Desreal: You aren't that special. Either of you. --

He never understood loyalty to dirt.

To individuals, yes. He would have remorselessly murdered for Icarus or for his children. He would have done even worse for their sake, without a trace of horror, or fear. He’d never been particularly violent, because he thought indulging such ridiculous emotions a folly. He had his own slew of terrible things to deal with.

But the love of nation – that, he could not understand.

The sigh was as weary as the woods around him, ringing with a softness he could only guess at. There were times when he sunk into the elements so deeply and thoroughly he could almost forget; but he’d never been an escapist, either, and as he walked – as nonchalant as the dirt, and grass, and gravel beneath his feet – he mused on that.

The healing, however, flew from him with the same practised ease he’d perfected. He’d had children, after all, several – adopted and otherwise – and children tended to get in trouble. See Hesper, for instance.

Thus, he healed, as he would have a child: Marshall was little more than that, even if he was older than Wyvern. The strength tapped on the earth, on his own blood, his own flesh and his own bones. He didn’t know what the mottled stallion’s problem was; he have to. He didn’t even have to know what was wrong with him; the power flew, tore whatever was wrong from him, faded and threaded it with the stallion’s own meat.

He’d be healed, alright. Whether he liked it or not.

But not even Wyvern could cure stupidity.

“He will live, if he wants to,” he said calmly. “If he doesn’t, then it’s his own fault.”

wyvern
yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain
new things, and never this best thing again;