resurrect the saint within the wretch
He can see it on her face.
She is torn between the present and future; it is written across the angles of her chestnut face, the confusion written there as plain as day. The ivory of his own face hardens with a grimace, turning away from her a moment to force his stony gaze into the ground, bitter and full of resentment. She’s seen what he has seen and he can recognize the reaction - one that he has had numerous times and now has become numb to feeling. He snorts softly, allowing her this moment of in-between and uncertainty. She is still but a stranger - a red lady that has riddled him with accusations and blame, yet in the same moment, stepped back and saw what he truly is. He is merely a messenger, nothing more.
Nothing more.
When his dark oceanic gaze meets hers once again he is not surprised to find the look of disappointment filtering across her gentle face. What else could he expect? He is a harbinger of death and the reality of it is painted across the expression of her face. She holds back, he can sense it, and the grimace that coats his own ivory face does not attempt to fade. She even attempts to apologize - as if his visions and her seeing them had somehow been her fault - and the sneer of dissatisfaction on his face grows as his white ears fall into the deep black of his mane. He does not crave sympathy, even though he knows he might deserve it.
How am I supposed to tell her?
His ocean eyes flick to hers within a moment, a dark brow cascading over their navy depths. He’s about to reply - his mouth opens, but he pauses deliberately and purposefully. A sigh escapes Warden, shuddered, and defeated. “You don’t,” he admits quietly, his nostrils flaring as he lifts his head solemnly, those great blue and opaled horns spiraling like spyres from his forehead. His voice is incredibly even as if there was no other answer besides the one he has given her.
He watches Lilliana but he only sees this stranger’s chestnut color as a glimmering of glass, shining and shimmering in the sun’s light, crested with violet flowers. The stallion’s eyes close in reminiscence, watching as those perfect rubied pieces of her fall apart into nothingness, into shattered oblivion, and how he’d do anything to keep her from knowing her fate. The watcher swallows, refocusing his gaze on the woman before him, indifference falling across the ivory planes of his face.
@[lilliana]
