She says she is sorry, and I can't help but respond with something like a shrug. I am sorry for a lot of things too. I am sorry for taking her prisoner, when it really isn't needed. I am sorry for being too selfish and afraid to stand back there and fight, rather than waste my time chaining up healers on the run. I am sorry that I cannot speak, to tell her, it's okay, or, it doesn't matter. Because, well because it doesn't. Sorry doesn't fix anything, so it's just empty words and those are the worst of all. So I shrug it away, dust in the wind of our conversation.

When she doesn't respond to my offered muzzle after a moment, I am hurt. I take it in stride, because I deserve it, but I still always hate that sensation of rejection no matter how minor. I glance away to hide the little sliver she wounded me with, and I walk on. I stop only when I've regained some sense of smile again, and so I try it out when I gaze back over my shoulder at her. She's on her feet, and for whatever mistrust and blame she places on me, is not enough to keep the light tone from her voice or the curiosity either. My smile widens in earnest, pleased that perhaps, just perhaps I can mend this after all.

Unfortunately she asks many questions that are difficult for me to answer. I suppose it's a good thing she's rather more perceptive than most, else this conversation would have died long ago. I want to tell her home, but I haven't the faintest idea of how to represent that idea. So instead I just shake my head, bumping my nose against the tracks I suspect she left behind as I walk back the way I had seen her coming. Each stride I take brushes my whiskers over the earth, and it tickles, and I feel itchy, like I need to roll in said dirt. After a few paces I pause, unable to resist, and drop for a quick roll in the meadow and the soil. Like a sponge my ink leeches off of me, spattering the ground with little flecks of darkness. I rise, seemingly no dirtier than before as the iridescent sheen of my wet-looking pelt continues to shine. I once tried to scrub the ink off myself, tried to wash it off too, but neither worked. I think I was a different color once, long ago...

Shaking myself off as I stand back up, I toss her a rough grin; boyish despite my years. I kick up my heels playfully, then run off abruptly, eyes still tracing the ground for her pattern as I go.