Intimately he feels as if by looking at her in a way a man looks at a concubine, he has done something wrong. Did Argetlam imagine the trace of scorn in her eyes before she looked the other way, feminine and slender as ever? He did not think so. Instead, he felt deeply wrong. I didn't intend to look like that, the metal-bender wanted to tell her, and apologize, and offer his condolences for his behavior, but the words dried up on his tongue when he opened his mouth. The gentle peace-keeper did not dream of forced breeding and intimacy, or of having a harem of mares as some might. Mares were equal to stallions, just as the breeds were equal to each other, the stallion was convinced.

The dark stallion, so crudely colored as Ailith has said, moves with long, awkward strides, shifting from side to side, weaving slightly, never quite moving purposefully or acting as if he has a destination. Here and there he pauses for a moment, nostrils flaring, but aside from Ailith's wild-scent he does not detect anything in the warm summer's air. It takes him a while to answer the question she poses him, and he thinks through his answer carefully in that simplistic, easy way he does.

First of all, what is a prison of mindless souls? She said lost. But mindless souls seem to be often the same material as lost, for a lost horse does not know where to go or what goals he, or she, has in this life. "A lost soul is frequently the same as a mindless." Argetlam said slowly, puzzling through the conundrum she had presented him with. Call him whatever you like, but he was not the most intelligent of individuals, or clever. Peaceful, gentle, caring, and open to the world, but he was simple. If he didn't understand something, he left it to others to understand. No confusion. Only focusing on his dreams and goals. A moment or two later he announces abruptly; "This is not a prison, if that's what you mean. You are free to choose whatever path you want, to achieve what you want. We are your family, and we will accept you unless you strive to break us apart, no matter how well or not-well you know us." A pause, and then- "The only horse who can push you somewhere is yourself."

As for his own goal, his own driving force, would Ailith laugh at him? Smirk? She seemed a fox, not a warrior, a sleuth not a fighter, but nevertheless he couldn't drive the feeling she would snicker. Yes, they were, surprisingly enough, seeming to become friends, despite their outlandish differences, but stopping war? Surely anyone would laugh at that. At reluctant last, the metal-bender mutters, his voice soft and words awkward, "My own goal is to invent something that stops war. No more fighting. Not ever." Because war breaks families apart. War separates children from parents. Battles strip us from our morals and wants. Argetlam hopes dearly she won't laugh, turning his head from her to gaze off through the trees, through the golden light and the tall trees. Please don't laugh. It was strange- when had her opinion suddenly meant so much to him? He was always sensitive, but did he really care this much?