He had never encountered a mental illness before. Those he had seen were subtle, familiar to him—his father’s disease was not one he recognized. Likewise, his sister’s addiction was still in the dark. Yet Elijah, with his pale eyes and dark face, struck some primal recognition within him. Despite this worry he focused on the soft woman and realized that whatever flaws came with her children would be ones he had to accept. After all, they were his siblings.
Ezekiel did not fail to notice the troubled expression on her face. That same light burned across the scars over his eye, but it did not change his charming smile. Her touch was brief but told him enough. The boy had communicated through touch long before he knew how to speak. This was perhaps why he went to the path of a warrior—he could have taken up a healer’s life just as quickly, but his blood and body demanded he speak to others through battle.
A grin broke across his face. It would certainly save him some pain to take a shortcut, given the weight of the sack. Her invitation only pleased him more; he desire to learn about this foreign woman his father had sired children with, and know how the man came to know her. “I’d love to,” he said, and then ran his thumb along the bow-string across his chest. “Want something fresh?”
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