I nod in response to her simple dismissal of the dashing dog, who now sits with that same bloody tongue rolling from her lips and an apologetic smile knitted into her features; it’s a weird expression on the fleshy pup, her brows thick and raised as if she is laughing, her mouth broad as the lower jaw seems to bob in time with the glimmer in her eyes. Her tail, an appendage designed for annoyance and destruction, wags furiously in the grass behind her, the swish swish sound of the friction filling the air with an additional, useless noise aside from the bees droning about the young flowers and the birds that chirrup in their high homes.

I’m not sure how truthful her words are; the mare trembles and quakes and has trampled her saplings. Still, the dog is fine, as is she. I have rarely heard of a mare young as she dropping dead from a failed heartbeat.

Already growing disinterested in the conversation, I am lulled into my thoughts and almost pulled away from her side, despite the obvious topic of the infant trees that my dog has caused an early doom for. In the face of the truth of her trees, she still finds it necessary to compliment the idiot hound, to which I am instantly brought back into the conversation with bright, blue eyes that twinkle humorously that she finds such a plain animal pretty.

"She is plain," I smile, ears pricked towards the uniquely marked mare. My simple rebuttal of her complement is quickly contrasted by the wriggling mess of puppy that now squirms with her white belly exposed to the sun, inching nearer and nearer the mare who finds her beautiful with attempts to lick at her complementer's fetlocks. She receives no complements from me, at least not for something as useless as appearance, and from the emotional connection that we share I can feel her elation struggling against my refusal of the mares words.

I glance at her, a grimace of disdain flashing across my features for but a moment before I return my eyes to the gentle natured equine. The poison within me writhes and hisses, already aggravated by the noxious display of naivety that Skýlos puts on, aggravated by the pity I feel for her flightless body. No wonder she wasted time on trees. "If you hurry and get the roots of the ones not snapped or bruised, you might save some," I say softly, not entirely sure why I am drawn to help her with the stupid trees just because she has petted my dog’s ego, confessing half as much to her, "I can help. It’s Skýlos’ fault, after all."

The dog immediately desists her game of rolling, looking at me with pleading, apologetic eyes before leaping to her paws and prancing over to the site of the ruined, infant grove.

Perhaps it is because it is because it is our fault, or simply that I am seeking to ease the ache of my soul through small deeds of kindness, to grit my teeth against the impulse to hurt her as deeply as the young trees have been and to redeem the innocence I have shattered with my own hooves. She is innocent, so very so; that she spends her days among the Earth’s children and hums to herself and trembles in fear from the approach of a puppy and a stranger proves it to me. There is something sweet in this, alluring and delightful; she has not been soured by the world. Perhaps, if she is lucky, she never will be.

Cealestis