In its forging, a sword must be plunged into fire repeatedly to make it strong. It seems that fate conspired to make Meg into a sword. In Helovia, she had encountered flames that burned both inside and out, ones that pained and ones that fortified. Her fall into the Heart had been painful but the flames that had cloaked her herd in the time of the wraiths had been a shield against despair. The flames that Gaucho sent her way were the sort that burned. She had no time to change her course but had to let the flames engulf her as she aimed her attack. She hit, but the impact gave her singed front a sharp jolt. The pain was outrageous, biting everywhere as she passed through the wall and Meg thought she might be in the Heart’s fire again and repeated the strangled, angry scream she had used then but there was fire on the inside too. Meg had felt it there, a little candle in her heart since Gaucho had given her that gift, ‘only my best warriors’ he said. It grew, the Sun God’s magic; pride and warmth and heart and home in the depths of her until the pain on the outside dulled from an explosion to an ache.

Up she rose, trying to draw the stallion into the air, trying to ignore the throbbing in her skin. Surely the scars on her muzzle and legs would be joined by a few others when she healed. Fire over fire will leave its mark. With a few wisps of smoke trailing, her wings came down in heaving drafts pulling her upward. If she could draw him up into the sky, the ground wouldn’t give her away. At least, she assumed that is what had done it, Gaucho had never seemed to look directly at her, so perhaps his quest had effected his sight, but he still seemed to see where she had been, or perhaps he had turned where Mara pointed. If she had the time, she would envy that extra pair of eyes, that companion in battle, and being able to show fire like that would be helpful.

How she could have hoped to defeat Gaucho? Even when he pulled his attacks, he was so much more powerful than she, his lightest blows outweighing her hardest. He was magnificent, even now Meg was in awe. Strong and sure and mighty, the little mare could never hope to match him, though her heart desired little else. She might be fast in the air but to see the Sultan fly was awe inspiring. To see him fly… Meg cranked her head around, was he following? She hadn’t hear him take of but why would he choose not to chase her? Panic seared her throat. She had been distracted by her own pain when she had hit him, but she knew she had stuck his wing, how far had she bent it? Meg had to believe she had not permanent damage to her Sultan, she had to keep fighting until their spar was done. A warrior, she reminded herself could not hesitate.

Turning downwards, she aimed for the ground again. If he didn’t follow her into the air, she might be able strike him again before it was over. She dived, more controlled, less reckless, than her first and landed on the ground in front of where, in her haze, she thought he had stood. The bay mare used her singed wings for balance as she pivoted, spinning and leaning forward on her front hooves to flail high with her hind ones. She might hit his neck, his side, his wing, but his jaw would serve better to disorient the hulk.