The punch of hooves into flesh is dull, a sick thud and a firm sensation rippling up the nerves of Caneo's long limbs. His ears want to go back, but they can't any farther. He wants to recoil, but momentum catches his body in her arms and refuses to let go. The two dancers — the two fighters — continue to move as if they exist outside of the silver one's mind. His body releases the hold of his thinking mind because the thinking mind moves slowly, clumsily, like a child struggling to keep up with the adults.

But his body moves.

Gracefully somehow, the bloodied toes touch down to the surface of the water once more. For half a heart beat, the silver body crouches poised above the water, and he might be a statue or a dream: too ethereal to be caught in such messy games, too immaculate to be perturbed by them. His eyes remain locked on his opponent, though. Any whisper of run flees with the burst of rage slinging through his heart and he wants to drive the stranger off, to remind him, whoever he is, that this body has survived worse things than this flailing. No pretense of spar exists in Caneo's being. He is killing or dying, fighting or fleeing.

He is about to be attacked again. At first he thinks the stranger wheels to get away, but the way muscle coils in those massive haunches is all wrong. It's the fuse to a canon being lit, and not the afterburners of some great engine. If Caneo doesn't go somewhere, he presents his left side as a massive target. If he doesn't go somewhere, those fragile bones threaten to shatter. Anticipating pain, remembering those cries under the sickle moon so many, many years ago, Caneo leaps forward and slightly to the left. It's like instinct, like muscle memory; he doesn't know what he intends to do from that position, except not get kicked. His long stride reaches out and swallows a chunk of ground, water droplets sparkling in the last light as they churn around his limbs. Though they were beautiful before, Caneo hates them now. They suck at even his slim legs and choke his distance running, and one pale eye cocks back in concern to see the haunches fire behind him anyway. Safe. For now. He knows, somewhere, his luck and reflexes will eventually betray him. For now, though? For now he wants to hit the other stallion until it relents. He was here first, after all.

A breath hisses from between his teeth as he leans onto his forehand, long face still half canted to offer him a view of that chocolate right side. It should lie behind-ish, he thinks, not quite perpendicular to him but farther still from parallel. Caneo is too strung out to coil a blow like the stranger did, but his hind end hikes up lightly anyway, the long legs flexing before they shoot out, swinging a blow at — somewhere. Caneo lacks, for now, the knowledge to hone himself to precision. Too much of this is blind flailing and desperation, but the longer he goes without dying, the braver he gets. He's learning he's fast, after all — fast enough to escape while the enemy prepares its heavy attacks. He can run. He can survive. He can, perhaps — win?

just to watch them falling