I am the steel no enemy can shatter.

The earth trembles beneath the force of the attack, the sky darkly ominous as the force field surrounding them flashes in resistance to each repeated assault. With only a single glance at each other, Grumblesnakes and Shannisoran turn and flee. As they cross the moat, the gray stallion turns briefly to release the covering containing the acidic cloud of mist. His eyes shift quickly to the distant barrier, unable to resist checking on how their defenses fare. As he watches, the shield fails, allowing a flood of fairies to enter. Screams rise from those unfortunate souls who have already tasted the horror of their defenses, but the numbers are so great they simply overwhelm the now seemingly meager obstacles he and Grumblesnakes had installed.

Turning, Shan bursts into a gallop, activating traps as he passes, though they now seem so paltry in comparison to the forces currently banging on their doorstep. Grumblesnakes is growing weary, having spent so much of his energy and magical resources on the defenses that currently hold back the horde of fairies seeking entry into the fortress. Shan pauses only for a moment to allow Grumblesnakes to climb onto his back, but it is enough time for the sounds of their enemies making entry into the keep to reach him.

Bolting forward, Shan flashes through the twisting halls until they finally reach the inner sanctum with the sound of angry creatures echoing far too closely behind them. As the doors slam shut behind them, Grumblesnakes slides off Shan, reaching out to activate the wards. This act drains the very last of his power, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of his former self.

As Shan turns to him, the little man who had become such a great friend to him reaches up to lay a hand upon his cheek. He speaks in a soft tone, his words sending a chill along Shan’s spine. If this man does not stand a chance against such creatures, how could he possibly hope to?

The slurred voice that sounds from a darkened corner causes Shan to start. Whipping around, his gaze lands upon a vaguely familiar face emerging from the shadows. He remembers seeing this man occasionally, helping cast spells and fortify their defenses. He appears to be just as drained as Grumblesnakes unfortunately.

Which means it is up to Shannisoran now.

It is a task he is not entirely certain he has strength enough for. But, for Grumblesnakes, he would try.

And, if necessary, he would die.

Moments later the sounds of attack on the room’s defenses echo clearly through the chamber. They had reached them so quickly. The sound of torment is clear, but still they continue, refusing to relinquish their revenge. Shan steps forward, squaring his stance as he prepares for battle.

Seconds later, the door bursts open. Six small creatures (so very similar to Grumblesnakes) enter the room cautiously, glancing around them warily. All six bear obvious signs of injury, all clearly weary from their fight with the fortress’ defenses. Behind them the bodies of several other fairies still burn while several more lie with blood leaking from their faces.

As Shan places himself firmly between Grumblesnakes and his enemies, his hard features settle into unforgiving lines. ”If you want him, you shall have to go through me,” he grits out, his tone as cold as newly driven snow.

The foremost fairy grins at that, amusement and just a hint of cruelty suffusing his features. ”Easily done,” he responds lightly before launching a conjured ball of magical flame at Shan.

With barely a thought, Shan’s skin ripples, turning to the fire-resistant scales of the dragon. He braces himself as the flames roll over skin, heating him to a nearly unbearable point. But the scales do their job, leaving him relatively unscathed. He does notice however, the sudden drain to his power with the use of it.

It seems he would need to be wise in the use of his magic.

So he leaves the scales as they are, instead choosing to add fangs and wicked talons to his ensemble. The diminishing of his power is immediately notable. But with the battle upon them, Shan cannot allow fear to hold sway. Instead he launches for the rather surprised looking fairy, sharpened teeth bared.

His opponent’s hands come up, but not quickly enough. Shan is upon him, teeth seeking (and finding) flesh. The taste of hot, coppery blood fills his mouth as he tears muscle from bone, ending the terrible little creature almost as easily as breathing. His dying squeals are music to his ears, giving him a boost of confidence sorely needed.

The other fairies of course take exception to the slaughter of their brother in arms, using his distraction to launch attacks of their own at him. A burst of radiant white light shoves him sideways, causing him slam into the far wall. His teeth jangling roughly together, Shan growls (a surprising sound coming from such an equine throat), shaking off the pain as he had learned to in Grumblesnakes earlier trials. He sends out a blast of his own, an invisible, concussive force meant to break bones. Two fairies slam against the far wall, shrieking in agony, while the remaining three manage to throw up a barrier in time to deflect Shan’s magic.

The once gray stallion is forced to lock his knees then, hiding the tremble that suddenly threatens as his strength is drained yet more. Pushing forward, Shan steps away from the wall just in time to avoid a large, deadly shaft that suddenly erupts from its surface. He is not so lucky with the second spear, which appears near his feet and bursts up into his shoulder. He grunts in pain as he leaps away, though blood streams freely from the wound.

As more shafts erupt around him, Shan swiftly forces wings to form before he launches upwards towards the ceiling. For a moment, he fears he will not be able to maintain his flight due to his sudden weakness, but fortunately his wings hold and he reaches the ceiling.

He does not hesitate as he turns and dives back down, aiming for the unfortunate fairy who had initiated the most recent attack against him. He slams into her, tucking into roll as he tears into her with tooth and claw. In mere moments she is nothing more than a crumpled puddle of blood and bone. He is finding he is becoming more vicious and animalistic with each passing moment, thought and reason giving way to the beast of war that has always resided within him. And he does not even currently have the presence of mind to wonder at the horror of the monster he has become.

For Grumblesnakes, he has become a monster so terrible he would willingly take on any foe, no matter how powerful. And he does not even realize it.

Unexpectedly the temperature in the room begins to drop. As the two remaining fairies team up to take him on, Shan struggles to his feet, ice shattering from his skin as he does so. He can feel the deep, terrible chill settling into his skin, his very bones, as he struggles to draw upon his magic. Finally a fire comes, but it is terribly slow and sluggish, a whisper of flame against a too powerful enemy.

Shan concentrates the heat, forcing it towards the two remaining imps, willing it to do something. Anything. But the wall of ice that suddenly sprouts between them is too powerful, too cold. And Shan… he does not have the strength.

So he uses the only tool left to him: his body. He launches forward, favoring his injured shoulder as he slams into that wall of ice. It shatters around him, the shards slicing unexpectedly into his skin, causing blood to trickle and freeze upon scales chilled by an unnatural winter. Fortunately his momentum carries him forward, even if his strength does not.

He uses the surprise of his attack to snatch at one of his remaining two enemies. His claws drag at her, forcing her with him as he stumbles forward, massive frame crushing her smaller one as he lands upon her in a bone jarring tumble. To be sure of her death however, he tears at her throat with blood-stained fangs.

And then there is only one left. One final enemy for him to contend with.

He is exhausted, but so is his opponent. Slowly, painfully, Shan lurches to his feet. Turning, he faces the last little man. No certainty of victory lies within his breast, only a pitiful fatigue that threatens to overcome even his intense determination. And, not for the first time, he wonders if he actually has what it takes to win this fight.

Shannisoran

 The door thuds shut behind man and beast.  When the bar falls into place just after, Vidar feels a part of him becoming similarly secured.  Like dried clay, he settles into his sculptor’s vision.  Because the enemy is at their door, and he does not quake with fear.  Because even though he knows that he will soon be drenched in pain and blood and violence, he does not cower under the imminent downfall.  He is prepared – matured.  All of the torture has made him stronger.  All of Grumbles’ praise and prodding have made him into a man that is capable (perhaps not of anything, but something.  Enough to protect his captor-savior; enough to be proud of his efforts in the face of death).

I will not falter, he tells himself, even as he hears the storm clouds solidifying outside the fortress, becoming a mass of directed rage and magic.  I will not fail, he chants, watching the warning lights go off like rockets  through the narrow window alongside the door.  Grumbles spares the brewing war only a moment’s look from the sill.  Vidar can see the lines of tension pulling his mouth into an unconscious frown.  He wonders, for the first time, why an army of fairy-folk is hell-bent on bringing down one, singular crooked man.  A man who has surely done terrible things in his time (the mercury gas swirls in his mind’s eye; he can smell the brine of burning fish and the sulfur of the preceding lightning) but has also contributed in some ways (he barely remembers the boy he used to be before Grumbles made him a man, before the power filled his veins and the gentle words nourished his soul).  He is a giver, the stallion thinks, a maker.  A healer.

Bones are stronger after being broken.

It is only when Grumbles turns away that he does as well.  He will not leave his captor-savior unprotected with the wolves breaking down their doors.  They retreat to the innermost parts of the fortress with the sounds of unrest growing fainter behind them with each step.  Vidar keeps one ear trained forward on Grumbles and the other swivels back to the doorway.  Even as the stone columns of the safest rooms rise ahead of the pair, he can hear the loud crashes following them, stalking them.  Like predators.  But they are quick.  They know where to hide, where to make their last stand.  Like prey.  They know exactly where they will die if they are caught.
But they can’t let that happen.  Vidar won’t let it happen.  

Grumbles stops only when he runs out of doorways to pass through.  And in fact, the last doorway is more mirror than door.  The reflections of horse and man meet the real horse and man at the juncture, but their images are flipped upside down.  A sense of urgency fills Vidar then, and he makes a move forward as if to barge through the relatively simple barrier but stops when Grumbles puts a hand out.  “Watch, he says instead, and Vidar is surprised at the absence of stress in his tone.  He watches, and the mirror melts away with the touch of one crooked finger.  Everything in Vidar tells him not to go into the dark space just beyond.  The man, sensing his hesitation, tugs on the halter.  They step through.  A shiver passes down the blue roan’s spine. 

“Easy, see?  And the horse does.  He sees that they emerge into a small, dank cavern with dripping walls and low light.  Underground, he muses, feeling a cool shiver against his legs from one pitch-black corner of the room.  He sees that they are all right, even though his senses had informed him he wouldn’t be.  “Won’t be so easy on the others, trust me.”  He sees, too, that they are not alone.  Grumbles’ friend peels himself away from a shadowed wall, appearing in the dimness like his own flickering light.  Vidar can sense the exhaustion creeping over both faeries.  He mostly cares about the welfare of one, however, and tenses to help support Grumbles when he leans on him.  “They’re here, he says, but they already know.  “I don’t know if we’ve done enough.  I don’t know if we’ve done enough.  I don’t know if we’ve done enough.

BOOM.

We.  Me.  Vidar berates himself, because he had been the Guardian.  He had been the first and last line of defense, and now?  Now, the horde is after them because he’d been too stupid to protect them.  Too stupid to think of cleverer traps and too stupid to save the one man who had made something of him.  Who had broken and squeezed and torn him to pieces to rebuild him better.  Who had believed in him.  

The sounds grow outside of the mirror-door.  Stumbleduck smiles weakly when the pained sound of one attacker reaches them.  Vidar had nearly forgotten about one defense, the lit-torches that sometimes shot out unnecessarily long arcs of blue-green flames at passerby.  Right now, he’s only glad that they’d waited to strike until he and Grumbles had moved away from the corridor.  The trio watches their last hope, that shimmering doorway that had made Vidar nearly sick with the need to go anywhere but past it.  They watch as it shakes with the power of multiple attackers forcing their way.  They see when it falls, when their safe space becomes anything but.

  But, the fairies are not in any fit shape to attack at first.  The stallion sees the faintest grin touch the corners of Grumble’s lips and knows he has given his last ounce of strength for this.  The winged people are upside down, just as their reflections had been before one crooked finger had allowed them passage.  Fear scrunches the men and women’s faces as they try to right themselves.  They walk on air, jumping and hitting their heads on the cave floor to no avail.  The Guardian will not waste this chance, but even as he moves forward (growing his ox horns as he does), the first fairy has managed to repair gravity.  He is disoriented, though, and Vidar plows through him with one curling horn.

The other five seem to sense the urgency of their situation, and before he can do anymore damage on the lot, they fight their way back to straightness.  Somewhere behind him, Vidar can hear his captor-savior draw in a breath.  But he cannot look back.  Not now, in the thick of battle.  Five against one is not terribly good odds (and he is not terribly good at goodbyes).  Instead of goodbye, he blinks and he is wearing his snakeskin pattern.  He hopes it gives the twisted little man the smallest bit of light in the gloom.

The others are on him quick.  He knows he will die, but he fights back, anyway.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees one borrow some of their torch flames.  It sends balls of purple-red fire at his left side, swirling, bright missiles that reveal the entirety of the cave.  He tries to throw up a protective shield of water, but he is not fast enough to stop one from charring his shoulder.  The skin splits instantly and he cries out.  Seeing red himself, Vidar leaps to the hovering man and rips his throat out with his elongated canines.  He wears a part of Fenrir, thinks he’ll carry him forevermore.  For the next few minutes, that is.

Two fairies – a yellow-haired man and a black-haired woman - pull at fallen boulders in the cave, their strength bolstered by magic.  He sees that they mean to crush him, to pound him into the deep earth like he had once wanted to do to Grumbles.  He can’t have that.  The stallion flexes his power as easily as a muscle, accelerating the growth of one stalactite and one stalagmite.  One races from the ceiling and pierces the man; one shoots from the floor and impales the woman.  Blood spills from each of them.  He turns away.

In this time, yet another fairy has moved beside him, holding something… Something familiar.  POP.  The balloon bursts in his face, and the grey smoke settles in his nostrils.  He feels himself begin to shake, the tremors like small earthquakes dislodging him from his goal.  His mind blurs, feels fuzzy.  Grumbles.  Duckstumble.  Stumble – he does, nearly falls.  The fairy grows in his eyes, gets bigger, closer.  It carries a small dagger.  Places the wobbly weapon at Vidar’s neck.  He feels his skin peeling away but it is funny, that.  Like it should hurt but all he can think of is how cold the dagger feels pressing against his throat.  How warm it feels, just after.  Like the jungle and the sweat that had beaded along his skin after a long run.  Sweat.  Salt.  Life.

The stallion pushes the fog from his mind, making a physical and mental vacuum to protect himself from further gaseous advances.  The blood is there, thick and falling from his throat.  But the dagger is there, too, its work not yet complete.  Vidar rears and lashes out at the fairy with his front hooves.  He is satisfied with the resulting dull thud and crumpled body.  Instinct keeps him alive rather than magic, his own flesh and fight-or-flight keeps him in the game of life.  

Another fairy dives at him from the shadows.  The wet floor splashes against his legs as the creature runs at him.  It makes his decision easy, effective.  He calls the lightning to him a final time, delights in the way the human’s hair stands on end before it all comes crashing down. 

One is left, looking bedraggled but determined.   He feels much the same, blood falls down his throat and chest, his veins pulsing and failing him at the same time.  His skin is sloughed in places from mercury poisoning and a singular, sizzling fireball.  But his mind is clear.  Five bodies lay scattered around the cave, none of them his allies.  He finally knows, even if he will take the knowledge to the grave, his final lesson.  I am the predator.  

        

  

   

 

Vidar