Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around


The journey from the Eluetheria Plains was...awkward wouldn't be a good description, since it's doubtful Raymond has ever felt awkward about anything, but if one chose to call the silences between them less than friendly then they'd be forgiven for such an assessment. Raymond didn't mind: he was as comfortable in a boiler room as he was in a gentlemen's club, and any displeasure from Toro's corner would likely only have amused him.

It was a couple of days' walk from the plains to the steps, skirting the strange business in the mountains along the borders of Delumine and Terrastella. By the time they reached the battlefield the morning sun had risen high enough to cast only short shadows at their feet, and a respectable smattering of clouds served to dampen even that. Autumn was well and truly upon them; the wind, when it stirred, carried an unmistakeable chill heralding the oncoming winter.

The ground Raymond had chosen for their particular arena was hard and dusty from lack of good rainfall all summer, but was as flat and clean as any that could be found in the steppes. Toro had asked for a demonstration of his plan B, not an example of why you don't fight near gopher colonies.

Raymond had had plenty of time over the course of the trip to get the measure of his pale opponent. Toro had the better of him as far as physicality was concerned: Raymond gave him 10 inches at the shoulder, and was built more for light-footed maneuverability than he was for strength. While Toro was no juggernaut, height alone gave him a fair bit of weight to his advantage. That was fine; the red stallion was rarely interested in grappling with his enemies. Reach was his greatest asset.

That being said, he did not separate from Toro. The only thing worse than being at close quarters with a horse like Toro was being far enough to give him room to build momentum, and Raymond wasn't interested in being roadkill just yet.

He nodded in Toro's direction, side by side with the other stallion about a horse's length away to his left. This should be an interesting game, if nothing else.

IT'S SO HARD TO GET MY BLOOD TO SETTLE DOWN

Traveling with Raymond was almost painful to Toro; he'd been set off at the beginning of the journey and the irritation grew like a very ugly pearl in the mouth of a very angry oyster. To say he was emotional was an understatement, it was easy to tell that about Toro, and in being largely consumed by this anger he paid little attention to anything besides the red stallion. He spent a majority of the time looking at Raymond out of the corner of his eye, watching his sinuous form pace along from day to day. The chill in the air grew, and if he did not wake up seething it provided him with a few moments of shivering and internalized complaints before he remembered who he was with. All the while they walked, Toro became an increasingly taut string, muscles pulling his chest apart, heat rising to his face and pounding blood in his skull. He was a ball of rubber bands, and by the time they reached the arena, he was ready to snap each and every one.

The air was cool but not cold, the sun risen but not high, sky cloudy but not overcast. Ground was dry and hard beneath his hooves, his skin pulsed fire and he imagined every step cracking the parched soil open. His mind danced along doing the same to Raymond's skull, but bounced off it just as easily. It wasn't in him to murder, even when he felt like man set alight.

His skin prickled. His movements jerked here and there, like he was trying to scratch an itch without touching it. It only served to worsen his mood. Raymond stopped. Toro's eye jumped sideways, burning opal, nearly twitching with anticipation. Raymond nodded. In a swift, singular motion, Toro launched himself from the ground, twisting his body to the left, head bowed just enough to see his target and utilize the width of his horns. When he felt in range he gave that characteristic upward wrench of a fighting bull's head, aiming the tip of his left horn at Raymond's shoulder in an attempt to gore. It was a bit awkward, dipping down so low, but Toro was hardly the shortest fighter in his homeland, and he didn't expect he would be such here. The sentiment about tilted ground had dissipated over the last few days; his horns were Plan A now. His "honor" had boiled off with the water, a forgotten pot of salt burning a hole through the bottom. Toro's focus was entirely on his movement and Raymond's, but attention to the environment had fallen away. No thought was given to Raymond's blade. He'd be lucky not to suffer its edge.

"What I say,"

What I think,

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying,
'Come and see.' and I saw.

***

Toro wore his feelings on his proverbial sleeves. Irritation made him bristle, anticipation wound him up like spooked cat. If for no reason but that, Raymond did not allow himself the luxury of relaxing around the pale stallion, though his display of readiness looked more like the sharpening of an image than the disruption of one.

He knew what it meant to wait for the other shoe to drop; serenity was a mental state earned through years lived dangerously. Thus, when Toro burst into action like a sprung trap the moment Raymond gave the signal, the red stallion was not caught completely off-guard.

Because he was watching Toro when the white stallion chose to make his play, Raymond had the opportunity to see the split-second wind-up - the bunching of cords of sinew just beneath the skin, the wrenching of that horned head to bear down upon him - and react purely on instinct to avoid being gored. He dropped his front end, topline wrenching sharply left as he pushed off with his forelegs into a sharp leftward pivot around his hind end. So soon in the battle, he was no more likely to let his front end get skewered than he was to let himself be trampled.

The spin carried his shoulder out of reach of the white stallion's horns, but the momentum of the thrust carried him nonetheless alongside Raymond, shoulders colliding harmlessly as Toro's horns hooked at empty air. Raymond, for his part, continued to pivot left, leaving Toro's attempted impalement behind and lamenting the intimacy of their predicament as his tail loosely completed the circle his body made in a useless arc.

His woes were short-lived.

As ever, the red stallion was a combat pragmatist. He could not properly swing the blade in such close quarters to do anything but rend skin, but he had in his defensive maneuver opened up a new, more conventional opportunity. Harnessing the energy built up from reeling left away from Toro's attack and bringing his muscular hindquarters to bear, Raymond torqued his spine and delivered a swift hind kick aimed for toro's left elbow and forwardmost ribs. Accuracy could not be guaranteed, but if Toro had put sufficient force into his opening move then he might still have been unbalanced by his failure to connect, Raymond's circular momentum would suffice to drive the point home if it managed to connect anywhere along the white stallion's left side.

With a resolute snort and a toss of his angular head, Raymond pulled out of his circular path and trotted in an arc around to his opponent's right, tail held menacingly high and at the ready like a cobra waiting to strike.

***

Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.

SO THE PART WHERE WE ARE

The assault went poorly, Toro's horns swiping air as Raymond spun backwards. The momentum sent him reeling forward, but not unharmed; sharp pain struck his system like lightning, Raymond's hoof colliding with his ribcage. Something cracked and he saw a starburst, sheer pain blinding him for a moment. There was a vague sensation of paper crinkling. The force of the air from his lungs rushed through his nose, a small spray of blood speckling his muzzle with scarlet. He skittered sideways, struggling to regain balance, distance widening as Raymond trotted around and he kept going backwards, backwards. He tried to breathe and the pain went through him again, less this time, but he couldn't get all the air in and out like he could before, and was left wheezing, blood trickling into his mouth and onto the dirt. Toro was first to wet the ground.

Raymond was a few feet away now, bladed tail poised above his head like some mutant scorpion, ready to maim. It seemed there was little he could do now, anything from this distance would be choreographed. Raymond would have time to see, to dodge, hell, he'd have time to think between that if he wanted. The white stallion winced with every breath. He wasn't even sure he could work up a good charge, blood coming out his nose and all. Slowly, El Toro shifted into motion, no more than a child's breath from his nostrils, blood bubbling and sputtering. Moving now hurt more than squeezing the air in and out; his ribs felt rent apart and if he wasn't careful his heart was next. His eyes burned something hellish, glittering in the morning light as the bull slowly arced around Raymond, going no closer. As he reached the furthest point of the semicircle he tensed, gaze never leaving the red stallion. He had a good limp going now. His eyes were still; gone was the twitching of rage built up over days, now there was only focus and the ache of broken bones, soft organs splitting open every breath drawn in and released. Toro dripped rubies. The soil should have thanked him.

The pounding in his head lessened as he stood there, muscles relaxing again as his blood pressure went down with the dwindling oxygen in his veins. He couldn't charge from here. He was asking for death, then. A very faint thought crossed his mind, that perhaps he was asking for death when he stepped into this arena, or even earlier when he asked to see "Plan B." He snorted, blood splattering ground from a misfired spraycan. Toro moved forward, steps sure but muscles trembling, stopping again just out of range of Raymond's blade. The pale stallion inhaled as much as he could, springing into motion on the turn of a dime, again, head carried low, horns and forehead gunning for Raymond's left flank. It was all he knew to do. He'd get fileted, he was certain, but if he got a shot in, just one... Maybe it would mean something.

"What I say,"

What I think,

As all horses do, Raymond had a powerful kick, but he would be lying if he said he was not surprised by the immediate and dramatic outcome of his attack.

Distrust and combat pragmatism warned him against drawing near enough to ask if the pale stallion was okay. Blood streaked his nose and mouth like war paint, stark white against the pink of his flesh, and he lurched toward Raymond again with all the hallmarks of a wounded and desperate animal. Raymond arched his neck, echoing the curve of his bladed tail, every sinuous line of his body a threat.

Perhaps he wanted the white stallion to yield, to take what licks he had received without being subjected to Plan B. But Toro was as tenacious as he was delicate, and even breathing in his own life's blood was not enough to stop him from coming around for a second bite at the apple.

Plan B it would be, then.

Toro lunged at Raymond's left flank. The act was reckless, indefensible, and with Toro's movements slowed by the blood leaking inexorably into his damaged lung the red stallion might even have been able to dodge the attack again as readily as he had before. Dodging, though, would negate the whole reason they'd come here in the first place and, where Toro's struggle might awaken mercy in some, it only hardened the ranger's resolve. He believed in rewarding persistence.

Raymond chose not to retreat, tilting his hindquarters when he should yield them to avoid injury - because in yielding, he would yield the setup of the answer Toro had traveled days to hear. He angled himself only enough to lessen the blow somewhat and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the impact, tail sweeping away from the white stallion in a preparatory maneuver.

The white stallion's horns struck him shallowly in the meat of his hindquarters, hooking up before they could penetrate too deeply. It hurt like a bitch - Raymond was not so self-conscious as to bite back the pained grunt squatting in his throat. Instead, as Toro's weight in the dense muscle of his rump forced his back end sideways, he set the scythe loose like an angry wasp. He had curled it away from Toro and around himself to allow for a maximal swing, and with the other stallion's horns embedded under his skin he was banking on at least a moment when his target couldn't simply pull away.

The blade cut a wide arc, whistling as it split the air, aiming for Toro's right side. From this proximity nearly all of the other stallion's side should be in reach of the deadly weapon, and for once he aimed to attack in earnest, to repay in kind the blood he had sacrificed to afford himself the opportunity.

His attack spent, the red stallion disentangled himself from Toro's horns with a throaty grunt. Thin runnels of blood - dark against his gleaming coat - traced the muscular contour of his left hind leg from the twin punctures in his flank as he limped out of reach, ears guardedly pinned and teeth bared.

BREAKING AT THE SEAMS

He charged and his horns met flesh. It was too easy. Raymond should've dodged. Something was wr- 
There was a whistling and something split open across his flank, he squealed as pain tore through him a moment later. Raymond dislodged himself from Toro's horns, blood splattered his nose and right eye from the motion, half-blinding him momentarily. Toro stumbled backwards, sight shaky, trail of blood following as we went. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. He wasn't even afforded a sharp inhale, it was impossible, and he choked on false ichor. The pale stallion desperately tried to blink away the blood from his eye, but it marred his vision and he saw only red against the world. He was dripping. His breaths were shaky and weak, and he looked across the dust at the red one - not the blood, the shiny, the red - and gurgled. "Fuck you."

Anyone would have said he'd done it to himself, he'd asked to fight, he'd used his horns, he'd asked to feel that blade ripping his flesh, but he was overwhelmed with pain and immaturity, so he blamed Raymond. Who gave you the fucking right- the words almost spilled from his mouth but died there instead. Toro wobbled on his feet. He expected a bumping of heads and maybe a bit of biting, not to be drowning in blood, not to be cut open, not even for himself to charge horns up; he never would on a good day. 

This wasn't a good day. 

Toro stood while he could, a few yards from Raymond. The cut was not so deep as painful, flank split but nowhere near the bone. It felt like it should be. He felt weak. Raymond was alright. Weak. Raymond was breathing. Weak. Raymond - blood spluttered out of his nose. Toro grunted. Vision wavered. He'd died standing if he had to. He wouldn't be the first to fall. 

I'll get you for this.


"What I say,"

What I think,

Raymond hopped on three legs until he could face Toro properly, his face still clouded with battle-haze and scrubbed clean of any projections of rage, satisfaction, or regret. The pain in his hindquarters was a real and living thing, burning with every heartbeat that tried in vain to pump blood through severed arteries and feed wounded, hungry muscles. He took that pain with a warrior's equanimity. If not him, then someone else. If not now, then some other day.

Wounds happen. Wounds heal.

Toro had come out of it undoubtedly worse, purple and red added to his white like the work of an impressionist painting. His eyes burned with hate, as though he had not asked for the hand he was dealt.

Toro cursed the red stallion and he narrowed his eyes in returned, ears flattening only briefly before his lips pulled into a grin.

"You might want to reconsider that combat training," Raymond replied, choosing on principle not to dignify the white stallion's profanity with a direct response. He wasn't angry. Toro had asked to see him in action and had seen it; if he was not made of stern enough stuff then that was his fault. At the very least, he had spirit, which means he wasn't a completely lost cause. Limping gingerly past Toro, the red stallion tilted his head, clicking his tongue in a self-satisfied farewell. "Just let me know."

With that, he made his way back south, toward the Arma mountains.