The broken's body tenses as Aylin goes on, speaking of her mother's moral code and her belief about the good in others. Manhattan listens to few of the mare's words, enjoying instead Aylin's soft touch and gentle attentions. Knox feels her contentment, but it is not enough to settle the knot in his stomach. Some darker part of him is stirred by Aylin's remarks, some part that denies the truth of her mother's philosophy and turns instead to the influence of his ancestors. Cem is cold and chastising, emerging from the depths of Knox's consciousness to scold him for his feeling.

Emotion is a weakness, do not let it be yours.

The words sting and punch, falling over his eyes and darkening them as the tone in the hollow grows more serious. Dovev whispers, sounding cruel and crazed.

You are inherently evil.

Too many are too cowardly to fight, too many too tired to stand up against the more sinister whispers. Knox himself, vulnerable in his state, cannot fight against them at first. Their influence is strong and binding. It is enough to cause Knox to lift his head and pull away from Aylin; enough to bring his body up off of the dirt floor and over to the edge of the outcropping, where the canopy falls and the rain bites at his face. Darker minds grip his heart, slowly twisting, slowly turning it cold.

Stop.

Manhattan. His light; he turns to look back at her, to meet her pure blue gaze from where it and she rest, nestled beneath Aylin's embrace. He feels lost again, and he looks to her for guidance.

What am I, Manhattan?
Good.

And then the instant of pain and darkness fades. He listens to Aylin's remark, lets out an amused whinny at the thought. Living in trees? How? Quite cumfurtuble, his father chimes in from the back of his mind; still, it sounds so strange to the colt. "What? A tree? That sounds... ridiculous," he admits with a shaking and lowering of his tired head. He has grown exhausted quickly, perhaps sleep will settle upon him soon. He looks back to Aylin and away from the rain; his tired and aching body is carried away from the rain once more and he leans himself against the wall of dirt and rock. Manhattan jumps up and wanders closer, huddling in his shadow against his forelegs. Still, perhaps his father was right. Surely there were better places to rest one's head than here, in the shadow of a cliff in the rain.