I’ve given him too much.

No. Not enough.

Nymeria is uneasy—almost unhinged—by her honesty. What words she let past her lips—about family, about herself—don’t belong out in the open with Kid. They belong inside her, packed away in the furrows and crooks of her mind; they belong in the dark, not in the moon-washed clearing. The truth doesn’t come to her naturally (it never has) and this time is no exception, even if it is only her nephew privy to her aberrant words of wisdom.

When she tells him about her own cowardice, it leaves a sour taste behind in her mouth, and an absence in her heart. The absence aches—cries out—demands for a return of her admissions. (Do others always feel like this, telling the truth? How do they stand it?) She shouldn’t have said anything—she should’ve kept her mouth shut, like she’d wanted to.  

And the colt (little bastard) doesn’t even bother to answer her. Instead, the shyest form of a smile twitches across his lips, a hazy and unappreciated gesture of acknowledgement. She should take that gratitude as a good sign—instead she thinks fuck you too Kid, and lets a warm smile flourish across her muzzle in answer. When he dips his head, Nymeria doesn’t bob her head in turn, but instead takes his bow in stride. She wishes he’d given her something more solid in return—a thank you, a I never knew that—but she takes what she gets (albeit unhappily.)

Her nephew didn’t know her. He must not realize quite what a sacrifice the truth was for her… surely not, for otherwise, otherwise, he’d be stammering out desperate ‘thank you’s and his little pink eyes would be showing whites with astonishment.  

Kid’s eyes flicker over her body, and she shifts her weight, unimpressed by his examinations. His gaze reaches for her (she gives it to him, scarlet meeting rose) and she knows without doubt he’s going to ask something, ask something brave—she inclines forward slightly, one ear flicking back in a show of uncertainty, and then he fires. Instead of answering immediately, her face goes deadpan.

Volterra, she thinks with more than a hint of tartness—Volterra, how did it go wrong?

A long sigh for Kid’s benefit (show him how much that question means) and her gaze drifts upwards thoughtfully, following Lilómiel’s wheeling through the moonlit sky. The dragon doesn’t offer her help; she fumbles on her own for a suitable response. The colt’s question was hardly surprising (even if it’d caught her off-guard); of course he’d want to know about his elusive father. Nym couldn’t claim to share his curiosity—despite never knowing her own sire, she’d never had any interest in learning more about him. Instead, she’d been too busy raising herself in her mother’s absence.

Gods above, I am bitter tonight.

She blamed Kid.

Whatever the case, even on a good day a question like this didn’t come for free. Slowly, caustically, she levels her gaze at her nephew. Her smile’s gone—she’s all glowing bone and ash. One of her perfect brow cocks upwards. “Are you sure you want to know the answer Kid?” He will. And, honestly, there was nothing about Volterra that would actually be shameful. Volterra… Volterra… he’s a good stallion.

Except for causing this disaster standing before her. Except for not telling her.

She should take Kid. Shove the product of his fucking right in his fucking face.

The grullo sighs heavily, swishing her tail across her flanks. The movements are almost pitying.  “I will tell you about him,” she said, “but you must know a question like that costs something in turn. So what will you tell me, nephew?”