His conversation with Roskuld has descended into a blur, given the constant haze of pain he has been in since. Given that it was such an important conversation with so many revelations, this is not ideal. He remembers some of it, and the knowledge has been filed away deep in his mind - but, at the moment, it is too raw for him to enter that box and free the emotions stashed within. To know that he finally has his answers about Isopia is just too daunting at this moment, and although it strikes him as cowardice to do so, he's refusing to acknowledge them just yet. When he's less volatile, when the recent events have had time to cool down, then he can begin to assess.

So when the Earth God begins to speak, it is almost like new information for the young leviathan. The emotions and the knowledge in the iron box in Volterra's mind begin to quiver, thrashing against the chains he's bound them in.

He, is the first word. A son. The behemoth visibly flinches, averting his gaze from the deity as he allows himself to picture their little boy as he should have been. Alive, perfect. Loved, adored, raised as the prince he is. "I hope he is at peace." Volterra's voice is barely higher than a whisper, but still clearly audible. The pain upon his face is clear to see, written as though in ink across each frown line and distraught twitch of sinew.

A thought occurs to him, and he allows a brief glint of hope to billow across his eyes. He looks up to the God as if in prayer, and the question that leaves his lips is afire with ill-placed faith. "Can you...speak to the dead?" he asks. It strikes him as a stupid question, and yet, and yet...the Gods can do anything. They can bless the living with awesome power, can whisk amulets and companions from beneath their wings, and have the power to evade death entirely. Is it beyond the realms of belief for them to be able to speak to the dead, too? Volterra has never given a great deal of thought to what happens after, but during his few musings he likes to think that you remain, watching over the living. Perhaps a God can break that wall and speak with the lost, know them as they were before they were claimed by the abyss.

The God continues, and Volterra listens despite knowing that the truth - again - will hurt him beyond belief. He has to be brave, even though hearing it again will not be any less painful than hearing it from Roskuld. It'll be worse, in fact, because there's still a part of him that dares believe the spark-mare may be wrong, may have misunderstood. From the Earth God, however, it can only be the truth. The box in his mind wobbles again, but he still refuses to confront everything he already knows. Once Father Earth says it, though, he will be able to evade it no longer. His muscles quiver and he contemplates fleeing, covering his ears and leaving, but he stands tall and firm. Indomitable.

He confirms that Isopia is hard to read, and Volterra finds himself nodding. It is reassuring that, perhaps, it is not just his own rank stupidity that has hidden the truth for so long - that it may be something in Isopia's innate nature that makes her veil her emotions. He knows this. It wasn't long after that, before her sides had really begun to swell that she met both Kid and Zhu. The God looks at him, clearly disapproving, and the stallion dips his head, abashed. Normally he would staunchly defend his life choices and point out that he isn't a swan, isn't monogamous, that he's a horse with urges and natural instinct, but senses that now is not the time. He agrees to an extent; it was too much, too soon. He should have been careful. He wouldn't trade any of his children for the world, but there is a little voice in his head that likes to point out he could still have had them in the future. Three years old is too tender an age to be a father of six, with a seventh dead in the ground.

Confirmation comes that meeting Tyrath was the straw that broke the camel's back. The behemoth gives a sad sigh and stares at the floor, ears flopping sorrowfully to either side. Cousins, adds the God. That is an interesting concept - Volterra always wondered if the Gods were related, but this seems to legitimize it. "It does not excuse me of my sins, but I did not know of Aithniel's heritage when Tyrath was conceived. Szar, the situation is a mess. I love each of my children dearly, and would not trade them for the world. I only wish that I could have explained things to Isopia before she met them - she may have understood a little more." All in all, the situation is a clusterfuck, to use a technical term. Misunderstandings, errors, lack of communication. There's nothing that can be done to alter the past - he can only change the future.

She found herself in the middle of a spar.

Volterra jerks so hard that Vadir shrieks her rage from his back. "A spar," he repeats numbly. Blood has suddenly begun to pound in his ears, and the pain in his ribs seems to have abated slightly as a tidal wave of different possibilities bounce around in his head. "I thought she miscarried." He racks his brains to remember the conversation during the fight, but concludes that no, Isopia had never directly said that the child had miscarried. He'd just assumed....but this changes everything. "She sparred despite knowing she was pregnant?" Surely clever Isopia would know better? Even Volterra, thick as he is, knows that pregnant mares must keep away from the battlefield. Then it hits him, a bullet between his eyes, the thing he's tried not to think about since he heard of the child's death, the thing he's considered during his darkest hours but has never truly allowed himself to believe. "Or she sparred because she was pregnant?"

The world seems to crash around him. His knees wobble, weak, and his brain hammers against the inside of his skull. No. It cannot be true. She wouldn't...would she? He does not believe it of her. Volterra, a man who abhors the killing of children above all else, cannot believe that his beloved kis hollo would do something so...repugnant. She wouldn't.

But what if she did?

"No," he says sharply, to himself more than the Earth God. "I do not want to know." Please don't tell me. He can't have Isopia - and their child's - memories sullied by this knowledge. He cannot live, knowing that their foal's death may not have been a simple accident, a cruel quirk of fate. Given his vow to eliminate everybody who harms a child, he cannot have it confirmed that this happened on purpose. He cannot bear to make the choice between his iron-hard beliefs, or the woman he loves.

"Coward", comes a voice, and he realises it is Vadir's. It is the first word she has spoken to him since their argument; he should have realised she would be listening to every word. He pins his ears and ignores her.

"I hope I am not overstepping my boundaries here, föld királya," he says cautiously; an obvious attempt to change the subject. "But in your opinion, can things be repaired between myself and your daughter?" Hope glows in those eyes again - he isn't asking how they can be repaired, because he knows he has to figure that out for himself. He can't take the easy way out and get the God to sort his problems for him. But he needs to know if Father Earth thinks it possible - because after all, he knows his daughter better than anybody else.