upon the duo, the mother and son whose lives he had already meddled with(though he knew not that the child was his, not yet, for the mother was a succubus and the boy could belong to any stallion who had caught her eye). Uncertainly, he approaches, unknowing of how his presence will be received. Had the mare been fairer, painted cream and gold, blue eyes filled with innocence and wonder, he would have strode up with certainty, for he has long held the same role to that particular princess. But this one is not her, is shaded in bronze and shadow instead of sunlight and snow, and so he hesitates, waiting for permission to come closer(or perhaps she will drive him away, having no care for his silver tongue and ardent caresses). He, the self-proclaimed knight, and prince, and lord, or whatever other title suits him best, pauses and keeps a respectful distance, silent and still.
In the gloom, he allows his eyes to roam over the lady and her newborn, taking in both familiar and strange features. She has not changed much, he thinks, for she is still beautiful, even sweaty and soaked, dark mane laying limp and tangled with mud. Perhaps it is her magic, projecting into his mind without conscious thought, shifting his brain into believing her magnificent. Or maybe not. It is another thing that he does not know(and he realizes now that he doesn't know much at all, not really, and that burns him inside, though he does not allow it to show).
Next, the boy, the spindly creature curled at her belly who may or may not be his. It is hard to tell exactly what color he is, darkened by the lack of light and unrelenting rain, but it seems to be a dark reddish gold, marred by slightly lighter stripes upon the withers(or perhaps that is simply a trick of the light, he can't be certain). The stark white of his legs and face are easy to see though, socks and a blaze startlingly bright against the dim background. He could be another pretty face, another brilliant incubus, once grown, except for his awkward build, skinny with hooves and head too large to fit properly. He notices feathers around those hooves, and again wonders if they were passed from him(it would make sense of a kind, for the child is not delicate, but big and rough).
This takes only a few seconds to see, and he still waits for the mare to either permit him to step closer, or banish him. Strangely, he thinks the second option would bother him, though he does not know why(again, ignorant and confused. He will spend much of his life this way, he believes, and again it hurts).
Maybe, just maybe, he hopes to claim a family.
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[O] Maybe Things Are Different [birthing]
