“Perhaps it is,” comes his remark, a semblance of humor dancing in the darkness of his ocean-colored eyes. “Maybe you should speak for me instead. They seem to hear you.” There is a laugh at the edges of his shadowed voice, a gentleness that he uses to veil the hope that lies deep within it, afraid to speak his wishes aloud as if speaking it would make his hope shatter. He is still staring up at the winking and sleepy stars, celestial and silent and worlds away, silently praying they would rouse from their sleep and awaken before him, come face to face with him and tell him why they chose him to bear their terrible secrets.
So you know too, then.
Her assumption causes him to draw a quick breath, his muscles drawing taut beneath the auburn and ivory of his patched skin. He lowers his head slightly, but his gaze refuses to meet hers. Her voice is curious and soft, and he knows by the way it sounds that she cannot begin to comprehend the weight of foreboding that comes with his ability - the curse that he carries. He is frozen beneath her stare, unable to give away any kind of hint at the raging of his mind save for the tiniest jump of his brow and twitch of his pale mouth.
When he remains silent she continues, giving him her name. His breath releases in a gentle sigh, but the rigidity in his posture remains just so. She is on the cusp of discovering the haunting of his ability, and the reason why he curses the stars yet longs for their intervention in the same breath. He almost hopes she discovers his plight, though he knows nothing will bring him peace - not truly.
Warden’s ears press against his neck harshly as her question falls into the stillness of the night air. It is an innocent question and perhaps had Warden been having a conversation with anyone else he would have taken it differently. But Aletta is not everyone else - she knows what she is asking just as he knows what the answer will be. Despite the outward display of anger in his tense posture, the stallion does not move away from her.
He knows what her assumption is and he suddenly found himself wishing that he was like his mother - where the future could be seen from all sides, both good and bad, so that he would be useful, that he could share wonderful sights with others and not find himself hiding from them. But darkness is all he sees in his futures - death, destruction, lives ripped apart - never anything beautiful or hopeful. Only shadowy futures of those he meets; forced to look into the darkest parts of their lives and continue his life knowing that he cannot do anything to stop it from reaching fruition.
He is no Oracle, no Prophet.
He is the Bringer of Death.
“No,” he answers in a quiet breath, his voice low and seeping thinly through his teeth. He inhales sharply, stomping a forehoof into the meadow grass. “I am not what you think. You should count yourself lucky that I have not already seen your future - and you should ask the stars that I never do.”
WARDEN
@[aletta]
um never apologize!!!
I love your novels
