He is honorable, despite his malformed body, she takes note of; it is something to remember. If she is to ever need this Midas, he might be counted on, for the golden nature of his heart – and that same gold could be manipulated under the right circumstances, the sort of men that would do anything for the sake of goodness and justice. Even the child within her mind, still more present than usual as the plague slips from her body and her mind restores itself to sanity, balks at these notions. Illynx has enough truth in her life to disprove either theory – goodness was in the eye of the beholder, and justice was dictated by the idealistic plots of leaders who, perhaps, had no right at all to make such decisions.

Psyche had trusted her to lead a herd, after all. Not all leaders were cut from perfect molds.

She returns his smile, the same shimmering expression that is always pretty and almost always means nothing. In this instance, it is not entirely empty – she does owe him her life, after all, at least one in which she controls the path, but her hate scared heart cannot let it be as true as those she might have shared with him were she someone else.

All she owes him, as far as she is concerned, is the faith that his death will not come by her hooves.

She cannot promise that the Reaper will not find him, or proud Zuriel; she may be the Lady of the mountain, but only so much control could be kept over wolves, a lesson she had learned many times in her years among the horned people of the Basin. All she knows is that Midas is safe from her, so long as he does nothing to devalue his service to her; perhaps, even, the painted stallion might come to be considered a strange friend of sorts, an animal she allows near her when the act is of mutual benefit.

He is not surprised that he has been heard of in the Basin, and she smiles softly again in response, perfectly timed with the easy cadence of his words. His chuckle fills her ears and she finds herself caught in its light, for though she does not remember how he was spoken of, precisely, she knows it wasn’t pleasant.

At least he shares the same joke with her, judging by that grin on his face.

"We speak naught but good of our neighbors outside the vale," playfully retorts the minx, her smile light and girlish on her face as she allows herself to fall into her own giggling, lured by the sound of the stag’s own tender laughter. He is not so bad, really; she only hates him for his wings and the way he is so much better than her, able to forgive the gracelessness of her kin when she herself would not have done the same for him.

That she can only vaguely grasp that he annoys her with his knight in shining armor act is all the more frustrating, and she finds that the ring of her own sounds of elation are hollow within her head, and the notes fall into silence.

She nods as he offers his farewell, not truly sad to see him go just as she is not truly enamored with him for saving her life. Had he worn a horn, she might have insisted that he stay with her and share more of his company; he reminded her, in a way, of sweet Ciceron that she had met that evening along the foot of the Steppe, but more matured and rounded. Midas can see the shadow of the world where Ciceron had seen only the misty changing of light to darkness.

It nags within the back of her mind, as well, that it is likely few went to find her after she had gone missing. After all, the last who had seen her was Deimos – and Deimos was no more a friend to her than the man before her, and perhaps thrice as dangerous, for he ruled alongside her and could keep pets much closer than the Throat could.

"May we meet again, Midas," she says softly, standing to look about her after a momentary pause and choosing where she would seek out her kin first. A final look is cast to the armored stallion before she drifts away from him, crown held proud in defiance of the muddled mess her mind is currently in.