The small invader doesn’t attempt to force any space between them as Fell batters at her. Instead, she manages to maneuver within their contact, not requiring space to assess him or choose a target. She seeks out the sensitive skin of his elbow as though she’s bitten a thousand of them before his, and knows right where to go. The pinch is bright and sharp, and despite himself Fell pulls away from it. He shuffles sideways within the restraints of their grappling, lifting that leg as though to tuck it out of her reach. Despite the flinching agony of her bite, he doesn’t vocalize his pain, which cranks the burner ever higher beneath his fury. He hisses through his teeth as though blowing steam into the cool air might keep the restless, liquid anger from boiling over, but he wishes he could just tip the whole thing over and roar.

That bite isn’t the only blow Fell endures from the flaxen mare, but its pain clings to him and seems to smother the others. There’s usually one of those in any fight; one bite or kick that sings louder than the rest and drowns them out. It’s often the first one, but not always. Fell’s skin jumps and twitches, crawling to escape the memory of pain, even though his cannon is scraped and bloodied from her kick, and his face stings from several more bites in arguably more sensitive areas.

The intruder assesses Fell when they break apart for the first time, and he watches as his taunting gesture inspires bewildered irritation across her features. He had intended to piss her off, but the Marwari stallion underestimated her existing fury. Her cup is overfull, any surplus destined to flood impotently down the sides. It isn’t for any keeping of temper that she holds back, but something else.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he understands that he has been invited to make the next move — to provide her with an excuse, maybe? Why would she need one? His puzzling is vague and far away, a quiet voice of curiosity laughably muted by the hurricane howl of bloodlust. He doesn’t stop to question her motives. He happily takes the opportunity she’s handed him.

Fell launches back toward the chestnut mare, ready to weather another barrage of attacks to his face, neck, and chest, and to give as good as he’s got. All thoughts of Solomon or Nyimara are suspended, forgotten temporarily in the fervor of battle, and he’s grateful for the break. He’s grateful for the release of a cocktail of confusing emotions and autumn hormones. He’s grateful for the distraction and the euphoric flood of chemicals that combat the pain of his wounds, physical and otherwise.

He’s grateful for the action after a long, stiff, boring hiatus.

He thanks her with a tidal wave of violence.

stallion | marwari mutt | black | torn left ear | bay