Being a fighter wasn't about physical ability. It had nothing to do with training, age, or loyalty. It was a matter of personality. Of spark. A flame that could turn into something glorious, or consume the combatant whole.
It was something that you either were, or you weren't. Not everyone was capable of doing the things that Vartan and his uncle did. It wasn't in them. But Vartan adored the clash of hooves and the spray of blood and the true contest for strength. It was the only thing in his life that loved him without demanding and never, ever betrayed him.
"No," Vartan said firmly. "You think I'm gonna let you wander around out here with no knowledge on how t'defend yourself? You'll get eaten for sure, and then what the hell am I supposed to say when your mother comes 'round this way again? This is your life we're talking about, kid. You have a duty to the ones who love you to keep your own skin intact."
He shook his head. Tried to clear away the anger. He was supposed to be controlling himself around a kid that was obviously having a tough time, even if he wasn't great at hugs and comfort and s**t.
"Don't be reckless. Come with me. I can show you a warm place for the night, and maybe drill a coupla escape moves into your skull come morning."
