Angry as she is, the little mare jumps at the sound of the thing they call her, the pretty flower that must be sort of her but not really. Maybe it is her plant, like Willow is the plant of Willow? She turns to find the source of the voice, but from behind the mass of surging bodies and sweaty anger, it is hard for her to see, to peer around chests and withers and distinguish only half-remembered family. Still, the voice is familiar, and as it speaks again it says a word she knows. Heal.

There was blood.

She follows the feel of it on the earth, and she comes to the black unicorn who was yelling, and she pauses because the extent of his injuries is very much. She wonders how he got them, because she does not think that horses usually get that hurt just walking around, but then again she tends to fall down when she is not paying attention and maybe he was too angry to pay attention and he forgot and fell off a big cliff? But he does not really have falling off a cliff, hurt. He looks to her as though he fell into a fire, and she wonders where he found a fire big enough to fall into, and why he did not get out sooner.

She steps towards him, and from beneath her feet vines sprout, long and vibrant, with great large leaves. She does not think about it or ask before directing one to the stallion; she merely glares. "No yell," she cautions, afraid of his anger, angry at his rage. The vine curls up and clings to his shoulder, wrapping through the stubble of his charred mane and slapping blooming thick leaves upon the deeper burns. It is not gentle, a reflection of her disjointed turmoil, confused tendency towards discontent that pesters her determination to fix this stallion. She lets the vine work and reaches down, nosing through the ground to pull out a gob of muddy, rooty grass.

The Earth God's gifts make this, too, glow. She presses it against his shoulder, grabbing more, pressing it on his neck, the scarred and raw burn of his face. She is determined and focused; she ignores the outside world. The vine settles over the muddy grass, holding it flush against his damaged form, before she snaps it away from its base. She steps back now and admires her handiwork, the vines wrapped tightly about squelchy mud, the whole contraption glowing with a faint, pleasant light.

She shudders, suddenly, muscles aching with the exhaustion of her efforts, and nearly falls into him, crimson eyes struggling to stay open. She is sleepy. She wants Willow.