Myrrine.

That was her name.

Large ears slowly perked forward as she introduced herself with poise and elegance that Vincent hardly expected a child to know how to use. She proceeded to speak of his eyes, and how they glowed beautifully, and that made the stallion balk a little more. Head raising high, hooves scrabbling at the dirt and grass, the brute snorted fearfully. They did? His eyes glowed? Oh... Oh, of course. He remembered now. In his fear and anxiety, the large beast often forgot his little defect. It made hiding while terrified horribly troubling and damn-near impossible, for enemies and predators could pick him out in darkness with ease.

"M-Myrrine..." He said softly, tongue rolling in his mouth as he voiced the youth's very own name with little stutters, as though tasting the name and trying to place it. Myrrine. Molten-gold oculars narrowed in contemplation.

He would remember her, this little winged she-child. Her voice, her sweet scent, and how when she spoke, Vincent felt like a living soul for the first time in a long time. He'd remember it all.

There was no initiation upon meeting this child, unlike every other youth he had ever greeted. There was no mutilation, no murder, no flashing of hooves and teeth, no fighting that lead to death, no blood for the child to drink... Like when Brother-Knox was born. Vincent visibly shuddered in revulsion and rekindled terror at remembering the day that Knox had drawn his first breath, free of Mandrake's loins. Of how Mother - She - had ordered Vincent to act, to pull forth that wretched halter from the Sentinel and strap it to his young, new-born brother's head.

The brute's large chest began to shudder, his lungs suddenly unable to draw enough breath to fill his frame as his wrought and wretched mind drew him back into that terrible, awful time. Archibald had been his only solace, the only one who loved him for not being a good son. But he had tried! He had always tried! Vincent had always tried to be a good son...

So lost as he was within his own wretched reverie, Vincent was oblivious to how the young she-child, how Myrrine had ventured to the side of the pond once more and had dipped one thin, dainty hoof within the cool morning waters. The squeal that erupted from her tiny mouth caused Vincent to jump, the massive bulk of his body jerking to the right and away from the sound of terror. Of pain. Of agony and suffering and make it stop, make it STOP!

I'll be a good son! I'll be a good son! Stay AWAY!

The words would not come, his breath would not draw, and his heart... His heart continued to beat, even though Vincent wished nothing more than for it to stop. Golden glowing eyes brightened considerably in his sudden bout of memory-driven panic, and Vincent's large, dinner-plate hooves were almost ready to move and run when Myrrine spoke.

She spoke.

And salvation took him.

Like a soothing, minty balm coated by loving hands over a crude, stinging burn, Myrrine's sweet, apologetic voice mollified the black brute's terror, sinking through the sludge-like fear that clung to his mind and wiped it all clean. Her voice, welcome and familiar, caused the stark glow of golden-eyes to dull, until finally there was no glowing left. Only sad, scared molten-gold oculars. Her words didn't register within his mind, not at first, but near the end of her sweet, song-like voice, Vincent understood.

She wanted to help him bathe.

"A-Alright," Vincent choked out, her calmness, her gentleness and kindness pushing him to speak, "You... You c-can help, Myrrine. I d-don't mind." Her help or the cold water that awaited. She was not like the others. She was not like Abraham. Like Mandrake. No... She was far more than they, like Archibald, for she was good. Because of this, he could trust her... He would trust her.

Slowly, as though the water may grab hold of his legs and rip them from his very body, Vincent stepped into the cool liquid, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. It was rather frigid, but he welcomed it, and slowly the hulking beast sank down to his knees within the pond, dirt and filth tainting the pristine water. With a soft, hitched grunt, Vincent shifted so that he was laying halfway upon his side, tucking his thickly feathered legs close to his body. This way, Myrrine could reach his back and withers... Hopefully.

Letting the cold water soak through his being and wash the muck from his black hide, Vincent eyed the she-child once again. Her wings were quite extraordinary, and rather pretty. They suited her. "Do... Do you fly?" He wondered what it was like, to take to the skies and fly like a bird. How very easy it would be to escape danger and troubles.

@[Myrrine]

I clutched my life
And wished it kept.
My dearest love I'm not done yet