Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

How Xan saw it, he wasn't a dickhead, nor had he done anything to be called such. Sure, he'd been disinterested in conversing the previous night, but he hadn't run off like she had. He'd accused her of being someone that she wasn't and of doing something that wasn't even technically possible given the order of arrival—but, y'know, totally nothing that made him a dickhead. He'd opened his mouth as if to object, but shut it immediately after her second comment. A few steps were taken backwards with his ears falling flat in the process, the words having been misinterpreted at first, making him wonder if she knew. It'd taken a second or two for his mind to process that it was a figurative statement, not literal, but he'd kept himself back even still.

He'd looked away from her right before the male had spoken, distrust becoming confusion. Every now and again, he said something that Xan couldn't even begin to understand, and each time he became more confused; perhaps that was how others felt on the rare occasions that he spoke differently? Luckily, there were sentences completed in English, and so he'd focused on them and ignored anything he couldn't figure out the meaning of. "There isn't a problem," he'd answered, common sense having led to him understanding at least that part of his words. "I'll fix her shoulder." The boy that knows absolutely nothing about plants, herbs, or anything else that a medic might understand was going to somehow fix an injury. Yeah.