His eyes are filled with judgment
And his heart is filled with pain

***

The controlled chaos of the hospital proceeded with an almost balletic grace, horses passing one another this way and that without pausing for reflection. In the monsoon's aftermath the healers had no shortage of work to do; Raymond gained entry with only cursory notice, riding the wave of a self-assured stride that said he belonged here.

Hell, with that walk, he could probably have walked out of your house with a pair of your pants over his shoulder.

But today the confidence came with somber pragmatism. The red stallion could hide the things he felt, but he could not stop the flow of his thoughts beneath the surface or the way they buried themselves like needles behind his eyes. He felt volatile.

The halls echoed with the heavy shadow of unfinished business. Voices were clipped and impatient, eyes either gawked or accused. Raymond swept like a storm front through the corridors and slowed only when the smell of herbs and wound dressings was joined by the more meaningful scent of familiar flowers. Then he took one last turn into a doorway, and there was Florentine.

His grey eyes darted over her, traced the set of her broken wing and the ugly puckered flesh where her leg was still trying diligently to knit itself back together. He wasn't the sort to dwell upon his own war wounds (even now, with his borrowed satchel scraping them raw with every step), but seeing the fruit of Ruth's labor was enough to make him consider feeling shame for ever daring to complain in the past, present, or future.

The red stallion tapped the wall with the flat of his tail blade in lieu of an official announcement. "Hello there. You up for a visitor?"

***

Raymond
Who is there to stand against the rider on the range?