Skywalker does not listen; her answer runs off him like water and he is too preoccupied, greedily letting his eyes wander over her. His eyes, while eerily blue in true light, seem grey like falling rain as they slip over her from shoulder to hip; the semblance is uncanny, disturbing even. And he dotes on it all the more. The lines and angles of her body gather themselves up like whispers, incoherent on their own but when they amass into a single shape they become a sleepy lullaby, a low, singsong voice in the dark. Something tells him that he wants this delicate little thing that has so graciously presented itself to him, this subtle perfection that is so close to his, had it not been for the hard, ugly shape of his nose. He dips his muzzle into the water and helps himself to a long drink, but the water does not quench this thirst and he looks up again, unsatisfied. As always.

She does not seem unsettled by him and he finds the realization strangely welcome; usually he relishes in the fact that he is fearsome and awe-inspiring, but not tonight. Tonight he wants the company of this mare and her cool composure, tonight he relishes in glancing at a greatly improved mirror image of himself. Skywalker wonders how she feels, or rather how it feels to run his muzzle down that unforgiving but somehow unflawed slope of her shoulder. His lip brushes against his chest when he tucks his nose in, feigning mortification as she remarks at his appearance; the succession of dry, moderate laughter reveals his ploy, however. Skywalker is well aware of his uncomely face – he has, after all lived with it for some years now. But his complete disregard for his visual shortcomings has tended to, after a while, make him curiously appealing. However unlikely that might seem at first glance. Contrasts, someone called it, and he has never been one to object. Where someone else might have cringed at the uncouth nature of her consideration, the stallion finds himself entirely comfortable. Not too surprising, perhaps, given his aloof nature.

“Perhaps,” his face is upturned again and he tilts his head slightly, as if to give her a better look, “but I’ve a hard time finding something that sticks; the snow keeps melting.” He proceeds to shake his head, making his long neck seem all the more snakelike and treacherous, “so I make due with what I’ve got and, strangely enough, I do get by. Better than you might expect.”

A pause coupling with a sly smile; silence, and then:

“Granted, you don’t look awful, but you lack character. How absolutely devastating that must feel.”

S K Y W A L K E R.


Hemlock