A hint of surprised coursed through him as Aji questions the foal— yes questions— about his name. Brows raise, wondering how much his friend had changed since he had last seen him… Though was hardly one to speak, emphasized by the Aji’s glittering eyes and mirthful words after his own Kingship. He retuned a lopsided, if slightly strained, amused smile, “Take care with your jests, my friend. You address a King,” the remainder of his teasing is stolen by the bright, happy answer of Rein.

He ignores the unreasonable irritation he feels at Rein’s answer (Rexanna’s name combined with another’s?) Though his eyes drop to watch the happiness bubbling from the colt, pride at his parentage. Again, something painful further softening in his chest. He cannot help the small smile that turns up the corners of his lips as the red specked colt’s jaw drops. The warmth in his navy pools falters, sadness rippling across their surface, at the youthful exclamations. Rexanna had told her son of him? That he was nice? He had hardly been nice at the shore, when he had last seen the gilded Thief. Sorrow and guilt began to smolder in his deep chest. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips as the Rexanna burst into view.

He is surprised at how sharply he feels the painful kick in his barrel when gilded siren suddenly appeared before the two, massive stallions. The pain heats and twists as her slender, gilded neck wrap around the foal her son, silky charcoal and ivory locks cascading in a curtain around the scene of maternal instinct.

That could have been his child.

The thought is seared from his mind, painfully and resolutely. Was there not already enough pain between them? A foal (a lively, beloved child) would surely be collateral damage. Black-rimmed ears tilt backwards at the unhappy, unwelcome thoughts— never would he want that for his child.

Cerulean eyes (the haunting gaze) lift; they first look to and nod at Aji (he notes with irritation). But the he has her eyes, his name quietly on those soft lips. She peered at him from beneath golden chains, his gift from a happier time (and suddenly the lions’ claw at his chest is heavy). “Rexanna—” the hoarseness of his rumble is cut off by his friend’s effeminate voice.

“She’s a dead ringer of Mara.” Gods curse it. Eyes widen marginally, jerking to the violet gaze of his friend. Ignored are the quiet, endearing apologies of Rein. Instead, his mind raced— he had never intentionally kept this fact from Rexanna… but he also had never freely volunteered it. Had his original attraction to the mare been because of her resemblance to his dead Mara? Time and love had woven too intimate a path for him to truly know if that is what had happened that fateful day in the Threshold.

But, as his gaze threw daggers at Aji, he had a feeling that this would not be a welcome surprise sprung on Rexanna from a stallion she did not know. A short, shallow sigh blew from his black nostrils before his spoke, voice firmer but tone marginally futile, “Rexanna this is Kiuaji, an old friend from Dorobo, who sometimes does not know when to hold his tongue.” He braced himself.