They crash into each other, two creatures of sweat, blood and pain; the impact shudders through him and his own chest gives a feeble quiver of pain at the rebound from the slam. The stallion part of him purrs with delight as his sheer savage power manages to push her backwards into a tree and topple her; the sight of her flailing upon the ground makes every inch of his ego swell with pride.

But there's another part of him that is sickened by the sight, because she is barely older than a girl, younger even than himself. She is an adult, yes, but there is something of the child still about her; she is not yet an object of passion, a vessel for his lust to be directed at. He thinks of his own daughters, and how his rage would decimate any man who knocked them to the ground. His stomach aches and twitches with disgust, because there is nothing to be proud of about upending such a young, obviously inexperienced mare.

He reasons that he's helping her by not going easy on her, that he's showing her the ways of the world by giving her a good and proper beating - any childish delusions that fighting is glamorous and simple will, hopefully, have been thoroughly knocked out of her. This is how he reassures himself that he's done the right thing, that he's helping her as much as he is helping himself (because each battle throws up new challenges for him, challenges he embraces with gusto). She will learn from this, he hopes. Perhaps they will tangle again in a year's time and he will find her battle-hardened and more than a match for him...or maybe this fight will make her rethink any warrior ambitions she has, and she will recede into the ranks of spies or sleuths.

Either way, the goliath's conscience - and his deeply buried sense of chivalry - bids him to stay his blade for now and give her time to get to her feet. There's no glory in attacking a felled opponent, so he seizes the opportunity to snatch at his breath and reaffirm his stance whilst she rises. Then she's turning, and in the limited visibility he can't make out her movements; his first notification of her new position comes when her wing smacks him hard across the face, making a snort of alarm dart from his nostrils at the shock and sudden pain of it. Instinct drives him to recoil backwards, and he scrapes his backside and hocks against the tree that he had swore to remember was there. A thin trail of blood stains his ebony flesh at the impact, and a hiss of frustration erupts from his clenched teeth.

His temper, however, remains firmly sheathed. This fight does not call for his berserker rage, not when there is so little to get angry about. This in itself is unusual for him, as his fury usually fuels his battles, adds force to his blows and steel to his veins. Fighting without it is like fighting without a leg, but he reminds himself that it is more good practice for the future.

In the half-light, he can just about make out her rear hooves which almost crash into his chest; they come close, but his hasty step backwards saves him from the pain that would undoubtedly come from such an attack. Instead, only the very tips of her hooves graze the skin of his chest, hardly even making an impact. The leviathan acts fast, lunging forwards in an attempt to plant a hard bite onto the dock of her tail, where it joins the rest of her body. As an ode to his sympathy towards her, he refrains from any other attacks, which is a rare act of mercy from a man who is not used to such a concept. She has suffered enough, and his bite is simply intended as a coupe de grace, a finishing touch on an already plentiful banquet of agony for her.

He will have to find her a healer, he muses, and see she returns safely to wherever she calls home. Quite why his conscience is so affected by her, he isn't sure, but he's not entirely convinced that he is enjoying his newfound mercy.

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Teaching spar for @Ru !

3/3 - 717 words