Khloros listened closely, coming to stand as close as he had to the stag. He did not mind its antlers, seemingly oblivious to its aggression, to its threat, to the long and bladed knives pointed at him from atop its head.
Instead he stood silent for a very long time, seeming to watch Astraea, though his mind was working slowly over all the stag had said.
"I do not know how to destroy it," Khloros responded at last.
"Not yet. Are you afraid?" he asked abruptly, his rasping voice detached. He saw it now, the threatening, the posturing, the increasing agitation. Was it fear?
"You speak of us belonging to you. Who, then, are you?"
The black horse's tone was mild, gentle even, though he gave no ground where he stood staring at the stag.
"Of true life, we deserve freedom. I do not know what a soul is," he admitted. The word, like so many, had come with its own vague meaning, to be defined by experience. He knew of it as the essence of a being, but little more than that; the way the stag spoke of it, it held some deeper definition.
"I know only that it is what we are. Yet you say that I have none. That we were created for purpose; that we belong to you. I do not know who you are. But perhaps you ought to be told," the horse continued mildly--there was no anger in his tone, no nothing; it was empty--
"that if you create a being that is living, its destiny is its own. One gives life to a stone; that does not make them the owner of the child that hatches."
Khloros moved at last, shifting to stand slightly broadside to the stag. He had not known that his stone was called a "butter jade," but now, he supposed, he did.
"I do not know why you fear. I have not threatened you; I must have threatened your way of life. Your beliefs, perhaps. You ask me what I know, and I warn you of my ignorance, for whoever has created us has told us nothing. You speak of a purpose, and yet we have been granted none. That is not our fault." His tone was patient. These things, which seemed so obvious to him, were clearly unknown to the stranger.
"But it is not right, that we be created, and held here to an unknown master, and an unknown purpose. That is not the purpose of life."
The disease-ridden horse stood silent, and wholly motionless. If Astraea wished to strike at him physically, so be it; the horse was covered in incubated diseases. He focused, for a moment, intent on strengthening their presence within the pus that slicked his illness-riddled hide. He could feel nothing happen, but he did not know if that meant it had failed, or not. Regardless, he stood silent, now that he had spoken; he was in no rush to leave, nor did he seem intent on attacking the stag.
Astraea's self-control, however--or his intentions--might, Khloros knew full well, lead to a more visceral confrontation.
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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD
