He'd be damned if he just sat back and let Mercy care for him. He wasn't some helpless fawn. (Not that he ever had been.)
With a lurch and a clatter he came to his feet, nostrils flaring and flanks heaving with a sharp breath at the sudden effort. This time, the link was one-way, without an opening for Mercy to return it along.
His ears swept back, a wince crossing his features; his head was held lower than usual as he readied himself for a walk.
He knew the lion had it in him--the power to reach out, mind-to-mind, as he did. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when it did, except that it was... different, this time.
He stumbled further, blinking at the intensity of it; but that was magic, wasn't it? Fickle, chaotic. At times so weak as to be nonexistent. At others, thrashing backlash through the mind. And then there were moments like these. It felt...
Like light shone through honey. Golden, sweet, and thick. As though he were seeing the world through his own eyes, and then this strange and beautiful sheen, as well. His nerves were struck by gentle touches not his own, as though he felt the air on another's fur.
Pride shivered.
He came to a stop, turning with wide eyes to peer at Mercurius. And-...
The white stag took another breath, exhaled it, blinked. Ears flicked away, and again toward his lion companion.
Somewhere in the distance, Mischief--abruptly aware of this new touch along their mental link--was perking up. Her inquisitiveness was coupled by brashness, and it tickled the back of Pride's mind. Undoubtedly it could reach Mercy, as well; and the bold questioning of it could have been translated as something like, The hell is this?
...made to last.
Pride blinked, and again flicked his ear, trying fervently to sort the emotions and sensations and thoughts from one another. Had that been Mercy, or his own words-? It was all so overwhelming, so new, that he almost forgot his desperate thirst and confusion.
For the lion, Pride was open to be seen, really and well and truly, at last.
On the front of it all was a person, as simple as that: with doubts, beliefs, feelings. He looked at the world from his own lens of (now rapidly-expanding) experience, as did all who walked the worldly plane. He was limited by what he knew. He was kind. He was inquisitive. He held dire memories and a penchant for lashing back at those who lashed forth--and then doubting his violence. There was that sense of responsibility for everyone and everything in his sphere of influence. He had to look after them. After Orion. After the Seven, the Throne, the chrysalises of the sleeping, Mischief, his children, Mercy... A person, plain and simple, with all that that entailed.
But behind that, less usual, were his defining characteristics. The keenness of his mind was first: sharp as a scalpel, already picking at the link, prying and testing to see what it was. To learn the nature of it.
He worried for Mercurius.
The razor's edge of his mind turned to testing it. Could he feel emotions? Yes. Could he read thoughts? Yes. It seemed whatever Mercy offered was there like a meal on a plate, to be carried away at his leisure. And his background thoughts were there, too: available to be picked through, if Pride so desired. But that felt like prying, and so he pulled away from that. Could he feel sensations? Yes. The rock under Mercy's paws, the exhale of his breath, as before. Yes, that was there--he could confirm that. Was Mercy feeling more drained by this? No. A sense of wonder gripped him: this magic was simply... there, now, an open link, requiring nothing of the lion to remain. Pride's wide eyes regarded the lion with astonishment.
What the fuck? Mischief was taken aback, confused, and a little annoyed at what she saw as sudden intrusion.
This amused Pride faintly, but behind all the personality and the mind came the last of his defining characteristics, and one that would be clear now for Mercy: an iron will. Steel. Fire. Whatever one would call it. Pride was, beneath it all, driven; he'd never give up, never back down, never stop improving himself and the world around him as much as he could.
It was, in some sense, a polar opposite to the lion's willingness to exist: to live in the world around him, to enjoy its offerings and its bliss, to share his kindness with others. Pride's mind was one of doing, not being: constantly observing, monitoring, assessing, gauging, deciding.
He was determined--stubborn--and it was this that kept him still prodding at the link while Mercy simply acknowledged this new link--accepted it. Laid down with it, and made peace with it. Antlers caught the light and Pride dipped down his head to drink, at last, pondering. He had no way to hide his relief or the taste of slightly-metallic but pleasantly-cold water as it touched his tongue and wetted his throat, as it cut an icy path down to his gut. Or the sense of weight on his hooves, or air across his fur, or the fractional flicks of his ears to catch all the little sounds Orion gave away.
It was all there--wanted or not--all his little self-doubts and second-thoughts and mental narratives. All of this was a constant cascade of words, unintentionally open for Mercy to hear.
...And so on.