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Please, I am no lord to you, his kindly word muttered as she turned her head away, uncertain. In her mind, he was a lord, able to peer down upon his people from a pedestal. Brother was a term for those on even footing, for those she fought shoulder to shoulder with and nothing more than that. To suggest she refer to him as such suggested that the pair were equals, but Artemis knew that was no the case. it would never be the case. Not for this vagabond.
Stallions always had the one upon upon the lesser gender, their brutality in her homeland renowned and true. Ferocious, mares were prizes to be won, yet one barbarian had escaped that ate, carrying in her belly a daughter who would one day leave that place. So it came to be that Artemis grew as strong and as brave as the stallions who taunted her home land with their majesty, yet even so she still felt like she was missing something. Like something inside was not worthy of being anything more than a trophy. Perhaps her battle had simply stung her, wounding her pride and her honor, or maybe it had simply brought to the surface doubts that already lingered within her?
Still, she nodded slowly at his words. She could not speak, for what would she say? That she was unworthy of calling him brother? That she was weak, and his thoughts of her worth were untrue?
Quiet eyes lingered upon the earth as the painted stags horn lowered, reaching the ground with a touch as gentle as a kiss. Slowly, the kiss turned into a stung, and the sting into a bite as his horn dug into the sort dirt and as his horn was unsheathed the air around them seemed to dance, its scent as light and as sweet as the scent of early morning dew. Her eyes widened slightly, her ears pushing backwards in slight anticipation at the strange magic, but her legs were firm and un-moving as she forced herself to accept the light touched of Apollo's horn. Anyone who knew the mare knew that touch did not come easily to her, and the idea of allowing his sharp instrument to gently prod her wounds was not one she could easily accept.
Closing her eyes and bracing herself, she felt the crystalline horn gently touch her wounded side. Wincing slightly at the initial touch, the mare felt the pain ebbing slowly away, draining from the wound. The wounds tingled, et it was not an overly unpleasant feeling and slowly, cautiously, the mare opened her eyes. He had reached her wounded knee and she watched in stunned silence as the wound knitted together before her eyes, the pins and needle sensation fading into nothing as his horn withdrew.
The way he circled and scrutinized her body caused her to shift uncomfortably. It was true that she was not the perfect beauty, nor as slender as most of the mare that called these lands home. Her scarred bodice was more like rough, un-sculptured stone; battered, weather worn and bulky, nothing like the statuesque dancers that she often saw parading Helovia.
Soon enough, his eyes pulled away from her body, seemingly satisfied that he had not missed any cut, no matter how small. He was meticulous with his healing and as the magic subsided he sucked in a sharp breath. The mare took a step forwards, body acting on its own as a flash of concern graced her features. Yet he was still speaking of her pains, despite the strength the magic must had taken from him and she stopped in her tracks, freezing into place for a moment before she glanced sideways toward her own body. Carefully, she moved each leg one by one, stretching forwards tentatively and placing weight upon each sturdy pillar. The deep wound in her neck no longer throbbed with agony, soothed as if snow laden cloth was chilling the fire within. She felt a smile tease the corners of her lips. "Much better." She responded simple.
Much better in body, yes. But in mind? As she turned back toward him, she thought again of Laila. Had she a healer to tend to her wounds? Here Artemis stood, healthy as ever, victory taken easily from the fillies grasp, whilst the youngster bled and suffered. The smile faded from her lips as she glanced toward the lords muzzle. May I confess something to you, Apollo? She spoke gently, quietly, as if hoping he would somehow not hear her words and simply leave her alone to her thoughts. She glanced again to the ground. The earth around her seemed duller somehow, even under the lack of the sunlight. "The warrior I battled. She was inexperienced. A child." She whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. The badger marked tear stain was vivid in her mind. "There was no honor in that fight. No honor in any of it. The Grey... It troubles me. I do not wish to hurt the innocent again." Her words were true, and despite the shame she no doubt should feel for her weakness, she felt relieved. If the Grey wished her to fight the weak, then so be it. She would leave. If he told her she must fight who she was told to fight, then it would be the end of her life here.
Yet he was the Merciful. He called himself 'brother'. Would he simply call her coward and turn her away? She doubted it, and that in itself relieved her the most.
For the vagabond had no where, and no one, else to turn to.
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