You don’t pay attention to your companion and don’t notice or care to know Thranduil’s fears. You will be his fear. You will be the reason he wakes in the middle of the night screaming. You will be the reason he looks around every corner he approaches. You will be the reason he regrets this day he challenged you and mocked your relationship with Snowflake. You hope he is afraid now- he should be- but even more so you hope he is afraid later. When he tends his wounds he should be on the move, afraid you might show up at any moment. When he looks to his scars, he should remember who gave them to him. When he winces at night as he tries to lie on the ground, let him know that it’s not the ground that pains him, but your soul chasing him into eternity. Let him know that terror… because you’re not in the fucking mood.

A scream, shrill in the night, pierces into your ears. For a moment you’re confused, trying to figure out whose mouth the sound is coming from. Yours, from the pain of the aching wound on your side and the tensed muscles in your chest? Or his, from the destruction you have tried to rain upon him? Finally, your peripheral nerves catch up to your brain. You recognize that one of your hooves has hit its mark, pressing against flesh. Physics dictate that one or the other (your hoof or his flesh) must give in this situation. Today metal wins the victory, destroying blood vessels beneath flesh, letting blood pool beneath the surface, creating a bruise that you hope will stay with him for some time. So now your own voice sings out, creating a chorus in the air, a rumble of pleasure from your lips that you have hurt him the way you are trying to prevent him from hurting you.

Perhaps, in the deepest sense of the idea, ‘hurt’ is what this really is all about. You rage at him for calling you out about Snowflake because you do not want him to know your heart. You endure this pain because you are not willing to let him know your mind and soul. To let someone know you is to let them destroy you. Piece by piece they can tear you down, rip you open, and kill you even while your heart still beats. He can destroy your body all he likes- he is not the first, nor will he be the last, to do so; however, to let him destroy your soul is to let him ruin everything that you have tried to protect since you have arrived here in Helovia. Only Snowflake can destroy you that way now- only she can be the Delilah to your Samson, the Kryptonite to your Superman, the Video to your Radio Star.

As your hooves land back on the snow ground, you prepare yourself for the poor footing and try to predict the way your metal shoes will slide against the slick ground. But try as you might, even on your best days you have a difficult time keeping control of your footwear on anything but the driest and firmest of ground. Your right hind slips out away from you, sharply pulling at the muscles on the inside of the limb, drawing a hissing sound from your lips. Before you can pull the limb back inward, the gold has retaliated, coming after you, throwing his shoulder into your right rib cage. Your hind limbs spread out even further, now pulling at muscles on both left and right limbs. Nearly in synchrony, as though he hasn’t made enough of a mockery of you, his horns again assault you, one of them catching your right shoulder and drawing a new line of blood. You suppose you should have seen this all coming and not been so reckless with your wild attack but your emotions overrode your training, your body driven through passion instead of intelligence. The head may be smarter, but in many ways the heart can be stronger.

This time, fighting through the fog of rage and the murk of your detox, you try to let your head do the work. Thranduil’s moving, right? You think he is… so you try to give him time to move forward, fighting to pull your hind limbs back together, daring not move far for fear that action will further aggravate the destruction that the golden applied to them. Then, when you think the moment is right, you swing your head to the side, holding it low and then thrashing it upwards, trying to rake your horns against his flesh. You have ached for blood that is not your own… let it come to you now.


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