Meadow

In all her years of courtship, Minthe never let it go this far. She once was a mare who prided herself on her resilience, her refusal to take a man upon her narrow back unless it meant something for her, too, in exchange. Not to say that she didn’t enjoy the chase - Minthe was addicted to the game of it, the intrigue, the heightened emotions and the danger lurking like a dragon beneath the surface, close enough to feel its heat but not to burn her. She’d seen it happen to other mares, held under a man’s spell and forced to destroy their nubile young bodies every year, and for what? Affection? A fleeting chance of a backwards glance, maybe, after all the other brainless concubines? No. She was a creature of value, a diamond in the rough. She wouldn’t give herself out for free; she was priceless.

Every year Minthe played these little games with men, luring them in and leeching their life force until they had no more to give and her eyes wandered. Every year she looked the dragon in the face, dancing closer and closer and tempting the beast. Every year, bolder and more reckless, foolhardy in the face of her past victories, she pressed her luck - until, with nary a clarion cry, nothing more than a whisper, her luck ran out.

She barely has time to press back her ears before the pale stallion lunges towards her. He moves too quickly for her to dart away, though she tries, seeing something flashing in his eyes that hadn’t been there moments ago. Something has broken within him - not physically, but deep inside, where even her poison-tipped claws can’t reach. She might have added fuel to the fire, but the inferno was already spreading by the time she’d found it. Even as she strikes out with her hind legs, even as she only catches air and he catches her, even as his teeth snap shut onto her withers and her scream of rage rings out across the hills, she feels it: this is bigger than her. This is more than her. At the end of the day - when the darkness peeks around the edges of her thoughts and her anger fades to ash - she knows, in her heart of hearts, that this isn’t even about her, no matter what part she’s played in it.

Her temper blazes, scorching her from the inside out.

If she has to share, if his undoing isn’t all her fault, then she’ll carve out a bigger piece of it. Minthe whips her head back, baring her teeth and snapping at his face, his legs… anywhere she can reach to break his skin as he breaks hers. She tries to wriggle free, to throw her weight up and knock him off balance, but he maintains his hold on her, even as her mouth stains red and their blood mixes together, streaking her coat with rust. Sweat presses her mane to her neck, her tail to her hindquarters; if she felt anything but the boiling bite of her rage, she might notice it stinging the places where he’s cut her open. She can’t shake him, can’t manipulate the overall situation at all, and after a few minutes Minthe feels her mind rising like steam off of her body, growing beyond it, as if watching the scene from high above.

She can see the point where it ends. His hold weakens - just a hair - and instantly Minthe darts forward, thrashing her hind end up and kicking out both back legs. The ‘Teke wheels back to face him, shaking from what she’ll only ever admit is exertion, wild and unkempt and spiraling out of control. The wildness of his gaze reflects, now, in her own white-rimmed irises; her breath pulls in great pants from her spotted lips, and she pulls herself up to her full height once more.

Inexplicably, she laughs.

“I win,” she whispers under her breath. “I win - as before,” she continues, her voice rising to a fever pitch, “as of now, as of forever! I always win!”

Minthe steps closer, even as the sight of him brings bile to the back of her throat. Even as she wants nothing more than to forget him and this folly altogether and go to Salem unhindered, even as she knows he’s seared like a brand into her memory forever, she still dares to take from him, to try and snatch back the pieces of herself he’s irreversibly changed and glue them back into their old, familiar shape.

“One day soon, old man,” she promises, tender as a bride on her wedding night, “you are going to die, alone and feeble.” Her head tilts, studying him. “Broken. Worthless. A shell of your former self.”

Minthe strides around him. The whip of her tail glances, sharp and keen, towards his white-frosted hide, one last parting gift. “When that happens, darling, just know…”

She glances over her shoulder, eyes shooting like two obsidian daggers straight for his frozen heart.

“Minthe is the name,” she spits, “of the one who broke you.”

She bolts, long legs carrying her further and further from the truth.

The mare runs. She runs and runs, over the open fields and into the trees, until the sound of rushing water fills her ears and the river slips, lit by silvery moonlight, into view. She doesn’t stop until she hits the water, wading with loud splashes into the middle. The brisk current runs like ice over her sore muscles, soothing the mark upon her withers and calming her inflamed joints. The shock of it knocks her back into her senses, leaving her empty, all of her complex, muddied emotions swirling downstream with the dirt on her once-flawless skin.

Minthe should still be angry. She should be not just sated, but satisfied. She should be a million different things at once - and yet, despite everything that’s happened, despite the turmoil of the last few hours, despite the violence and the chaos and the destruction, she feels nothing. Nothing at all.