Even in silence, Rhae remains relatively oblivious to the sadder things in life.

True though it may be that he overhears things he shouldn't when standing in crowded places, and true too though it may be that he has had visions of deaths of strangers and of other ill begotten events, his young mind doesn't fully understand the depths of these things' meanings. He would one day, and soon - so soon in fact that the sweetness of his childhood will begin to sour, realization after realization dawning upon him as he reanalyzes his memories, returning to visions (almost dreams, like his Mother's and Sister's and Half Brother's) and tasting ash in his mouth as their truths make themselves known to his growing eyes.

For tonight, however, they are not grown: and they do not see the wisdom in leaving the scent of his mysterious oldest brother be. At the whiff of Abysm, any rational thought processes grind to a halt within the colt's head - the champagne stallion represented something of an enigma to the young prince. He'd been somewhat present during the very first months of the triplet's lives, willing to participate in their existence while it represented little actuality or gravity; but as they'd grown into their conscious minds, the triplets - but Rhaegor especially, in his silence - had noticed the way that Abysm stood out from the rest of them, even from Velk and Valdis. Perhaps he heard it or perhaps he had it foretold, but Rhae remembers biting words going from Abysm to Kagerus, remembers feeling the tension there, the malice, the hatred.

Rhae loves his mothers, as young boys should. He doesn't have the full story about what happened - and even though he is comfortable enough to speak with Abysm, he's never garnered the courage to actually ask.

So when the dream-walker's scent appears out of the blue, Rhae forgets his inhibitions and hurries down the path, not noticing its well-worn grooves and the way the trees curve away as if expecting travelers - or a traveler, to be exact. What he also doesn't notice is the scent that precedes his brother's, or the body to whom it is attached; instead, he scurries up in wonder next to the grown stallion, cool brown eyes wide in some mix of admiration and terror.

Idolatry, really - but a confused kind.
Though to consider any faith certain would be a stretch.

"Brother, I'd not thought I'd find you here." The words come at their fullest volume, above a mutter but not full speaking volume either. "I -" But the word twists and screws when his eyes catch on the mare standing respectfully over a mound of earth, and another vision of death comes to Rhaegor: not of this one, or of one in particular, but enough of an image to correct his disposition. Immediately his posture straightens, lips clamping shut, head dropping low.

I'm sorry to interrupt, his body language reads.
He wants to examine the mare more closely, intrigued as ever by the mysterious and the feminine and the beautiful. But out of respect and sheepishness, he keeps his head down, eyes trailing the intricately woven forest floor.