OOC: Late tags but tw for mild gore? talk of death, blood
It's the sort of foolish attack only a desperate man makes, to endanger his own senses by going after Rougaru's, but Solomon is satisfied at the impact of his first attack. His gaze grows blurry in the aftermath, but he has no need of far-off vision right now, only of the figure beside him, of the sand below.
They twisted together again, bodies writhing and clashing together. Teeth catch on flesh, and then pinch more tightly to secure his hold as the wolf-king tries to pull away. Solomon tries to go with him in an effort to maintain his grip, but he only makes it halfway up, his injured spine rebelling against the injury that had been dealt only moments earlier. Solomon's forehooves thudded back to the ground before his opponent as his hind legs began to quake, threatening to give way beneath his weight.
By some miracle of luck, the tobiano managed to retain his hold, but new wounds along his neck and shoulder were the cost he paid, ripped there by his opponent's flailing hooves. Blood pooled steadily from the one closest to his face, twining through his mane and dripping in soft pats on the ground, nearly inaudible between the grunting and panting and swish of hooves through sand. The other cuts seeped more slowly, oozing down the contours of his body, merging with sweat like raindrops off a windshield.
Still, he holds on.
Rougaru weakens, his strength stolen by Solomon's lucky strike, and begins to waver, tottering like a rotten branch in a strong breeze. The tobiano's jaw aches with the effort of clamping down on flesh, a feat his teeth had never been designed for, and he finds himself shutting his eyes, the sweat and sand burning as he does so. He wants this to be over. For it to be done. For Rougaru's reign of terror to be over, and for his family to be free again. The need for them to be safe thrums like its own beast in his breast, a live, terrible thing on its own. It's the strength of this need that keeps his grip intact as Rougaru goes down, that clenches even more tightly as Solomon's own legs begin to fail him.
The earlier injury that the silver stallion had dealt to Solomon's spine forces the tissue to swell, which in turn causes his spinal nerves to become unresponsive as they were cut off. He trotters like a drunkard, hind end splaying sideways, and then he crumples beside his opponent in an awkward heap, half on top of the old wolf, half propped on bent legs. He kneels at a narrow angle, still shoulder to shoulder but his hind end propped in between Rougaru's limbs, his own trembling limbs with the effort to stay upright at all.
Still, he holds on.
Surprise and dismay wrench his eyes open and green met green once more. Years of history stretch between them, most of them colored with thick, rancid hate. It hadn't had to be that way. In the beginning, the possibility of friendship had existed, as Sol was not so different from the man beneath him in the beginning. He'd been almost as brutal, almost as wild.
But where Solomon had learned to soften his love the hard way, tempered it with guilt and regret and understanding, Rougaru had turned it into kindling for something else, into motivation and drive. Even now, with all of the hatred that he felt for Rougaru, there was regret, too. For what could have been. Perhaps would have been, were it not for the likes of Kolfinna and Wren and Nadja, who softened him early on. For Chelle. For Vihar. For Cicek.
Especially for Cicek.
His legs give out the rest of the way, sending him slumping to the ground, hindquarters nestled against Rougaru's belly, body draped over his ribcage, teeth still wrapped on the silver bay's throat. It is more intimate than any fight has ever brought them, and they are more equal now than they have ever been before.
Still he holds on.
But it was no longer combat. No longer self-defense. The undiluted fear glittering in the depths of Rougaru's emerald eyes had transformed their altercation from righteous defense to murder, and Solomon was covered in his foe's blood. He could taste it in his mouth, the coppery tang making the saliva drip. Could sense the narrowing gap between life and death zipping shut.
There loomed before him a choice. One he had thought he had already made, fates already decided, and yet he struggled against the consequences of his own action now. He could feel his soul slipping toward eternal damnation and he tried to clench his jaws tighter in resolve, lips baring with the effort, but it wasn't enough. His back had continued to swell and his motions had grown more sluggish, less coordinated. The exhaustion of the oceanic swim and back-to-back fights was damning, and when combined with the blood loss, had left him with precious little energy. Hubris had stolen his power as surely as he had stolen Rougaru's.
And so he lets go.
Not of his own free will, but he lets go all the same. Panting, he tried to lift his head - a motion that rolled his crushing weight over Rougaru's forelegs as his balance slipped - and then wilted against him, neck draped over Rougaru's shoulder, their gazes still locked together.
A shadow darkened his face, and he peered upward, against the sun. They were blurry - as was everything at the moment - and he could not read their intent, whether they had come to be his salvation, his helpmate, his accomplice. Whoever it was, he had nothing left to stop them with and lay prone, as beholden to their mercy as the silver stallion beneath him.
Stallion | Dutch Harness Horse Mutt | Champagne Grullo Tobiano | 17 Hands | The Cove