“I am hurt, but I am not slain;
I’ll lay me down and bleed a while,
And then I’ll rise and fight again.”
-The Ballad of Sir Andrew Barton

This is not how it will end.

This is how it will begin.

Cineviam had been persuaded that in the jungle of Helovia, he had been one of the lions. No one had lied to him. It was a conclusion he came to himself, perhaps one that had been influenced by his ashes and the way they reacted to key members of the World’s Edge. Even now, with his ass smarting from a burn and lame (until further notice) in his right hind leg, he still didn’t think that any one herd or outcast group could have won a war against the band of Unicorns. It had taken all the animals to rise up against the kings (and queens) of the jungle.

The Frostheart’s second cry had been a broadcast for his herd to fall back and Cineviam watched with disbelieving red eyes, as his fellow horned ones filed past. He had turned and trailed them East out of the mists but when their crownless King headed north, he hesitated and set his course south. It was a choice driven by his gut. Frostfall was upon them and it was cold everywhere, but the harsh tundra would only aggravate his leg further. Those that made it out would be regrouping, recuperating, and rallying morale. Cineviam’s ego was as enduring as the ash that fell from his frame and he preferred to lick his wounds in private.

Mirage’s time may be waxing now, but it’d be waning soon – the cinder beast would make sure of it.

The Qian had attacked in the early afternoon and it had taken him a couple hours to skirt the Threshold. His wounds forced him to take frequent and lengthy breaks. The sky had become overcast during his journey south. As the day was drawing to an end, snowflakes started drifting lazily downward with not even a whisper of a breeze to disrupt their path to the ground. Still, the icy crystals clung to his mane and forelock, forcing him from Thistle Meadow into the arms of the Deep Forest. The thought of bedding down was tempting but with his weak hind, he knew it wouldn’t be easy to regain his feet.

Even his ashes were remarkably unhelpful.

Ember-eyes stare at them imploringly but they only piled themselves around him. Cineviam always took that to mean wait and he could have cursed them for it, but he was too fearful of their wrath or that they might abandon him. They were all that he needed. Instead he focussed on other details of his situation that frustrated him. His great loss – homelessness, wounds, any favor he gained with Mauja to climb the ranks of World’s Edge. The soot-stained stallion had his eye on Champion not so long ago. With a sigh, he found a sturdy tree to lean against and slowly let his eyelashes fall to brush against his cheeks.

Most of all – he was tired.