Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

Their defeat had made her fall all the way to the ground, so far from the battlefield, where no vulture remained to pick her off. She was graceless, floundering, beneath his touch; where there usually was elegance in abundance, there was only a chaotic sprawl of limbs and erratic signals. He withdrew his touch, took a step back to give her space enough to rise without knocking into him. She drew herself up with a semblance of her usual grace, enough to fool him - for a moment - into thinking that it was okay. That she was just tired, worn, body aching from bruises and cuts. Still, his pale head tilted in the darkness, eyes intent upon her, tracing her outline, smelling for blood - nothing new, just old, rusted, dried. She smiled, something weak and fragile in it, and his gaze narrowed slightly. If not for the notion that something was wrong, maybe he would've brushed it off - but the Lena he knew did not lie on cold floors, embedding her horn in ice and staring morosely at the world as if about to drown in her misery any moment. She smiled and laughed, sunshine in her soul, her eyes, and put flowers in the manes of others. And yet, he wasn't quite sure he could pin what was off about her still, but his gut told him that it was something.

She claimed to be fine but her voice was lackluster, like the dying breath of a bird that previously sang so sweetly - was she merely tired? It was possible - had he intruded upon her as she intended to rest? But if so, surely she'd just tell him to take his annoying, inquiring nose to the other side of the Steppe and let her nap? "Are you sure?" he asked, ever the one who doubted the truth of others. She did not seem fine, but he had been wrong before. Perhaps he was wrong again. It certainly wouldn't come as a surprise. And even if she failed to convince him, he knew how irksome it was to have one pry. She need only turn away his concern another time or two, and he'd let it be, though worry etched lines on his face as he watched her step back. Was he just reading too much into it, or was she not looking at his face? Anywhere but at it? He took a hesitant step backwards, as she disentangled herself, wondering if perhaps he had intruded upon her privacy. It had not been his intention, but sometimes his concern led him to rush up into the faces of others, sticking his worried muzzles in their secrets and wounds. The pink, tender skin on his haunches flexed, but with a vigor and youth it had not possessed when cracked and burnt; fat kept it oiled and elastic, able to accommodate his body's natural movements again.

"I'm fine," he echoed her, slightly aloof, absent. "I found a healer to fix me up - feel somewhat reborn." A slight smile curved his mouth, tilting it up at one side, and his blue gaze sought to capture hers. "How are your injures healing? Are you sure that you're fine?" Again, that slightly demanding concern etched itself in his voice, in his eyes, the furrows above his 'brows which were drawn up - not quite convinced, and not sure what he wanted to hear either. Of course he wanted her to be fine, to see her laugh and spin in the snow, to somehow warm even Korra's old stone heart - but he did not want her to lie, to claim that all was good when it was not. But the question remained, were the turmoils and trials of the past few weeks running his mind ragged and raw, to the point where he believed everyone broken and sad? What would come next, hallucinations? To keep his herd safe and sound was harder out here in the Wilds, to keep them collected when they had no real heart around which to gather. Perhaps it was he who was tired, out of his mind?