Caneo;

He is trying. Caneo's features for the first time pull taut, his pale eyes narrowed and his ears canted back against the fury of this unnecessary explosion. Evidently, he has struck a nerve — or opened a vein of something caustic. Weaving ever so slightly, the silver creature steps back, and he winces at the sound of the black thing's voice. Why? He has not seen anything so damaged in a long time. When last he did, he was young and fearful; now he examines the horror with pity. It is a shame, isn't it? Why are you yelling, Uncle? My ears are fine, you see....

"Sorry," Caneo offers frankly when a pause comes in the storm. His own head tilts to mirror the mad stallion's more obscene posture. Did kindness trigger this? Even Caneo's poor excuse for it? Or did pity spark the whole fire, awake whatever beast lay sleeping under the scars and dull black flesh? Caneo thinks, though he doesn't know, it may burn out sooner than later. And what then? Does it even have a home to walk back to?

One of Caneo's ears twitches as the stranger carries on. Children? he thinks; he has not mentioned them. Something sly crinkles the edges of his mouth. Yours, maybe he thinks, and his tail twitches. He says nothing, of course. The old one still rambles; Caneo listens despite himself. He thinks, maybe the apparition at the beginning was a trick of his own mind, a fallacy, and there is nothing about the stranger worth keeping. He thinks, maybe he ought to let it wend down on its own, when it chooses —

The snake recoils.

Caneo moves, too, almost at the same time. Nervous impulse strikes them both the moment the shadow launches forward. And if it thought his stillness meant lack of readiness — inexperience — it was mistaken. Maybe Caneo has never been a hunter, but he knows everything about what means to be prey. He's not about to succumb to the jaws of a toothless wolf yet.

He darts to the side, his cloven hooves flicking nimbly up out of the grass, as the serpent twists her coils tight around his ears and through the sparse silver hairs of his forelock. The sensation annoys him enough that he must concentrate to avoid tossing his head and throwing her off; in a moment he hesitates and she readjusts, and he is tenser now, watching watching watching, wondering if the black thing will charge through the place where he was and go over the edge, finding the quick way down.

And would that be a tragedy?

"Really?" He says, the words a little rushed around the quickness of his breath. But he's careful to make certain there's no fear in them, no single hint of real concern for his well-being or his soul-partner's. "Why would you kill us? I'm not any son of yours."

all the children painted diagrams of god upon their hands