Reave, having the rather dubious gift of great self-assurance, feels no particular shame about his unexpected clumsiness only moments earlier. So little that her apology is shrugged off as easily as a dry leaf in late autumn. But it is curious that it would drag the memories of her own perceived guilt to the fore, making him wonder once again why.
He is not one that cares to wonder however, and as luck would have it, he is perfectly capable of rooting much deeper than she might have cared for. Deep enough to find why she feels so guilty. And why she is running, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Reave has known emotion since the day he was born. Has watched the play of others’ most powerful and sentimental memories until it had become next to commonplace for him. But he has never before met one that can cause such emotional change in another. It is a fascinating quandary she finds herself in.
If Reave were a better horse, he might leave it be. But he is not.
“You are running away,” he insists, more certain now. If she had been rude, he does not notice as he counters her denial. If anything, his own rudeness far outstrips hers, though he is not yet self-aware enough to recognize it. Neither does he recognize her attempt to make up for it by way of introduction.
“I’m Reave,” he replies distractedly, automatically responding to her introduction with one of his own. But his thoughts are far from focused on such banalities. Instead he’s focused on something else entirely, brow furrowing as he tries to determine things that prove impossible to determine without a great deal more experience than he has. “Why don’t you want to go home anyway? They don’t look mad at you.”
Though he can see her shame and guilt, can even sympathize with it (he had killed one of his own mothers after all, but she had never blamed him), he struggles to understand why she would choose to flee rather than stand and conquer it.
reave
@[Rare]