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The best part of battle, Andromache mused, was not the victory. The taste of victory was sweet yes, but it was the silence during the battle that left her almost ecstatic. It would always come after a storm of sensory impressions. The thundering of her hooves as she charges. Muscles burning beneath her skin. The taste of blood in her mouth. Metallic. Red. Someone’s screaming. Her throat burns. Is she screaming? She must be screaming. Her head is pounding. Light-headed. The adrenaline kicks in. The eyes in the holes of helmet are nearing. The shield comes up. Too weak. Her mouth lifts into a grin. Her back-hooves find steady ground. Her front legs leave the ground. She leaps.

Zing. Zing. The silence is white. It’s deafening. It drowns out everything except her heart. Thud. Thud. It’s been beating rapidly in anticipation, but it’s so slow. It’s almost still. Nothing moves except her hair in the wind. The bones bang against her face, her back. It’s thundering. It’s glorifying. It’s amazing. Her blades are suddenly in her hands, the motion fluid, flowing, it’s a river. It’s steel, a small voice disagrees, it’s water, another joins, it’s red, the first voice is back, not yet, the new voice is low, it’s dark and sinister and should be frightening. But it’s not. It’s a dear friend.

She stretches out her front legs, watch them hammer into the shield of the enemy. Protect your legs, a voice with a face faded long ago advises, never let your enemy get to your legs, the voice brings back smells, sounds of a time long ago. But her legs are strong. They’re dark and veined and dependable. They’re long and slender and right now they’re pushing the shield back, they’re slamming into the human, except it’s slow, slow as the widening of his eyes, of his sword being raised. Her swords are quick. They’re water. They’re a river flowing strong. They’re red. They are laughing with voices like eagles.

The swords are dripping. That’s the first thing she hears. Around her the field is strewn with bodies. Armor-clad, some facing downwards, some on their back. She reaches down, wipes off her swords on the grass before putting them away. She grabs a smaller knife in her belt. Bends down and grabs the hand of the nearest enemy. He’s already missing a finger. She takes another, turns around and follows the trail left behind her. The air is sweet like after a storm. Filled with the smell of victory. It's a smell that leaves a metallic taste in your mouth long after the battle is over and the ache in your bones have dulled. As the sun dips over the hills Andromache dons her new necklace, and watches as the last rays reflects back from the silver-clad figure lying in front of her. Today's been a good day.