There will be scars; Zoya, any

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

He hadn’t meant to leave her alone. In fact, he hadn't meant to leave the Chamber at all – that had never been part of his plan. He feels moderately guilty, although he can take solace in the fact that she has been here (he hopes) and therefore protected (he hopes).

It is easier to find her now, now that he can seek out heat signatures. He can even feel them sometimes, the way that they move and disrupt the warmth or cold of the air currents. He will get better at it in time, he does not doubt, but for the time being he is a mere journeyman, a novice.

He finds her easily enough, pausing for just a moment as she comes into his heat vision view. She wouldn't see him yet, although she might smell him if she was particularly keen. He's not had an opportunity to see anyone truly react to his new colors, not yet. He hasn't decided what he thinks about them himself. The color is suitable enough; it could have been much worse, he supposes. But it's not the black that they all have become so used to. He wonders if the black will return.

Moving forward, he approaches her without hesitation. His appearance is much different from the last time they met. She is used to knowing him as the handsome black stallion that he was born to be. But right now his coat is wine-red, dark as blood and richly beautiful. His mane and tail are different too; they are striped now, with broad swaths of dark forest green and deep navy blue alternating. His figure is the same: well-muscled, chiseled, sculpted and strong. His bearing is the same: military, rigid, just a hair below too formal. He both looks like himself and does not.

And indeed, he both is himself, and is not.

"Zoya." he greets, approaching her. His voice is the same as it has always been, rich, full and handsome. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to leave you." His voice is thick with apology. "I hope you've been able to be comfortable in the Chamber even while I was…away." the last word is thick in his mouth, hard to say. He isn't sure that away is the proper term for it. In fact, he's quite sure there is no proper term for it. What do you call it when you're ripped away from everything you know by a male fairy? What do you call it when you undergo impossible tortures, but do not die? What do you call it when you're returned only to find you've got a newfound gift, a strange power that you must desperately scramble to learn?

Whatever you call it, that's where he had really been.

And he doesn't have the slightest idea how to explain that concept to any other horse in the world. But he'd have to figure it out, sooner or later. Because god knows, the change in his color is about the opposite of subtle.

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

Just bringing the timeline forward a bit to accommodate Erebor's quest stuff hope you don't mind! <3