No dreams within her heart,
but dreams of love.

Behind her, the ocean mare recognizes when Enna wakes—sparing a brief glance to see that the brown mare has roused from her unconsciousness, and is able to lift herself to her hooves. That is enough for Tiamat now, knowing that her dear friend is well enough to move, even if she leaves the battlefield soon after (surely, Tiamat would wish for nothing else, but for the Mender to put distance between herself and further injury). However, nearly all of the blue mare’s attention is directed towards the very center of the turmoil—where the winged filly plunges forward, recklessly throwing herself into harm’s way.

With her heart leaping, throbbing, and twisting painfully in her terror, Tiamat thrusts herself forward, ignoring the cry of instinct that tempts her away—away, far from this violence and chaos and hate—as she wills her slender legs to carry her further into the mass of rioting bodies. By some miracle, perhaps with her mother’s watchful guidance, the ocean mare is able to avoid any collision. White eyes are fixated on Galiel, a shriek of concern choking in her throat when she sees the filly electrocuted and plummeting towards the ground.

The world stops—slows—the cries and hounds of battle suddenly fading into the heartbeat that thumps wildly in her ears. From somewhere, Tiamat knows that she is crying, calling out in desperation for the pale filly, but she cannot seem to hear her own voice above the pounding. Her legs don’t move fast enough, and it feels like an eternity has passed before she finally reaches where Galiel has fallen. “Galiel—!” Tiamat gasps in desperation, sliding to an unceremonious halt and hovering worriedly over the gangly body.

Time passes and the chaos slowly quiets, the roar of combat fading into the painful, woeful cries of a war’s terrible aftermath. Anxiously, she waits for Galiel to stir, her breath held and her heart hammering until she sees the young one’s ice blue eyes. “Oh, Galiel,” the mare breathes in an overwhelming sigh of relief, tears springing to the back of her eyes and despite the budding of frustration at the filly’s disobedience, she smiles warmly. “You don’t need to apologize, little one,” Tiamat brushes her cheek gently, her attention then shifting to the filly’s tremoring muscles. “Just hold still—or, try to,” a light, tense laughter slips from her lips, “try to relax.”

Arching her neck to comb through her collection of herbs, the ocean mare settles first on a combination of chamomile and arnica flowers—the first is meant to ease the muscle spasms, and the second is an anesthetic (she doesn’t give Galiel enough to make her sleep, not yet, but enough to help her relax). “Eat these for me, they should help calm your muscles,” she offers the sprigs to the winged filly, turning then to make a salve for the mild burn wounds that are laced across Galiel’s shoulders and legs, the repercussion of the energy surging through her little body.


notes; Tends to Galiel's wounds c:
“Speech.”