have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?
just a cage of rib bones and other various parts
Whatever he had been expecting, whatever expectations had risen inside of him like a phoenix, had not prepared him for the vision that comes into focus—the edges of her unmistakable and yet impossible. There is a moment of confusion, the furrowing of a sullen brow, the deepening of an already infuriating scowl. It did not make sense and yet, and yet, it was somehow further proof of his return back home. Somehow a visible reminder of the magic that cradled this land once more and invited him back in. For but a brief moment he thinks of Djinni and the strange magic that simmered in her blood and he wonders if this is but a creature of her own making—something to lure him in, something to hook his attention.
It would be like her. To place such a delicate thing at his feet and see how he reacted.
Would he simply turn his cheek and leave?
Would he reach out?
Would it stir some feeling of protectiveness in his guarded chest?
The thought of it—the test—nearly infuriates him, but he doesn’t show the depth of his anger. He shows nothing at all except that pull of leathered lips and twitch of his ear. For a moment, he considers ignoring her and simply walking away, despite the fact that she sits frozen in the middle of the forest for the sole reason of his calling out to her. But—but—there is something else in him that infuriates him more even than the idea of this being bait—and the humanity that rattles against his ribcage leaves him rooted, grey eyes peering out at her with the barest hint of irritation as if she had been the one to call out to him.
For another moment, he remains trapped within the amber of her gaze before he snorts, the derision clear, and mostly directed at himself. Still, he lifts a heavy hoof and steps toward her, his movements slow and calculated, his grey eyes narrowing in concentration. She is a delicate thing, somehow impossible and yet breathing clearly before him, and he finds himself interested, the curiosity blooming in his echoing chest.
“My name is Zai,” he finally offers, the gesture seemingly kind but somehow blunted by the disinterested way that he throws it out, sharp and final. It is, like all things boiling inside of him, an impossible mixture of the man that he once was—kind, joyful, loving—and the man that he has hardened to be. There is a part of him that nearly reaches for her, certain in the need to protect, but he is held back, sullen as the shadows once against creep across his mahogany face and further still into the slate of his gaze.
and to stop the muscle that makes us confess
