Moonspear hopes and dreams, they will collide

He could not lead her away from the topic through futile attempts, and felt dread seep in from whatever well contained it. In those cavities he felt something bitter arise to replace it, anger but not quite, yet close enough that perhaps it did not matter of which it were; her face spoke volumes more than any tone of voice could have, but perhaps it was the neutral probing that bothered him so.

He never spoke of his family and for good reason, but only reasons good to him.

And he found himself incapable of finding a way to talk himself out of a snare.

The dread built—or was it a guilt?

"No," he said through a dislodging sigh—how to explain this? "I didn't get that opportunity. It was more that we saw one another in passing, she didn't linger," and he had not pursued her, "I was just glad to know she was still alive after so long." His gaze dropped towards the cold earth beneath his feet, his ears fanned back. He felt certain he was cornered, her willingness to understand more of a guise that held back something far more worse.

Childishly, perhaps unlike himself, he concluded softly: "I don't really want to talk about it. I haven't even thought on it much until now." The last ditch effort to try and steer her away, though he was already yielding to her, almost squirming beneath her gaze at the uncomfortable topic. He shouldn't have opened his mouth, he decided, and thought perhaps he would never again.