No, Ashamin told himself, this isn't your fault. As her body fell forward with a sudden burst of clumsiness, presumably an effect of his out-maneuvering her charge, he felt the small fold of skin between his teeth rip. It was gravity's fault, nature's, the laws of physics', anything but his fault that the young mare's blood was suddenly bursting up to fill his nostrils and flood his senses. It couldn't have been his fault.

But as much as the haruspex told himself this, he knew it wasn't true. At the very least, he still blamed himself—he was good at taking the guilt upon his body even when it was battered and torn to pieces.

Only this time, he seemed to be struck with luck. Luck and her inexperience, that is. Her every move seemed too hasty in comparison to the slow skill he was building up. Muscles were bunching under his skin when before they'd been weak. His response time was quick; he dodged her buck with an easy low rear and turned outwards, away from her. When she stumbled forward, he doubled back. He felt old experiences—failed attempts to dodge Rikyn, falling to his knees from Caleb's aerial strike—return to him with new success. None of this mare's attacks were things he hadn't seen before. Those horns were like Torleik's, that desire to injure was near identical to Caleb's.

He was starting to learn the language of war, the vocabulary of avoidance and strike. When Ashamin dodged left, catching the tip of her flailing right horn on his right shoulder, barely scathed, he realized that this was what came with practice: simply knowing when to run, to bite, to kick, to give in.

The painted stallion listened to her cries and exasperation. He could still taste her blood on his teeth. It had been a moment of failure; Ashamin hadn't been in control enough of the moment to keep her injury to a minimum. But now he could try, could call out to her, tell her it would be alright. Someone needed to tell her to relax and breathe deeply. Someone needed to teach her as he'd been taught.

If he were ready, he would have been the one. But Ashamin was only just learning what it was to learn himself, and didn't yet have a handle on how to explain the complex process of quelling a pain-induced rage to a young mare. He, by past her attacks and trying to be positioned at her back, stood with just a scratch on his shoulder while she likely still bled down her back. Who was he to talk her down?

Still, he had to try.

Ashamin lazily bucked as she reared, trying to knock her back to the earth by striking the tender crook one of her gaskins. She had to be grounded before she could understand. There was something about having all four feet on the ground that did something healing for the mind on fire.

Slowly, he circled back around. It was a wide walk, one settling along her left side. Ashamin was not in a rush, and was nowhere near the deadly twin swords that she bore. He let his heartbeat leak slowly into hers. He listened to hers, likely pounding with effort, maybe skipping with the panic of pain. But they were just heartbeats, slim electrical pulses seeking out each other's magnetism through combat.  

The haruspex found himself losing sight of her name. Was she anything now but the girl with the blood on her back and the heat flickering from her nostrils, joining the mist that covered the earth in a bitter caress? Ashamin decided better than to risk getting it wrong. Carefully, standing parallel to her, he spoke.

"Relax. Breathe. Listen. Then..." he said, shifting subtly to the right as he spoke. There was a moment of pause before he went on, some time to breathe and consider. He couldn't dispense the advice without following it. He listened to the distant beating of Lochan's tiny heart racing with anticipation. Already, the companion was excited by the thrill of a spar. Ashamin let his black eyes flashing to grab hold of his target, and then continued at last: "strike!"

As he spoke he reared and jumped, his body curving to the right as he aimed to bridge the gap between them (shortened already by his delicate sidestepping as he'd spoken.) His long tail stretched out for balance, sending sparks shooting in the air—his body moved with enough force to hopefully crash into her left side and set her off balance.

But all the while, he was wondering: was she relaxing, was she breathing, was she listening, or was she just in pain? And still: was that pain really all his fault?