Their touch is electric, sending a thrilled shiver right down the stallion's spine. He snorts gently into her nostrils, an affectionate gesture quite unbecoming of one of his size and presence, and for a moment he's content to stand and simply enjoy. Enjoy the physical contact that drowns out everything else around him, including the golden egg which, up until this moment, had been the forefront of his vision.

Then she speaks again, and the moment passes. He withdraws, his nose still hot from where it touched her flesh, his loins still burning, his skin still tingling.

Don't be a dumbass, Volterra. He snorts in amusement, mirth momentarily spreading across his face. "Charming." He doesn't take it to heart - he doesn't take to heart anything she says, because he tells himself that she doesn't really mean it. She adds that he should know she rarely speaks openly, and he glances away for a moment - yes, and that's what worries him. He lacks the devious instinct to keep up with her games, and after more than two years with him she must know this. Yet she still hides behind her veil, her serpent's tongue always tying his brain in knots, when he prefers to be blunt, brusque, obvious. "I know you don't, Nym, but won't you humour your poor, intellectually inferior brother?" Sarcasm drips from his tongue, with just the hint of truth behind the bravado.

Then she's sadness personified, and his ears automatically ram forwards whilst concern drifts freely and brazenly across his stern features. If she's acting, he can't tell. He falls for it, hook, line and sinker, and what else could she expect? He is entranced, ensnared, captured by her, and doesn't she just know it? You never tell me you love me anymore. Confusion mixes in with the concern, creating a concoction of anxiety. Is she lying, is she teasing, or is she revealing her soul?

He can't tell. He can never tell.

"You know I love you. Does it need saying?" It is implicit, obvious. He loves her, obsesses over her, needs her like he needs the blood in his veins. Now there's a tear glistening on her cheek, and if that's an act then she should get a god damn award - he falls openly into her trap, giving a small, distressed whinny and stepping immediately closer to her. If anybody else on this planet made his sister cry, he'd break them in half and give her their still-warm heart as a prize. Now he's the one who has dampened her cheek, and it aches inside. "Ne sírj , szerelmem." Don't cry, my love. He slips instinctually into their language, their secret tongue that they so joyously absorbed when they were younger and their brains were sponges awaiting saturation. "I won't." Of course, that can't be the truth - they can't be together twenty four hours a day, not when they all have their own lives, not to mention their dragons who also require some of their private time. But it's a reassurance, one that tumbles gleefully from his lips - as close to a lie as he will ever tell.