If you weren't so lost in your thoughts of Kellian and revenge, of history and days gone wrong, you might have been pleased that you hit the girl so soundly, that your hooves contacted her flesh with such a resounding thud. But you can't revel, you can't rejoice. Your brain won't let you have peace, won't let you know what is real and what is fake. You're lost in an absurd mixture of realities both past and present and you're drowning in your rage and your fury. Will you be able to swim your way to the shore, to crawl from this misery, to find what is truth and what is illusion? You'd like to, but you think you need this. It's a therapy, of sorts.

Just as you thought she might, the girl turns and begins to run towards you, a canter you'd like to match but you doubt that the rekindled injury in your shoulder will let you. So you just trot, limping on the limb like a fool, but watching the mare, two mares in one, close the distance. You don't know what she's going to do, but you tense your muscles, ready to try anything. Any hit is good, any damage is better. She may make you cringe, may make your rump protest at the swollen muscles along its midline, make your shoulder scream bloody murder, but if there is one thing she won't do, it's best you.

Your heart pumps your blood, beating faster and faster from the exertion and excitement, the sound filling your ears, adding an eerie overtone to the fight. Your body is sweating, damp patches making you look mottled. The dirt that would normally cover your hide is gone, replaced with the finer, grainier dust from the caves. You are a monster to behold, and a monster to know.

As Elsa closes down upon you, you try to keep your body so it is parallel to hers, so that your right side and hers will pass by one another. A plan begins to form in your mind. She reaches out, but you don't even try to defend it. She grabs flesh, the right side of your neck, teeth scraping and tearing as she canters. Blood begins to trickle down, your skin twinging and protesting at this new type of pain that has found it. You're lucky she didn't grab your jugular, didn't pull at the flesh over the vein and cause it to rupture. This pain is bad, but it could be so much worse. You wince, cringe, bite your teeth, but you know what is about to come and you try to stay focused, or as focused as you can considering the chaos that's your reality.

And then, all at once, almost at the same time as Elsa bites you, you and your companion burst into a flurry of motion. You've been so focused on your rage, so lost in your memories, that you haven't paid a bit of attention to what your boggart is doing, but she's been paying attention to you. She tries to swoop down in front of Elsa's face, morphing for the briefest moment into a dragon with flared wings, but your mind is so unfocused and she is so young that she has a hard time keeping the image. She hopes it is enough, though, to cause Elsa to slow down, to help you in your attack. As for you, you bite your teeth down and lunge to your right.

Your left leg screams in displeasure at this new form of torture you're exposing it to, but what is a leg if it means Kellian's death, what is your leg if it means that Kellian will fall to the ground and weep, begging for mercy, crying that you should kill her now instead of dragging it out. You're trying to ram your right shoulder into Elsa's... anything, really. Her sides, her wings, her rump, anything. You hope, at the speed she's moving, that a simple bump will be enough to cause her to stumble, to trip and fall.

In your head, the trial returns, the elders demanding evidence when you claim you're innocent of the crime. You look to Kellian, searching for her eyes, trying to reach them. She knows. She was with you last night, she has to tell them. But she only looks away, to the dirt, as the captain of the guard comes up beside her, lipping at her mane. Her mate. She has been stolen from you. Your heart broke then, and it breaks again now, because the two most important things in your life will be yours no longer. Your friend and your home. The elders scream guilty and banish you to the wastelands. She never even says goodbye.

Words: 800
Post: 3/3