Defeated. Nattergal is utterly defeated. He didn't expect to win against the ugly mare, but that doesn't make the loss hurt any less. He has spent the last several days grazing the lower altitudes, not having the strength to climb to steeper heights. A deep bruise on his left haunch gives him a short-strided limp. A blow to the temple has left his right eyelid looking swollen and weepy. He's missing a few patches of hair on his shoulders and back. Each injury is a lesson learned that he shouldn't soon forget. None of them are serious enough to last, but that doesn't mean he isn't bitter about them.

Nattergal is not deaf to Bozena's call. He meets her on the hillside with ears drawn and his brows knit with disdain. He is hurting from their last encounter but he hides it with a firm stance. His hooves root to the spot, motionless as a fall of pebbles knocked loose by Bozena tumble around them. "What do you want?", he spits. He isn't pleased to see her now. He plans to face her again when his wounds are healed and his resolve steeled for another fight, but now is not the time.

Someday, when he is well again, Nattergal will win his freedom, and Bran's. They will not waste their youth as prisoners of the Peak. Until then, he need not be happy to greet the misshapen face of his captor.