The mirror to the soul was not one that she ever faced honestly; her face was always covered in taffeta, her glance sideways and from across the room. She supposed most horses viewed themselves this way, unwilling to see their imperfections, desirous of viewing only the side of their features that are struck into vibrant life by the tender kiss of the sun.

If she could look inside the mind of the stallion that sought to console her, she would find that her inquiries left him as lost as when asking herself. Fortunately for Ciceron, Illynx is far too obsessed with herself to notice any sort of struggle to supply her answers, the selfish ache in her chest that wants to know. It’s not as if she has any better resolutions – all that he has said, she tries to be, no matter that it is impossible for one who feels as little for others as she does to truly fit the mold that is needed.

Her pout is dismal as she keeps her eyes locked on the horizon, not bothering to look over at her acquaintance anymore. Her spirit is becoming so desperate in the wake of the conversation that she finds she will likely have to leave this man soon, for fear of exploding in a rash and psychotic show of her emotional turmoil, though she still finds him beautiful and soothing in his own right.

He is just not the solution to all her problems.

He takes note of deeds done, and she can quickly check off several in her favor. There are more listed to complete within her mind, this is to be sure, and while there had been no true test of her loyalty and strength such as an invasion or a disaster, she had upheld much face since returning to Helovia.

She glances down to her legs and the streaking, blotted scars that mark them, feels the lightness of her mangled ear. She has bled for her kingdom.

When it turns to having to consider others over herself, however, her fleeting pleasure with herself sours. It has never been a strength of hers, to imagine how others exist while she herself has her own opinions, and while his words make sense, it doesn’t mean she really cares to hear them or to practice what he is sharing. It makes her head hurt to even begin to place herself in Deimos’ hooves, and even more so to try and fit her heart into the shapes of all the others.

But Ciceron is not done. She listens with half a mind as the rest of her struggles to absorb that she must be less concerned for herself.

It’s just plain nonsense. Who is more important than the one running the show?

The mind is fully back on the floral stag as he makes mention of apology, wrenching her guts into a tight knot of loathing towards Deimos and Ulrik once again, the selfish bitterness towards Psyche for abandoning her to struggle alone. Apologize?

She’d rather eat her own horn than tell the Reaper a damn thing along those lines.

Either way, she wasn’t sure anyone in the Basin actually trusted another or not. She would place her own life on the hooves of very few, and from her encounters and moments shared with her herd, she had discovered that most were not the sort of hearts to love and trust even themselves, much less others. Surely, there were such kind souls as Lena and Huyana among them, but most were bitter and black as Illynx’s own.

Perhaps she was reading a Chevy manual while trying to fix her Ford.

A long silence fills the air while she breathes in and out, pondering the lessons and words that the kind knight has imparted upon her, struggling with many of the concepts but attempting to reason them into her mind none the less. After several minutes, she turns her eyes back to the strange friend she has found in the cold night, a golden leg reaching out to crush the snow beneath her hoof with a crisp crunch.

"I haven’t been truthful towards you," she begins, the knowledge she had just absorbed pressing her to explain herself and the endless ream of questions to her companion, her carefully crafted guise tossed over the stone edge into the sea, "I seek these answers for myself. By what you say, I should be less disguised in my approach." She looks at him for a moment, seriousness writ in her expression and her eyes still sad and weary. "I am the Lady Illynx, not just Illynx. The mountains, behind us, they are mine and my kin’s," her frown grows dire once more, gaze shooting back out to the tossing water to hide her imperfections despite her desires to be less of a cactus.

"I… I did not want you to know. I feared you would tell Apollo of turmoil, that it would be a stain upon the glory of my people, a temptation to dragons to avenge the blood spilt between us in past seasons and a reason to disdain our herd further," she glances down to her gold tipped limbs, stares them down as if they are going to do something magical at any moment. It’s all a sham to assist her in keeping tears trapped. "But the only stain is myself.”

Perhaps I should follow Psyche into nowhere.