Fell is surprised to hear the blue roan mare’s voice cut through the sound of the rain and thunder. He pulls back slightly to look at her, but not out of disgust; her voice sounds just like his, though more feminine, and she seems to have much better mechanical control over her mouth and vocal cords.

Fell has never been able to make more than a croaking, raven-like imitation of words, and as a colt he had been so furious and impatient that he had never thought to try anything other than a yell. Now, he is aware that he can make clearer word sounds when he speaks very softly or whispers, but he has gone his entire life without learning how to make the shapes of words with his lips and tongue and now it is too late. Speaking is like trying to form clay with frozen hands; the tools are paralyzed and useless, and the medium will not obey without them. Still, it’s better than having no hands at all, and Fell’s clay messages can often be puzzled out with a bit of effort from the recipient (if they are patient enough).

"Rim," he says quietly, roughly, his voice like the crumbling of old paper. He gestures to himself by pulling his chin to his chest and tapping the black stretch of his skin with his whiskers. "Fell," he says, though he knows she probably is aware of his name by now. Both words come more or less clearly, but he tries to quiet the swell of pride, knowing that it’s only because each was a single, uncomplicated syllable. You’re like me, he wants so desperately to say; but that is too ambitious, and he would surely butcher it, so he stays silent.

The apology surprises him almost more than the speaking itself, and Fell blinks. He had never considered himself a king; he doesn’t think he’s worthy of the title. His heart gives a foreign squeeze, some feeling he’s not entirely unfamiliar with but certainly hasn’t gotten used to. The loyalty of any mare is… well, he never expects it. He expects that mares will stay in the Bay with him for its wealth of resources and for his protection, and for his ability to produce strong offspring and protect them as well, but — well, Pacific Rim hardly needs protecting, and this land had been new to her, and she had crossed the dreaded ocean with him — she has no need of him. She could likely run her own herd if she wanted to. The weight of her loyalty to him is immense, and it compresses him, making his breath catch for a brief moment.

Fell moves in closer, shaking his head to dismiss her apology. She’s put up with his silence; it would be unfair to have anything to say about hers. In any case, Fell finds their similar silence to be comforting. It makes him feel less out of place. He rests his chin against her withers, sighing contentedly as the chilly rain sloughs down his sides and flies wildly from his mane and tail as the wind presses into them.