The hunter receives her voice like a call to action. Instantly Manhattan weaves between her master's legs and towards the source of the desperate, maddened cry. With Knox's mind firmly in control of his body, Manhattan is somewhat put at ease, but the stranger that approaches poses an uncomfortable threat. It is Knox, this time, who decides to interact. The hunter rolls his shoulders and sheds the magical cloak as if it is nothing more than a bothersome fly; as he emerges slowly from the shadow, he carries himself closer to the troubled mare. He feels strange, approaching her as if she is a friend.

But she is not a friend at all. She is just a sick, lonesome creature in this wretched, dying world. Her pain is almost tangible; he interprets her stance as a tacit acceptance of his approach when it is likely anything but. Unfortunately, Knox has never understood body language well, and so he walks on. His feathers trail in the cracked mud that cools and dries in the Orangemoon evening, leaving faint traces in the muck. Manhattan trots to keep up with Knox, flinging bits of pete up behind her but still staying silent. Her blue gaze flits uncomfortably back and forth between Knox and the strange mare. She trusts the hunter, but not the newcomer; she remains wary, and will for some time.

She trusts no one but him; he trusts no one but her. But others trust him, he knows this. The grey pegasus had trusted him enough to borrow his magic in return for whatever Zsoka has asked. Ophelia had trusted him when he knew no one- Tillas when she had stood unknowingly at death's door. Now he sees this vulnerable creature and feels the same pull. The pull to help her in the only way he knows how.

Like a song undetected in the midst of a crowd's chatter, silver mist drips from his eyes and climbs into those of the stranger. In the darkness of blindness, perhaps she will find calm- he hopes that she won't be spooked by his attempt. His voice becomes a guide- the soft sensation of his breathing upon her neck an attempt at a comfort. He has drawn so close to her now; so close that he can feel her body-heat burning in defiance of the Orangemoon wind.

"Are you scared?"

He says, at first, nothing else. Manhattan's tongue unfurls as poison instinctively floods her cheeks. The sick saliva drips from her powerful jaws, catching in the fur around her lips. Knox steps closer, hoping to press his warm, bridled features against the mare's neck and cheek. He casts his companion a sidelong glance, and sees the understanding in her eyes. On the command, she will know what to do.

"I can keep you safe."

His baritone is calculating and low, but there is a sense of sincerity and good intention behind every word. His hooves lift and dig into the soft earth, his tail flickers and shakes out the dirt through which it has been dragged. The soft, green glow of his bridle grounds him and leaves him feeling at peace. His eyes close; his lips part to gently brush against her crest. His voice lowers to a whisper; he pulls her closer like a lover.

"I can give you peace."

The hunter listens with mounting suspicion to the words of the ill mare. They have a strange and bitter bite to them; even one as used to insanity as Manhattan finds them frighteningly caustic. The mutt, loyally protective, lets her hackles lift and her blunt claws embed themselves into the ground. For once, she fears, it is her master that will be too gentle in the face of a threat. Knox himself senses what is to come- eight minds working together in perfect synchronicity have proved themselves skilled at prediction. Perhaps it is the depth and wealth of their knowledge that together they possess, perhaps the species has simply devolved into a set of repeating patterns.

For whatever the reason, Knox prepares himself for the fight. He steps backwards with delicate force and plants himself firmly in the shore mud. He pulls his nose to his neck and paws the earth in anticipation.

Even when the mare strikes the air where he once stood, he makes no move against her. It is Manhattan who leaps from her place; Manhattan who lunges forth and hopes to seize the mare's tender flesh with her poison-edge jaws. Should she success, the effects will be immediate: a numbing of all senses, a loss of control over one's body and will until, perhaps, the weakness pulls them back to the earth from whence they came. Knox himself is transfixed. He remains unable to respond to the incident fully- stays still shocked by the swiftness with which Manhattan came unnecessarily to his aid.

But is it he who needs help, or this mare? Possessed and in a fit of insanity, the stranger reminds him of himself. Is there not something to connect to within her, then, troubled as she may be?

You must be the only one, greedy Zekiah thinks for him.
She is no more than a toy for you,Dovev assures.
Yuh must help hur, corrects the Sentinel.
You must save her, adds the noble Huric.

The hunter does not feel confidence swell within his breast as his hooves make purchase and hit their target with deadly accuracy. He is not proud of himself, he is not pleased with his work. He watches as she falls, feels a pounding behind his eyes as the blinding magic rushes from her dying body and into the depths of his being. His blood rushes through him as hers rushes out of her. He watches her still clinging to life. He wants to tell himself he has done the right thing, and wants to listen to the ancestors that tell him the same thing in different voices.

His ears are perked forward, cupped perfectly so that they catch the dying words of the mare. She has thanked him, he realizes with a sudden dread. He balks at the thought of it at first. He has killed her to put her out of her misery and free her from insanity, but... if she retains the understanding that she needed saving, if she can understand the generosity of his powerful kick, what else does she understand? How, then, is she truly insane?

Is she?

Manhattan whines and pushes her head comfortingly into her master's knees, but it is no use. He falls like a lighthouse to the final wave that breaks its lasting vigilant watch over the sea. He crumbles with remorse he has never before felt. He cries out into the night, creates a low and mournful sound akin to the aching groans of the marsh's dead.

He lays a bridled head over her back. She seems small now, pitiful. He listens as the last breath leaves her body; he kicks out in pain as he imagines the aching within her dead soul. Is she freed? Has he done right by this poor creature, or has he acted in haste?

The voices assure him. Manhattan assures him. Everyone and thing in the marsh that night tells him has has done the best he can, but they are too eager for his mourning heart. He mourns the loss of his own morality; finds himself at last deplorable and considers for the first time how wretched his upbringing must have been for him to kill.

To kill at any age, certainly, but especially now. He knows he is so young; he felt it in the meadow with Delinne, surrounded by stallions of superior girth and advanced maturity. Certainly he is strong (are not all killers strong?) but so many surpass him. He is modest and understanding. He is humbled by the death of a mare whose name he never even learned.

Manhattan makes the mistake of parting her achingly starved jaws to grasp the flesh of the fallen. It is not her insensitivity that drives her to so blatantly disregard her master's emotions, it is her failure to hear his thoughts lost among the mess of the ancestors. No matter- her lips touch the thickening coat of the dead and her teeth scrape the flesh for an instant. It is a stupid instant, an instant lived in immediate regret. Knox lifts himself on two shaking front legs and pushes forward into the night mist that has settled gently over her body. He bares his teeth and emits a crazed neigh; he threatens the one he loves the most. His eyes are wide and blackened by shadow, his body is tense and charged to kill. He is a machine, he is a monster. But Manhattan understands her mistake. Manhattan yelps and flits away to rest in shadow. Manhattan understands.

Into the lamenting, deepening night, the murderer lays by her side as if awaiting her awakening- as if at any moment she may open her eyes and turn upwards to return the gentle caress of her lips to his neck. He rests his head gently over her ribs and waits for the sound of a heartbeat. He hates himself and what he has been made to be. He hates the enlightenment sent to him by these stallions of old, even as they at last come to agreement and lead him forward; even as the ceaseless conflict within his mind settles into silence.

Into the sinking, darkening night, he dreams of his own death.