Eventide is softly casting o'er the earth a magic spell,

And a love-song, everlasting, on the night wind seems to swell.

Under the Moon's gaze, wrapped and cradled within her sweet words of appreciation, the child trembled. She was too much to take in, too much to process, break down, analyze and even begin to understand. Likewise were the feelings she awoke within Erthë too jumbled, mixed up and vast to comprehend. Later she might recognize elation, joy and fierce affection within the mess, but right then and there it was mostly a sensation that she was about to burst open like fireworks - explosive snowdrops - from the intensity of it all.

But alas, every silver lining has a dark cloud.

Even as she stood there reeling from the gracious acceptance of her humble gift, harsh words shattered the fragile silence like a rock thrown into thin ice. The ripples that followed were black, sticky and spread like plague or the Labyrinth Lung, just without the added bonus of new perspectives. This Torleik, this now former king did not seem happy and his words sounded as though drenched in acid, bitter and scalding as he threw them around. The filly gaped at him as he called the Lady Moon all sorts of horrible things (words she quickly picked up, to repeat at a later time when the situation called for it), eyes growing wider and wider as the Goddess retorted with acerbic bite to every syllable.

Perhaps there was some flaw within the design of the pale dove, the frost-capped snowdrop, that attracted her so to darkness and violence. Despite her frail, innocent appearance she felt no fear over things most children would scream and cry over seeing. Death and violence, anger and hard words had made her uneasy, queasy, confused, angry and sad - but rarely frightened. Dying was a part of life, anger stemmed as often from love and care as from fright and hatred, violence, the shedding of blood was just a surrender of the mind to flesh - the breakdown of negotiations when words could no longer suffice to convey ones point of view.

At least, this was what Erthë believed. She was still young, still naive to much of the world. She had seen battle, violence and death yes - but those had been quick deaths, violence with purpose and battle that claimed few lives. As much as death could ever be glorious or purposeful, those had been so - there were, after all, worse ways to perish than quickly, at the point of a sword.

Still. Violence should be a last resort. Words were preferable to the feathered fawn, and though many words were used here it didn't seem to her that anyone managed to get their points across. Torleik seemed too angry, her Lady wrapped up in her rage like one snuggles their favorite blanket (oh, she seemed to enjoy this - the row, the rising tempers, the outbursts of raw, untempered emotion) and though her name got dragged into it the filly didn't pull back. Flinch - oh yes - but flee, when the Moon had just smiled at her? No way.

"Why are you leaving?" she asked the back of Torleik, her voice a misty whisper of wind against the backdrop of other's rumbling thunder. "Is it so bad to not be king, that you can't stay in the herd if you don't get to have the crown?"

She was not accusing, nor was she pleading. Instead the girl gazed at the black stallion with her head tilted, quizzical as though he was a riddle she wanted to solve - a puzzle she had not yet found a solution to.

"Maybe if you wait and get to know everyone better, we can help you do all that - recover and mend. And you can teach us to be honorable, the way you do it. There is plenty of space here, you will fit too - if you really want to?"

There was a mild query nestled within her last few syllables, as quiet and unassuming as her attempt to smile. Maybe he would choose not to hear her, maybe he had gone too far already to turn back. So many words have been spoken already - it would be like saying you didn't want the last strawberry only to change your mind when someone had already picked it up. Hard to admit - even harder to bend the stiff neck and apologize.

Though she spoke her piece the girl did not go deaf to the opinions of the others, those who chose to raise their voices to join in with the chorus. Pale eyes traveled between each and every one of them, from the gruff looking beard man to Tembovu for a reaction, to Alune and her father and finally back to the Goddess, thirsty for her approval and afraid that her stance had been too mellow, too soft for the fierce, feisty Immortal. Even so she listened and observed, absorbing every point and view and opinion, each different way to think - and though she secretly found the reason for the argument a bit silly, Erthë actually enjoyed the spectacle too. At least something was properly happening!