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She felt her knees tremble, though if it was the wind or the pains doing, she had no idea. The air billowed around her, slapping her braid against the cuts upon her neck and forcing the great mare to shudder. She was used to pain. Her mother ad not been the gentle creature regaled in children's stories. No, her mother had been a warrior, and had been a strict teacher out of necessity to survive. The land the mare came from was as harsh and as volatile as the horses who lived there. She was used to punishment. That was not what bothered her, now.
The image of the pain-filled yet determined gaze of the filly was ingrained into her mind. The single white tear stain that blemished her otherwise cobalt pelt was vivid in her memories and she doubted it would leave her quickly. She had hurt the child; beaten her until the filly simply could not fight anymore. That was not honorable. Artemis was no fighter for justice. That child - no, that warrior - was trying to protect her home. Artemis could only respect that, and knowing that she had scarred and battered a mere filly was what hurt the grey mare the most.
She gritted her teeth, letting out a rumble of anger at her own idiocity. She knew she shouldn't let pity get in her way. This was home now, even if it did not feel like it. This was what she fought for. Sentiment and childish ideals should not stop her. yet it had. She could have damaged the child much more, yet she had stopped her attacks short; taken more damage than she should have allowed. She was a failure, despite her victory. She would not blame the Grey for sending her back where she came from. She was weak, and she could feel it.
Artemis? She glanced up, eyes vacant as the body of a stallion materialized through the darkness. She had half expected him not to answer her meek call. He looked upon her with sympathy, his gaze soft, yet she saw only pity. She turned away for a moment, but her pride was already wounded. There was no point in trying to hide it. She turned back, hesitantly, as she stood and shifted nervously from one bruised leg to the wounded one. It hurt no matter which she bore weight upon. His words sounded kind enough, though she wasn't sure how to respond. She managed a meek smile and shrugged her shoulders. "I have been in worse shape and recovered." She said simply.
It was true enough, though it meant weeks of rest - something the wanderer was not good at. Are you in pain? He asked. Why did he sounds so damned kind, anyway? Shouldn't she be ridiculed for being maimed by a child? Instead he offered to help her - to heal her. The mare was never before witnessed magic, for in her harsh land magic was a rare gift that few possessed, and her mother certainly was no mage. She frowned, glancing up toward his muzzle with caution. She was apprehensive, yet her wounds burned and the harsh kisses of the wind further fueled the fire her blood was bringing to the surface. Reluctantly, she nodded silently, eyes falling once again to the earth. Was this weakness too? To rid herself of pain that bore deservedly? She stood, patient and quiet, for some time, allowing him to do what he had to do. It was several minutes before she spoke up; "I ...Hope I served your people well, lord." She murmured, head falling an inch, eyes unfocused. She sighed softly, closing her orbs for a moment. She felt so useless and alone. If she was at least somewhat useful, at least then she would have purpose. If she did not then, why did she survive? Why did she not die in her mothers place?
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