“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.

“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

He wasn’t asleep – not yet.

The delicate crunch of snow under a dainty heel tugged him back from inviting, blissful oblivion with a diminutive twitch of his ear. Cineviam did not open his eyes. Instead he reached out with his other senses and felt with the keen, disturbing patience of a predator. The disruption was probably nothing more than an innocent passerby that accidently stumbled upon the slumbering stallion and was deciding on an escape route that would not wake him. If the disturbance had darker intentions, than they had lost the element of surprise and it was Cineviam who had the upper hand. Nothing happened until her voice broke the silence. His name spoken just above a whisper in a way that lulls, subdued, in the wind-less air about them.

It would be an outright lie if he said that the blizzard-white mare, lightly dusted with silver dapples, never crossed his mind. He often wondered how Daenerys faced the ordeal of childbirth after he left her to her fate in Deep Forest. It had seemed like ages ago and yet with one word from her, it could have been yesterday. Recently defeated and injured, it was not a reunion Cineviam was ready for and he kept his eyes squeezed tight against the world, willing her to move on. Unfortunately, the little Arabian was as persistent as he remembered and the gentle drumming of her hooves advanced on his left, opposite the tree he leaned against. “Shouldn’t you be in the safety of the Edge, Daenerys?” he said, echoing his first sentiment from their meeting on the riverbank. His vocals constricting the name of his former herd land.

Slowly, he pried one blood-red eye open, cautiously peering out from the protective fan of lashes. The classical majesty, obviously young and yet with an archaic dignity that once stirred in the liquid, tranquil depths of her magenta eyes was gone. She looked every bit her three years fighting the tears that left shining trails down her cheeks. The golden markings that adorned her legs were new, but they did not surprise him. He had the same gilded scars, only his looked sulfuric, sour, layered underneath the filth from his ashes, giving him a bruised look. Or perhaps, they were bruises – it was the same side Vikram had rammed into after all.

It was a matter of pride that she should not pity him.

He straightened under Daenerys’ teary gaze, holding himself taller and stiffer. Bearded head turned in her direction – slowly, mindful of the painful twinges in his neck as the muscles bunched together – as her apologies washed over him. Cineviam did feel bad then for pouring salt in both their wounds but he was having trouble comprehending the reason for her waterworks. Her precious moonlit family had won. “It wasn’t my first battle and it won’t be my last…” there was a hint of a promise in his tone. “Look – they’re just scratches” he persisted, trying to appease the damn woman. While she was trying to sob softly, the whole situation still made him mighty uncomfortable.

Where was that mildly annoying perma-smile he had become familiar with?