She chooses the God of the Earth's shrine; approval flares in the goliath's thick chest. Of all the Gods, Father Earth is the only one he has reason to respect. From the moment he met the God when he was just a wet-eared boy and received an amulet for his troubles, he has held a deep sense of reverence for the behemoth deity. He is strong, stalwart, and the sire of Isopia - don't think about her, not now, not ever. Volterra is quietly confident that the earthen giant will obey Aquila's call and help her get whatever it is she seeks.

As the mare begins to speak, the beast's suspicions are confirmed. She does not ask for power for herself; she does not request venom in her barbs, or a companion to meld to her soul. She asks for her people, and suddenly the stallion's flesh begins to twitch - he feels like he's intruding, like Aquila should be doing this alone, away from prying eyes. He glances away and shuts his lids over the crimson irises within, saying a silent prayer of his own to the great Earth God. Please, come to her. Help her.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes. The giant opens his eyes and looks from the shrine to Aquila, but Father Earth is nowhere to be found.

She tries again. Her voice grows more frantic, a shout, a cry, a need. Pain spears the leviathan's chest as he looks at her; strong Aquila, steadfast Aquila, she of the razor teeth and razor tongue, bellowing her command at a God that refuses to answer her. It hurts him, to look at her. He doesn't understand why - he is not an empathetic creature, who feels the pain of his fellow horses, who shares their misery and their fear. But there's just something about seeing this primal, raw display of want - something about seeing this Aquila laid bare in front of him - that makes him ache for her, that makes him want to cross heaven and earth to try and bring her people home.

But he can't. If the Gods can't, neither can he, a mere mortal. His head lowers, crushed beneath the weight of failed promises. "Aquila..." His voice is soft, the opening rumble of a storm rather than the full-fledged wrath of an earthquake, and he steps slowly towards her. As he does, she crumples like a house of cards, tumbles to her knees. The ache deepens, because no proud woman should be humbled in such a manner. It is wrong...A tiny fragment of his respect for the Gods slips away. They will answer requests for power for individual Helovians, but not for those who try to save their own race?

He leans down to her, tries to press his massive head to her scaled neck. "Víz királynő, I'm sorry." What else can he say? What else can he do, but try to offer support? And what support can he truly offer? He is not one of her people - he is just a man she happened to fight, a man who happened to have a handful of knowledge about the Gods.

Perhaps he should never have mentioned this to her. From the moment he spoke of the Gods and their power, he was setting her up for a fall.