He had always fancied himself something of a predator, though he also couldn't fathom exactly why. That quality left him almost out of sorts in the waking world. He did not often change his opinion, he was stout and strong and unwilling to bend. It put people off in reality, whereas it was something that he thought others coveted and looked for in his daydreams. The expectation, as it were, was off. When does side-eyed him and slipped away, or found ways to slip out of conversation with carefully worded excuses and vagaries, it was puzzling, at first. He didn't understand it. Was it a fault of his, or of everyone else's? Logically it meant it was probably him -- but he didn't see it that way. But the problem continued, as puzzling as before.Then it got annoying, and then he got angry.
So it was odd when he managed to strike up a conversation with a doe, and when that conversation turned into a roll in the swamp the next night, it left Unmoved -- well, left in a place he'd never been in before. Moved, as it were.
He hadn't even learned her name but he was relatively sure he was now a father, and so off he went, into the dim dew-laden morning.
It was almost enough to put off Wood Spider. He'd come to her with an offering of a squirrel pelt -- and she almost laughed, told him that she was no Never Idle, that she didn't need trinkets to lay her blessings on people -- and then she'd looked him in the eye. And Wood Spider did not like what she saw, not at all."Do you think you're a father?" she asked, voice incredulous. Despite herself, she added, "You don't seem the type, really."
Unmoved shrugged. "Things happen."
Her eyes narrowed: an odd expression from the petite mare. It was likely that this was the first time she'd ever used the expression. "Do you care at all? I suppose you've come for a blessing, which is better than some do."
The toss of her head sparked a flare of anger in him; he'd come to the wrong blessed one, if all he was going to get was a lesson on being careful. "I don't need a lesson on being careful," he said -- carefully, to his credit. "I want to make sure my offspring will be fine. To make sure the doe will be fine," he said, not referring to her as 'their mother.' "I know this is not so much about me," he added.
"You're right," she said, "that's the most intelligent thing you've said all day. Now, listen: your children will be strong, and loving, and honest," she emphasized. "They will know what boundaries are, and when to push them; they will also know when to move, and when to stay unmoved. And use that knowledge wisely."
Unmoved -- properly abashed by words as gentle as a spring breeze, but also as hard as granite -- bowed his head. For once, he had no words; instead, he took his leave quietly back into the gray morning, leaving Wood Spider standing alone in the clearing.
"I'm going to go jump into a lake," she said, to nobody in particular, "and wash that off."