Erebos managed to stifle a laugh from erupting chaotically along the shambles of their border from Wessex’s response, but he winked at her again instead: thoroughly amused that another of their stony clan had a sense of humor. Then his eyes drifted, narrowed, as she backed away, wondering why she felt the need to disappear behind him, as if she had no place at their helm – the boy had half a mind to follow her backpedaling motions so she understood she’d be welcomed, not sent into some subservient role. His brow arched in silent inquiry, but couldn’t do anything further, not when the filly had begun answering him, not when she proclaimed the savior within the Marsh had been her mother.
 
His skull twisted back, eyes riveted solely on her, and somehow knew, sensed, what the next set of words were going to be – she wouldn’t have been there otherwise, drifting into a herd, a kingdom, an empire, she didn’t know unless…
 
Death was a harsh finality. He’d experienced it over and over and over again – it seemed like spring hadn’t been a welcoming age of regrowth and renewal, but the slide of archaic demons, of Reapers who could once topple giants, of mares who gave everything so their child may live another day. For a few seconds, the youth didn’t say anything. He knew what it was like to lose a parent, someone who was a part of one’s world every second of every day, who sheltered, who guided, who obliged or scolded, who scorned stupid errors and careless mistakes, but who loved and cherished with every fiber of their being, and damn, it wasn’t fair that all they did was encounter loss. She seemed to tuck herself away though, much like he did nowadays, forgoing the tears because they’d already been shed, not daring to look at anyone or anything because they could be a reminder of what was and never could be, putting on pretenses and masquerades to benefit someone else. He understood it all, and so he only gave her the ornamental vow he’d granted to all the others who’d watched another fall before them, who'd been saved and had to live with the guilt, the anguish, and the despair. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The beast didn’t offer sentiments towards She must have loved you dearly or she’ll be looking down upon you because the girl must’ve known that already, must’ve heard it from every other stranger and familiar alike; and because all she seemed to want now was a home. He could grant her that, at the very least. “You’re welcome to stay here,” he provided again, with a warm smile, with a Cheshire’s grin, with an amiable air of charming bestowals and potent nuances, acceptance in an instant from a gallant, intrepid heart.