Navy eyes stare up, finally clearing in the brief moments his body surrendered to the infection, as the black and white beauty called him “weak”— accused him of not acting like a King. “I may not be queen but I am no less concerned with the well being of this herd than you are. I am a Doctor, Tembovu.” He was, for once, below the mare, no longer at his proud height above her. It mirrored the condescension and exasperation in her tone. A labored breath (it was hard to breath in his bowing state, let alone while ravaged with fever) blasted from his nostrils, and then hoarse words resounded from his barrel, “I might mistake you for an Executioner rather than a Doctor, so quick are you to judge.”
“Let me heal you.” The edges of his vision clouded for a moment, before a harsh, roaring short forced the blackness away. Cobalt eyes, which had never left the mare’s burning green, finally fell to the injured knee stretched out before him. His massive horn, edges and tip so sharp, were close to the seeping suppuration— his great neck bowed once in a shallow nod, pale muzzle and dark lips brushing against the snow as his mighty head lost dignity. But, on a quiet and feverish rumble, he was not robbed of his kingly right to know, “Why are you healing me, Alysanne? Why, if you think so little of me?” Though he wished to know the answer, speaking is was kept his fevered mind here, in the present, rather than drifting into blackness. Dull, navy eyes raise once more to her burning green; a King bowed before a Doctor.
@Alysanne have my dramatic post.