anyone;

[Rhonen]

rhonen

molten eyes and a smile made for war

He is as afraid to touch her as he was when they were children.

Then, he was afraid of being a monster, and she was so little. If his touch was contagious, surely even the lightest brush would kill her on the spot. But he had touched her, despite the anger of the monster masquerading as a parent, and she had been fine. It had been the first time Rhonen could breathe easily from the end of the nightmare, because he hadn’t tainted or ruined this thing he admired when he touched it. Now, he feels in complete control of his affliction, but he hesitates because she looks like a strong wind could knock her over.

Atrani has no such hesitation, and she breaks the tenuous barrier between them as she edges closer, finding him but touch and whatever other senses she uses in place of sight; he allows his muzzle to meet hers in the lightest of touches, as if she were glass, before she presses her face against his neck. Something warm and bubbly fills his stomach because she does know his name, remembers that too-brief encounter some time ago.

He thought his life was hard since then, depressing, but he is having trouble imaging what has happened to her. “I missed you too,” he says seriously, nibbling for a moment on her mane just above her withers, an easy reach when they are nestled together. He doesn’t smell Dovev, but his brown eyes are watchful on their surroundings anyway, careful. He remembers those tense moments, and though he has grown and toughened up a little, he doesn’t exactly relish a repeat performance with no forewarning. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” He doesn’t come out and say, ‘why do you look like you are starving’ cause hey, that would be rude. But he can’t help himself when he runs his nose gently down the outline of one rib, frowning at the way the skin moves across the bone under his touch.

He wants her to be happy and healthy, not slowly starving to death by herself.