Brax's body sang with a mixture of ecstasy and exhaustion he had never known before. Every shade of brown, red and gold around him blurred into one, making his surroundings as irrelevant as the passing thoughts of an ant. There was only him, and Mercy, and the crisp air between them as he led her along the well-travelled path back into the Lagoon. His brain was blissfully empty; nothing but muscle memory carried him home.

He was a boy no longer. He had sampled the delights of a stallion, and he now understood why others spilled blood for the privilege to enjoy such pleasure.

"This is your home?"

Mercy's voice was crestfallen. A little of Brax's ecstasy ebbed away as the mare planted her feet on the ground and moved no further. His head still foggy, he stopped a stride or two ahead of her and gaped back at her in dumbfoundment. Her expression was hard and critical, her eyes roving her surroundings with no light of pleasure in them. Something in Brax's stomach dropped.

"What is this place?" she finally asked him, pulling back like the Lagoon repelled her like a magnet. Lips parted and face creased with a heavy frown, Brax crossed the space between them and crowded close, gently touching her shoulder, then her jawline, as though reconnecting physically could fix everything.

"Mercy, what's wrong? This is the Lagoon," he said as though such a fact explained everything, then hesitated, fumbling first mentally, then physically, with his words. "I— This… This is a home of warriors, Mercy. A brotherhood, to keep you safe. I told you you would be safe, and you will be safe here, with the other women and children. The brothers defend fiercely what is theirs, I among them."

Abraxas stood a little taller, his chest inflating with pride, the fact he'd lost almost every spar he'd engaged in clearly forgotten. He glanced at their surroundings: at the lush greenery, the lurid turquoise shore, the rocks which harbored tide pools of colorful fish and anemones. Sure, the mud could be intense, it might have stunk a little, the men were a little rough around the edges, and probably not all the mares were here of their own will, but… A little spark of something—hurt, a little anger—flared in his chest. He looked back to Mercy with a dismayed expression. This was his home: the place that had welcomed him, helped him forge his own path when he was nothing but a lost little colt. Mercy might as well have stamped on his heart.

"You don't like it? Why not?" he asked, an edge of defensiveness creeping into his tone.