It had been so very long - too long - since Aion had last set hoof upon the battlefield. 

The last time had been borne of desperation, a need to feel a physical pain that could distract him from an emotional sort of trauma. It had worked well enough: he'd walked away bruised and limping, but his mind was effectively doused in an adrenaline so strong it had carried him on a high for days, forgetting about his troubles and his heartache. That had been all it took, a brief distraction, a tap of the restart button, a break from the emotions. When his pain returned - the sadness and grief, the feeling of being lost - he had been more prepared to deal with it. 

He'd handled shattered bones and bloodied knees after all, what more was a broken heart?

Of course, he knew now how much more excruciating a broken heart could be in comparison to a broken humerus. He knew better than to assume all pain was the same. 

But still, he volunteered for it all; this was his own fault, wasn’t it? He’d sought Torstein out for a fight; and here he was looking for one again, only this time he didn't care who stepped up to the plate. He put himself in these positions. He went looking for pain. 

He’d even let himself fall in love. 'And we all can see how well that's been working out lately...'

The sound of approaching hoofbeats brought him back to the present, brushing the thoughts away with a flick of his telekinesis. He sized the mare up with an icy gaze: from her dark, silken skin to her ocean-tousled hair. Her looks were impressive, yes, but he didn’t linger long. Aion was more impressed with the way she moved - almost like a dancer. Agile, lithe, yes; but a brawler? Surely someone so delicate wasn’t here for a fight?

There was only one way to find out. 

"I hope you aren't expecting me to take it easy on you,” he called out to her, "just because you're a girl.”

The wind tousled his feathers in a playful manner; Aion turned into it, lifting his head as if in greeting. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. His lungs expanded, and he held it for a minute; then relaxed, opening his eyes again as he exhaled deeply. Unwinding the stress from his muscles, remaining as he was in the middle of the hole-pocked field.

Waiting for her to move. 

---

 

She smiles at him—her dark lips curling backwards to reveal her teeth. If her voice were a little lower, or perhaps her pose a little more hunched, he might have likened her to a wolf, stalking down her prey.

But she was no wolf in his eyes, and he was not prey waiting to be eaten.

He was ready for her attack.

Aion tracks her with an icy gaze, the world narrowing and sharpening on her with a clarity that was almost painful, the backdrop of the mountains and surrounding lands blurring away into nothing. Her hoofbeats echoed across the steppe, a beautiful melody playing on his ears with each strike of her legs. Right here, in this moment, she is the sole center of his attention, his eyes and ears attuning to the frequency that was the summer wolf.

The wind at his back whispers in his ears, sweeping his tail against his hocks and tousling the feathers at his poll. Oh, how it tempts him, coaxing him forward; he lifts his legs at its bidding, allowing himself to be talked into moving forward to meet her attack. He canters as she gallops, as collected as she is reckless, frosty gaze as intense as is her molten one.

But she refuses to slow, and he hesitates in his stride; his mind whirs at a thousand miles a second, calculating and recalculating her movements and second-guessing again. She was behaving erratically—too erratically?—that toothy smile burning bright in his mind. He digs his heels into the ground, dipping his hindquarters low as his momentum slows to a stop—buying himself time.

Just enough time for her to veer sharply, her path curving around him in the blink of an eye. He could have sworn he saw her flash another grin as she did—and it boils his blood down to his very bones in rage.

His ears lose themselves in his crown of feathers, pinning tightly now against his skull. She’d wanted to trick him, and it had worked—but only in part. His eyes continue to follow her, icy and cold against the darkness of his face, head whipping indignantly into the air.

She draws closer and closer to his legs, threateningly so. It’s inn one fluid movement that Aion brings his head down low to the earth, using it as a lever arm to kick his hooves up and up and up, bringing them out of reach of her strike—and directly into her face, eager to feel the crack of hoof on bone. His tail is a flash of white, snapping with a near audible crack! at her eyes, all the better to blind her with.

And he can’t help but wonder in that flash of a moment: how might that pretty grin of her’s look toothless?

---

 

His timing had been perfect: snapping his hooves up from under her teeth to slam them instead into her face. Only one connects, and it is a scrape rather than a true hit, but still, still he has drawn first blood.

Oh, his satisfaction—sweet, sweet satisfaction blossoming inside of him, his heart crowing in victory.

Up until he feels the tear of her teeth, ripping into the tender flesh of his hindquarters, that is.

His smile turns into a silent snarl, a cruel grimace of pain and fury etched into the lines of his lips, pulled back to reveal his teeth. His satisfaction flees from the face of his wrath, and he swears he can feel every single one of her teeth that have made contact with his skin, ripping and tearing, blood tainting the surrounding area red.

He may have drawn blood first, but he reckons he can make her pay for this attack, as well.

Instinctually he twists his body, haunches dropping low and head rearing back like a snake in preparation for his strike. As he turns to make his move he sees her: attached to him by the pearly whites of her teeth, like a dog with its favorite bone. 'A wolf after all, perhaps?'

Lining her up in his sights, he lunges forward. His momentum breaks him free from her toothy grip, tearing away skin and flesh in the process but his mind is far from the pain now. A tight 180 performed on his hind legs points his body towards her, and like a piston he launches. All of his pent up energy is released into the singular movement: closing the distance so that he might strike and latch on not to her rump, to return the favor—but rather to catch an ear, or perhaps her neck, in his teeth. Already he's anticipating the metallic taste of blood, her blood, while rivulets of his own stain down the side of his flank.

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