GARETH
There's some kind of light at the end
When touching the edge of her skin
“Come hither, Gareth,” the smoky familiar tones spoke to the young colt. A strong woman who wore her age like a cloak of wisdom stood in the running water, motioning for him to move closer. Her silvered hair, normally bound with leather, flowed freely now, curls tangling in wild waves. “These old bones don’t hold up to hair washing like they used to.”
The boy tilted his head in confusion, his own mane bound in small braids. “Why not cut it, then, MawMaw?” He wrinkled his nose a bit, thinking about how heavy it must be to have so much length gathered up on her crest all day long. Still, he did as was asked of him, as he always had, and moved to his grandmother’s side.
“Because, child,” she said, mirth in her lyrics and a bright twinkle in her eyes. “Our hair holds all of our experiences. Every thought you’ve ever had from the day of your birth to the day you return to the earth. There is nothing so much entirely you than the hair that grows from you.” The crone spoke as if that were all the explanation he would need, though the colt was still bubbling with questions.
The feeling of Pangaea pressing her muzzle to his cheek pulled the stallion from his reverie. She thanked him softly, gratitude wrapped in each word. It was no small feat for the warrior to ask for assistance, and to do so as eagerly and openly as she had done with him in this moment meant the world. He returned the gesture, gentle with his touch.
“Of course,” he purred, baritone lyrics rumbling through his chest. “Ask the world of me and you shall have it.” Though such words could have been flights of fancy or beautiful dreams, Gareth spoke them with sincerity. He had decided that if he were going to pursue the mare, he would do so with every ounce of his being. No expense spared, no stone unturned. Dedication at its finest, if she would let him.
He worked diligently, letting the saurian woman take the lead on how to handle her hair. The thick layers of cream were not so much unlike the hair his grandmother once had, save for their length and colour. Somehow, the warrior before him had managed to maintain a length that seemed impossible for any one creature to have. Perhaps that was just part of her lineage- Saurians must have continued to grow their locks all their lives. Most equines had a point in which their manes and tails would grow no longer. Gareth had reached that point some time ago, and had since found comfort in the weight of his thick locks.
The crisp spring morning provided beautiful music, the melody of birds in the surrounding trees, the sun against his dark pelt a blessed warmth against the frigid chill of the river. He would be grateful for when they finally finished their trek home and he could settle before a fire and rest properly. Noor would be pleased to have his friend home again, he was sure.
Though the elk still held his reservations about Pangaea, he no longer spoke ill of her, and that had been a vast improvement to their living situation. The medic wondered briefly what would be waiting for him at home, once his bonded companion knew that Pangaea would be staying. He supposed the cervidae had been holding out for the time when the warrior would be on her way, but he perhaps would not be so surprised to find that she would not be moving on, nor did Gareth have any intentions of pushing her out the door.
The brute chuckled, continuing to pull small debris from the maiden’s locks. “How long has it been since you last were pampered?” he teased, lipping at the crest of her neck and tickling her with his whiskers.
