Strange stallion cannot feel remorse for his actions. Mother at last speaks the words every one of her sons longs to hear. The words of acceptance and a strange sort of kindness that seal a colt's fate. She says he is her son, she looks upon him with pride and perhaps a bit of love. But he does not feel like her son, he does not feel as if she is his mother.

For he is the son of Roanne the Sentinel. He holds the memories of his father and the memories of freedom- a knowledge of revenge prevails. It was a foolish thing to feed him the Sentinel's blood and gift him with his bridle. Nevermore will he be his mother's son, for he knows what lies beyond the life at her command.

Still he cannot smile. His situation is as such that there is little to do but condemn himself to this life and push aside the guilt. he leaves the corpse with a parting glance and strides closer to his mother. The threat of physical contact is neither revolting or appealing, but he reaches for brush his cheek against her neck nonetheless. He remembers the feel of the kill, the stone cold silence and the emptiness he felt. There was no rush or high; it had been as simple as taking a breath. Now he stands close to his mother, just as he had done before with Tillas. He considers how simple it could be to snap her neck, how unsuspecting she might be and how freeing it might be.

Manhattan interrupts his sociopathy with a gentle whine and a nudge of her head against his leg. She is hungry and anxious; the magic has left her weak and frightened. Strange stallion backs away to look Mother in the eye; he sees nothing there, feels nothing from them. Beside him Manhattan pants and whines; rises on hind legs to lean against him and run claws along his flesh. She longs for the chase of a hunt, yet Knox knows better than to let her do anything other than rest now.

"I must tend to her, Mother," he says swiftly and coldly. There is no emotion in his tone, there is nothing. "The magic has left her weak and the kill has left me weary- shall we retire? If it would be your wish, we might first feast upon a kill." His eyes wander over the still corpse. He feels no irksome sense at the thought of eating the flesh of the slain. He has drunk blood before, has now snapped a neck and watched another die by his will. What difference would a meal make?