He remembers his conversation with Airlia, where she said that in her homeland, weak foals were destroyed. Volterra objected strongly to this sentiment - as he believes the murder of a child is the worst kind of crime, the most heinous and disgusting example of cowardice - but now, as he looks down at his daughter, he can't help a wicked train of thought from creeping into his skull and asking would it really be that bad? Would it not be kinder to put down this poor, ruined girl? The notion revolts him, turns his stomach, but he wonders if it would not be more merciful than letting her live. She will never see the world around her; she will never observe her mother's face, or see the sun rise to herald a new day, or even witness the stark beauty of the frozen north and the wicked heat of the desert south. She will never soar across the land on her wings, observing everything from the heavens like the goddess she is. She is doomed to exist in a world of darkness, a world of untold horror.

It would be merciful to kill her now, rather than sentence her to a lifetime of suffering.

But he can't. She's not just any child, she is his child. What sort of useless father would he be if he simply killed her because of his own failure? Would that not make him worse than all the child-murdering fuckers he so easily condemns, because he had it in his power to stop it happening? No force on earth could have mutilated his daughter in front of him - he'd have slayed them where they stood. His negligence, his tardiness, caused this to happen to her.

If any deserve to die for their sins, it's him. His throat aches, his belly heaves, and his heart feels like a blackened pit of misery. This emotion is new to him - usually, if he does something wrong (such as slipping in battle) then he disguises it with anger. And, indeed, there's anger here, a palpable rage and desire to tear apart his daughter's assailant, a great drive for vengeance and vindication. But the deep-rooted howl of failure is in his bones, far stronger and purer than the fury that quivers in his hardened muscles. This is more raw than anger, and also far, far worse. Anger, he can channel. Anger, he can use to destroy his opponents. But this? Failure? It is simply weakness.

And it's all his fault. He failed. His daughter is relegated to this because of his failure.

He wants to scream, to bellow at the heavens. He hates this emotion - it hurts. He, who is so good at channeling unwanted emotions into ones he can control, is powerless to stop this. Ironically, he thinks the Earth God will be impressed with him for this - it might even help him in his quest, but he would happily trade it in for a more familiar feeling if he could. If he could force this completely into anger, then he would be fine.

But he can't.

You. He drags his attention back to the mare, the dam. He should blame her, too, for she had been as negligent as he. But what could she have done even if she'd been there? Weak from childbed, he doubts she could have fought off the attacker. That was his job. In return for the pleasure she'd brought him, he owed it to her to protect her child. He didn't. He fucking didn't.

She's speaking again, garbled, senseless babble. The leviathan looks at her, panting with the force of the emotions that scream inside him. "What?" Shit, he'd been right - she isn't all there. He has no idea what she's saying, except for when she mentions Zhu - his eyes darken and narrow, and his anger momentarily ebbs away to be replaced by confusion. "Zhu? What does he have to do with...what are you talking about, woman? Your child has just been mutilated and all you can do is babble shit at me?" His own temper breaks through like a tidal wave; it bubbles over, adding an edge to his words and a burning fire to his eyes.

Then she changes, and he forces himself to soften. "It is not your fault," he forces out, although there's a part of him that wonders what sort of mother just wanders away after giving birth. What could be so important that it couldn't have waited until her child was at least strong enough to follow? She was stupid, yes, but that does not excuse Volterra's negligence. "It is mine - I should have been here. I'm always at the births now, I'm always there, and I wasn't, and now she's...." He stamps a hoof, pinning his ears and bearing his teeth. Ach, he loathes emotions like these. "I will find who did this, and I will have justice for her." He looks down to the girl, the ruined girl, and breathes hard. "What is her name?"