As the many pounds of horseflesh collide, Hespera nearly starts in surprise, of course not that she could under the scrabbling horse on her back. To be honest, she hadn’t thought she would be able to outwit the stallion. If you called outwitting the stallion almost screwing yourself over as well, that is.

The muscles along her back, withers, and mid-neck groaned collectively as the enormous weight comes crushing downwards, a destructive force ready to almost knock her over as well. Hooves smacked and flailed even as she tries to pull away, tendons strained and locked to hold the enormous burden up. But the brief moment of collision has created a tangle of legs, mane, and bruised muscle- it was going to be much more difficult disengaging than entering the final movement. The flesh of her crest hurts in particular, already scraped and battered from his ivories yanking on her neck, and when the fat horse’s weight came down, she nearly crumbled, falling over like beetle pushed on its back- but she did not fall.

Well, to be honest, he wasn’t exactly fat, but Hespera was unwilling to admit she was small as she was, and weak as she was.

Hooves rammed into her shoulders, scraping hard lines downwards, tearing glistening raven hairs from her skin, blood already beginning to well in the rubbed-away areas. While it stings devilishly, and Hespera knows immediately that she will be damned sore in the morning, she is pleased that her plan has worked, albeit perhaps not as seamlessly as she would have liked. It eases her worries. Yes, the battle was hard, there was no question about that. Her breath comes in erratic, deep gasps as she inhales the cold air.

As they pull away, the snow stings her legs, the cold nips her fresh wounds. Everywhere she aches, to her very bones, and her legs quiver slightly beneath her, still exhausted from the moment she held up what felt like the weight of the world. She is glad for the darkness, hiding her worn face from her adversary. While she is not necessarily a vain mare, she doesn’t like to show he has, indeed, put a strain on her. The stormchild knows she should be not so ruffled of his skills. As Daermaethor would insist, it mattered not if she had won or not- she had given it her best shot, and could ask for nothing more.

Still, she didn’t want to let the shining marble statue down, her father after Pollux sired the detestable Ionwë, after Arjuna the Star Eater had died by her own newborn’s accidental hand. His image burned in her mind, etched deep in her heart- the wisdom in what should’ve been the empty eyes of a living statue, the strength in his shoulders, the elegance in the way he carried himself. How his voice rolled with a distinct burr, low and deep in his chest, the way he spun the stories so well, retelling old legends and teaching her how she must be grateful, no matter how sorry her life may seem. “You are a goddess, dear child, and nobody will be kind to you,” he had told her, the morning before they dared to enter the herdlands of Paen.

The day before he was ripped from her, after fighting for hours upon hours. He understood her; perhaps their father-daughter relationship would have even ventured into the love of mare and stallion, for together they were gifts from the gods, together they would live forever. What would a hundred years’ difference in age matter in immortality?

Drawn back to the present by Otienu’s chirrup of worry, Hespera sighs, uttering a soft chuckle as the little griffon cub soars to her shoulders, landing carefully, avoiding scraping her wounds with his sharp talons. Within their bond, she can sense his querying tone. How she longs for the day when they communicate with the ease and speed of words, like Roshana and…

Enough.

Too many memories, too scorching hot.

“Thank you,” Hespera offers to the nameless stallion. “You fought well, and were a more than worthy opponent for the likes of I. I am Hespera, and this is Otienu. Fare thee well, until we may meet again.” Her voice is distinguished and has a manner of speaking that is carefully enunciated, as if she overly loves the language of horse and adores each and every syllable, or if she has made mistakes in mumbling and slurring with poor consequences from it.

Turning silently, the gray griffon perched on her battered shoulders, she melts into the darkness, back the way she came.