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»› C A S S I U S ‹«
He watched the unmoving sky for perhaps too long. His neck was beginning to ache from the unnatural angle, as his body remained still as a statue. Perpetually frozen in a state of emotional unbalance, despite the energy and the hope that had sprung into his eyes.
A steady smile rested against his features despite the prolonged silence. The light breezes filled the spaces as they pressed against his skin with a ghostly presence; faintly wet from the moisture of the mists he had just departed from.
Her voice is entirely unexpected. Cassius swallows the startle, and the warmth that spreads to his cheeks when he turns to face his visitor. The tone reflects the day however, it chimes – perhaps a note lower, (or was it higher?) giving the stallion an inviting prospect.
He does not expect the scars that blatantly shine in the beaming sun. It is without a second thought, that Cassius the fair, the ‘kind-hearted’ trails his gaze from her eyes to the abhorrent markings that stain her face. That when she offers her small smile, he is utterly distracted – and can’t possibly hide from her bright and waning gaze.
“O-oh, good morning.” The stallion blinks, visibly shaking his head and frowning a tad. His eyes manage to refocus on her eyes, taking a sharp inhale, forcing a slow and calculated exhale. Giving a weak and half-hearted smile in return.
“No.” He said with a warm and heavy tone. He could not shoulder the thoughts that teamed in his head, the memories her wounds inflicted upon him. It wasn’t her fault, it shouldn’t have been – but it strikes him at odds with himself. And begins the battle to fight this so called infliction. “Not at all…”
The gray dips his head in regal fashion. Sending those silky locks to fall ahead, obscuring his face for a moment. Cassius tosses them aside when he resumes. A much more sober smile resumes.
“I was hoping to hear from someone today. But I can’t seem to get a connection.” His laugh is by far more at ease than what his body lets on. “It’s been years, so I’m not expecting a return call any time soon.”
They’re scars – he reminds himself. Flicking his gaze ever so gently to the ones that line across her eyes. They are not bloodied or moistened with the scent of saline, or blood. They are old and – strangely personal, to cross the mare’s face so precisely.
“Cassius, or Cass. Are you perchance waiting for a call, too?” An air of flailing charisma beams once more. Upturning his smile into a jesting grin – tilting his head just so.
Would she notice – he wonders. Perhaps she will give him grace, and if not, than he would have to own up to his weaknesses with a startling clarity.
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